**Winner 2024 Amby Awards**
Fiza has everything planned-medical school, a respectable future, and an engagement she never wanted. Determined to escape a loveless match, she creates a checklist to find the perfect husband her father will approve of.
...
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It had been a month, and the library had finally lost its status as a senior-student hunting ground. I was just killing time, leaning against a bookshelf, when I saw her. Fiza. She was in the middle of a group, laughing at something, her hands moving as she talked. Something about the way she did it, so full of life, kept pulling my eyes back to her. I didn't get it.
"Okay," Suresh, one of the guys I usually sat with in class, nudged me. "You get her number, and we'll buy you lunch for a week." The other guys grinned, thinking it was a hilarious challenge.
Whatever. It was a free lunch. I shrugged and walked over, cutting through her little circle.
"Excuse me," I said, tapping her shoulder.
She turned around, and her face just... lit up. A real, genuine smile that hit me right in the chest and made my heart do this stupid, tripping beat. For a second, I forgot why I was even there.
"Can I have your number?" I blurted out. Behind me, I heard the guys wolf-whistle and a few disapproving tuts from her friends. But I just focused on her eyes. They were dark brown, but with these little flecks of gold, and they just pulled me in. The noise of the library faded into a dull hum. She was still smiling, saying something.
"What?" I asked, totally lost.
"So, do you want to do it with me?" I heard her say.
My gaze dropped to her lips, then traveled down her neck, over her curves. Hell yes, I thought. But I had to be clear. I wasn't signing up for some complicated thing. "No strings," I replied, my voice coming out way more curt than I meant it to.
A slight crease appeared between her eyebrows, a flicker of confusion.
"Well, meet me at the jam room at 6:30, and we'll see whether we need strings or just the piano," she said, her tone now a little odd. "I have your number from the WhatsApp group. I'm sending you a text."
And just like that, she turned back to her friends. That was easier than I thought. So why did I feel this weird pang of disappointment? It was the same old story. Everyone just wanted one thing. I guess I'd hoped, for a second, that she'd be different.
Around six, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Don't forget the guitar. I stared at it. Was that a joke? Some weird pickup line?
I shot hoops for a while to clear my head, then headed to the jam room. It was only 6:20, but she was already there.
"Hey," she said, and there was that bright smile again, though it seemed a little more cautious now.
I looked around. The small room was packed with instruments—a keyboard, a drum set, a few guitars on stands. A recliner sat in one corner. My confusion deepened. This wasn't exactly the vibe I was expecting.
"You didn't bring your guitar!" she exclaimed, sounding genuinely surprised.
The first cold trickle of understanding started to seep in. I'd gotten this very, very wrong. "What are we doing here?" I asked, my voice gruff to cover my own stupidity.
