Waiting for You

Chapter 2 (My Crush....)

Dhruv's Pov:

Alright, let me paint the scene for you—it's just an average afternoon, and I, Dhruv, the one and only enlightened coffee enthusiast, am sitting with two clowns who clearly don't appreciate my wisdom. So I casually drop some knowledge bombs on them, like, "Guys, did you know? I read somewhere that drinking coffee makes you live longer." And I'm not even being dramatic here. I can practically feel the extra years being added to my life with each glorious sip.

Vikram, being his usual buzzkill self, rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't pop out of his skull. "Sure, Dhruv. That's why you're on your fifth cup today, huh? Aiming for 200?" First of all, rude. Second, why stop at 200? If coffee has anything to say about it, I'm living to 300—minimum.

Rohan, naturally, has to join in because, apparently, these two operate as a package deal. "Yeah, Dhruv's gonna outlive us all," he snickers. "He'll be 150, shaking because of all the caffeine, but hey, he'll still be here." Oh, very funny, Rohan. I'm shaking with the excitement of outlasting you, that's what it is. 

But I maintain my cool, responding with the kind of calm you can only achieve after five cups of coffee. "Exactly! While you two are six feet under, I'll be running marathons—probably very edgy ones, but still."

Now Vikram, bless him, has the audacity to come at me with, "Dude, the only marathon you're running is from your bed to the fridge. And you're winded by the time you get there."

Rohan, never one to miss an opportunity to mock me, chimes in with, "And he probably trips over his own shoes halfway, like last week. Remember that, Dhruv? You had an epic battle with gravity—and lost." Okay, rude. I was doing the world a service, really. But will these simpletons understand that? No, of course not.

"Hey," I say, getting defensive, because now my honour is at stake. "That was a strategic fall! I was testing the floor's durability!" 

Vikram, however, is not impressed. "Sure, man. You were testing the floor. And also your dignity." Wow, Vikram. The betrayal. My dignity is doing just fine, thank you very much. At least I don't wear socks with sandals.

Rohan, who's now practically crying with laughter, adds, "Which, by the way, didn't survive." Alright, Rohan. You're one to talk. You can't even parallel park, so maybe let's not throw stones in glass houses, yeah?

But I just grin at them, because I know, deep down, they're jealous. "You guys laugh now," I say, leaning back like the caffeine-fueled marathon champion I am. "But when I'm 150 years old, running marathons, sipping coffee, and winning races, you'll be sorry you doubted me."

Vikram gives me a look. "You'll be sprinting to the nearest bathroom with all that coffee, not a marathon." Oh, hilarious. Like I haven't heard that one before. Yes, okay, coffee has its effects, but I'll be sprinting faster than either of them ever could.

Rohan, meanwhile, is now gasping for air between fits of laughter. "Yeah, and tripping on the way, again. We'll put it on your tombstone: 'Here lies Dhruv. He lived long, drank coffee, and tripped over everything.'"

You know what? At least I'll have a tombstone. These guys? Probably forgotten within a week.

Just as we continued to speak about random, I sat cross-legged on my hostel bed, fingers flying across my laptop keyboard. To an innocent bystander, I must've looked like a student deeply engaged in a world-changing college assignment, perhaps solving the mysteries of the universe—or at least the mysteries of why college exists in the first place.

But no. I was on a much nobler mission. A mission that required every ounce of stealth, cunning, and an embarrassing amount of social media stalking. I wasn't writing an essay or doing research. I was hunting for the mission impossible: Divya's Instagram ID.