Waiting for You

Chapter 11 (Normal isn't Normal anymore)

Dhruv POV:

If my life were a sitcom, this episode would definitely be called "The Day Everything Went Wrong." I mean, come on! Picture this: I'm in my room, drowning in a sea of assignments, trying to claw my way out from under an avalanche of sticky notes that all scream "URGENT!" I've got a stack of unread emails taller than my desk lamp and a to-do list that looks like it was written by a octopus with a bunch of sticky notes. 

I'm this close to finding a sliver of focus when my phone rings. Of course, it's my dad—because who else would it be at this ungodly hour? The man has a superpower: perfect timing. If there's a golden moment to completely obliterate my sanity, he's there.

I answer, and it's like a foghorn blaring straight into my eardrum. "Where are you? Have you applied for that internship? What are you doing with your life?" I half expect him to burst into a lecture on how I'm wasting my potential, complete with a PowerPoint presentation and pie charts illustrating my failure.

And just when I think my day has maxed out on the misery scale, the universe decides to kick things up a notch.

She walks in.

No, stormed in, more like. Her entrance has all the subtlety of a WWE wrestler's: doors fly open, her hair swooshes like she's in a shampoo commercial, and I swear, I heard dramatic entrance music playing somewhere in the background. She makes a beeline for me, eyes blazing with a fury so intense it could have set off the fire alarms. I'm paralyzed, part deer-in-headlights, part dumbfounded, with no idea what's about to go down.

Before I can even blink, WHAM! She slaps me—hard. Right across the face, in front of what feels like a hundred pairs of eyes. The sting of her hand spreads across my cheek like wildfire, and my brain is like, "Hey, did you order a side of public humiliation with that serving of physical pain?" The whole room goes silent, like everyone hit pause on their lives to watch this epic episode of my humiliation saga.

She storms off, leaving me there like a stunned statue, hand still hovering over my cheek, eyes wide. I can feel a hundred sets of eyes staring, each one silently judging me, probably taking bets on what I did to deserve such a cosmic smackdown. My face is on fire, my ego shattered, and I've got zero clue what just happened or why. I mean, did I miss a memo? Is there a secret "Slap The Guy" club, and I'm the guest of honor?

I finally manage to slink back to my dorm room, replaying the whole scene in my head like some sort of cringe-inducing sports replay. In the mirror, I see it: the faint outline of her handprint on my cheek, the ultimate mark of shame. A literal red flag. Fabulous.

My phone buzzes non-stop, and of course, my friends are all over it. "Dude, are you okay?" "What did you DO?" "Was it as bad as it looked?" Thanks, guys. Real supportive. I'm not exactly in the mood to relive the slap via text commentary, so I just toss my phone onto the bed and collapse beside it. Maybe if I lie here long enough, the floor will open up and swallow me whole.

The next day, I have no choice but to face the music. I walk down the halls with my head held as high as it can be when you're basically walking around with a neon sign that says "SLAPPED IN PUBLIC" over your head. The whispers follow me like a bad smell.

"Is that the guy who got slapped?"

"Yeah, man. What do you think he did to piss her off that much?"

I try to ignore it, focusing on not tripping over my own feet as I navigate the gauntlet of curious onlookers. Just when I think I've made it to safety, I nearly collide with Ria, the sweet, soft-spoken girl from my department who always has a knack for making a bad situation worse with a single comment.

"Sorry—" I mutter, trying to sidestep her.

"Oh, it's okay," she says, her eyes drifting to the mark on my cheek. "Wow, that looks... um, darker than I thought it would."

Without thinking, my inner idiot takes the wheel. "So, you've been thinking about me, huh?" I flash what I hope is a charming grin, but I'm pretty sure it looks more like a pained grimace.

Her eyes go wide, and she starts to stammer. "W-what? No! I mean, I just—"

"Just kidding," I say quickly, desperate to change the subject before she decides I'm a complete moron. "By the way, nice outfit." I have no idea what she's wearing. It could be a chicken costume for all I know, but it seems like the kind of thing people say in awkward situations.

She just blinks at me, and I take that as my cue to escape. I pivot around to leave, and who should I almost walk smack into? Maya. I swear she materialized out of thin air like some kind of stealth ninja. I let out a small yelp, clutching my cheek instinctively.

"Hi," I squeak, my voice doing a pretty solid impression of a chipmunk.

"Hi," she replies, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

"So, uh, about yesterday..." I start, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Yeah, about that," she interrupts. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to... you know, slap you like that. It was just... a lot."

A lot? What does that even mean? Is she talking about my face? My personality? The entire spectacle of my existence? My brain is scrambling for something to say when my mouth decides to take the wheel again. "No worries!" I blurt out. "I mean, getting slapped in front of half the college? Happens to everyone, right?"

She gives me a look that's somewhere between pity and disbelief. "Not really," she says, her tone flat. "But I shouldn't have done it."

There's that weird mix of emotions in her eyes again—anger, regret, something else I can't quite place. I feel a weird twinge of guilt, though I'm still completely clueless as to why I got slapped in the first place.

"Yeah, it's cool," I say, trying to play it off like I'm the chillest guy on campus. "I mean, at least you didn't go for a roundhouse kick."

She actually cracks a tiny smile at that, and I feel this weird flutter in my chest. What is that? Am I having a heart attack? Is this how I die?

"Well, I'll see you around," she says, turning to go.

"Yeah, see you," I reply, watching her walk away. Despite everything, I can't help but notice she still has this strange effect on me—the same one she's had since the day we met.

As I watch her go, I mutter under my breath, "Strangely weird woman."

And with that, I turn and head off, bracing myself for whatever fresh hell this crazy campus has in store for me next. After all, how hard can surviving another day be?

(Probably very hard. Let's be real.)

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Hey Guys,

How is life?

I hope you wonderful people are doing good!!

Hope you have read something as good as you!!

~Trouble never looked so fine~

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