Nothing In This World

|4|Just Friends

The morning sunlight spills into the classroom in scattered patterns, casting a soft glow over desks and chairs, and for the first time, I feel like I actually belong here. I step through the doorway, dressed head-to-toe in black, the smooth fabric hugging my frame in a way that makes me feel confident, ready. It’s the first day in class, and I want to make a statement.

Some of my classmates turn, eyes flicking over my outfit with mild surprise. I ignore it, just scanning the rows for a seat, but that’s when I spot him—a familiar face at the doorway. Ishaan’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s here to find me, and he’s making no attempt to hide it.

I can’t help but smile. “Stalking me now, are we?”

He chuckles, stepping into the room, and his eyes linger a moment longer than usual, as if he’s seeing something different today. There’s a glint in his gaze that I can’t quite place, but it sends a warm ripple through me.

“I could say the same about you. You’re dressed to kill, Arya,” he teases, his voice casual but with a softness that wasn’t there before. “Skipped meeting me at the gate, huh?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Didn’t think you’d miss me so much.”

“Right, because finding you here, in the middle of class, is super convenient,” he deadpans, but there’s a smile lurking under his words.

Our usual banter flows easily, and I can feel the tension ease. But he’s still watching me, a look of something warmer than I’ve seen before, and it lingers, even as he walks out of the classroom, leaving me to the exam waiting on my desk.

The exam is Chaucer. A familiar thrill rises as I turn the pages, letting my pen fly over the answer sheet, crafting responses that flow effortlessly. It’s like slipping into a rhythm I know well, a dance of words and ideas that I can shape and mold. I lose myself in the text, weaving quotes and analyses together, letting my passion for language carry me.

Each question is a challenge, a puzzle waiting to be solved, and I savor every moment of it. Chaucer, with his layers of irony, wit, and subtle social critique, feels like an old friend.

After the exam, I sank back into my chair, feeling that rush of satisfaction only a well-answered paper could bring. Chaucer, Middle English syntax, and even a curveball question on Renaissance drama—I’d nailed it. I knew I had. But it wasn’t just knowing the answers; it was the thrill of crafting words, of putting thought into rhythm, like music only I could hear.

Just then, our poetry professor started up her lecture, right on cue with Shakespeare. She's the kind of teacher who discusses as much as she teaches. She has this deep passion for art and literature than most people in the field. As the field itself is literature that says a lot about her. However her talent comes off as a close winner to her aesthetic burqa and sparkling smile. It would not stuck as a surprise that she's is the literal head-turner in whichever room she walks into and no matter the gender, no one can resist looking up at her.

Focus.

So today we fell into a discussion about the play. Hamlet. My pulse quickened—Hamlet was my favorite, the one play I could dissect endlessly. As she posed the classic question about why Hamlet delays his revenge, I raised my hand instinctively, not even noticing the curious looks from a few classmates.

“Well, Arya?” she said, gesturing for me to answer, her tone as expectant as it was indulgent.

I leaned forward, the words spilling out before I could pause. “There are layers to Hamlet’s delay. On the surface, it could be his internal struggle with moral integrity. Hamlet’s not just grappling with avenging his father; he’s wrestling with his own darkness, his capacity for violence. He’s torn between medieval vengeance and Renaissance self-reflection. It’s like he’s too aware, too introspective. The delay… it—"