Something We Were

-10 | gold rush

aisha to herself: pop pills. always pop those pills.

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AISHA

I'M PRETTY SURE, I had a lot of fantasies but dying in an elevator was not one of them. I always thought dying would come out of something like a transformer bursting when I was near to it while conducting an Electronics experiment. Or probably getting hit by a truck which was honking when I went for a night run.

Or alcohol. Chances were that my liver was well on its way to get pickled.

But today actually fired for pits of hell. All thanks to my stupid, stupid friend, Priyansh Wal. "Wal, I'm going to hit you so bad if you don't pick up. Get to me soon."

Stupid voicemail. Again.

Ending the call, I wet my lips and swiped my hand over my eyebrow. It was a weird semester to begin with. Two of my best friends started dating, and suddenly all of my hangouts with them start feeling more like me third-wheeling between a couple who was on the go to get married.

Sanya and Priyansh were cool that way. They had the perfect friends to lovers story. Frankly, if you ask me, it was the worst trope ever. Not the way after it ended with my last ex-boyfriend. My only boyfriend. Dating your friend was never a good idea.

Truthfully, a semester in this college and I was in a strange place these days. Neither too suicidal but very far from happy too. All the sex I was having was good, but I still craved for emotional intimacy. And now, I had no friends. Not really.

And no one could seriously believe that a dick could solve all my problems.

Tapping the corner of my phone to the elevator call button, I watched a guy emerge from the other unit. I stared at him, all summery and happy in his light brown trousers and Lee Cooper t-shirt (the horror!), with a face like sunshine and a jingling earphones as he approached towards the elevator.

No one was allowed to look that pleased with life when it was too cold to exist. Another reason I hated Dehradun. People here loved to smile.

"Hi," he said with a smile, his thumb beating a rhythm against the call button. His dark locks fell across his face as he leaned forward. "This thing being slow again? It was slow last night, too. I guess that's part of the deal with old prestigious university buildings, right?" 

He was too much and too loud, and I dug in my pocket for some hand sanitizer. I'd come in contact with enough germs for one afternoon. I glanced up from his face, and shrugged. 

He laughed, and said, "Okay then."

He started humming, and then tapping his leg with the tune, and I looked for the stairwell. I couldn't stand in this hall with a chattering music box much longer, and sharing an elevator with him would require a sedative. 

Despite my penchant for the high-end bar scene, I preferred quiet. I grew up in a house where my parents always fought, threw things at each other, and talked about their sex lives with other people. So I tended to find quiet with noise cancelling headphones, sound proofed and insulated rooms and my laptop to focus on one thing I did well — programming. That was the reason why I found myself enrolling in St. Andrew's Institute of Technology; not because it was not only one of the most prestigious universities which enrolled students for their CSE programs based on their resume and ground work they had done, but also the quiet, the pretty hills and scenic creeks.