arshechahat
She sat in the library, searching for she knew not what. A book was in her hands-not non-fiction, but fiction, Hindi literature. Her phone was placed beside her, playing her favorite songs that she had compiled into a playlist. Currently, her most beloved song these days was playing:
"Through the windows of memories, I often gaze upon you,
Even if you forget, I simply call out your name."
As always, she was seated at the study table near the window, allowing her to see the entire study room and the entrance. There was no corner she couldn't view from her spot. Today, too, her eyes were fixed on the study table near the entrance: a white shirt, almond-colored trousers, lightly curly hair yet neatly set, a fair face with a light stubble, black eyes, a silver watch on his left wrist, and a red thread on his right. Earbuds were in his ears, and a pen was in his hand. Sometimes the pen would swing in his fingers, sometimes it would emerge with ink on the pages. Then, sometimes, he would pick up his phone to check something, and whenever anyone entered the study room, his gaze would subtly dart their way. After that sidelong glance, he would survey the entire study room. And the girl watched his every move intently. She meticulously followed the path of his eyes, and the moment she felt that gaze was about to land on her, she would lower her own eyes.