We can't be friends - Yogesh Rawat

"We can't be friends
But I'd like to just pretend"

Some people arrive ready to fight the world.
Others arrive ready to carry it.

Veda is the second kind.

Quietly commanding, emotionally perceptive, and far stronger than she gives herself credit for, Veda moves through the competition with a softness that often gets mistaken for weakness. She feels deeply - too deeply, some would say - and she never turns away from someone else's pain, even when she's barely holding herself together. She comforts, protects, absorbs. And yet, beneath her composure lies a persistent doubt: the fear that she hasn't earned her place, that she's surviving on faith rather than proof.

She doesn't crave attention. She craves meaning.
And that makes every moment heavier than it needs to be.

Then there's Yogesh.

Intense. Unfiltered. Impossible to ignore.

He walks into the game like he owns the ground beneath his feet - sharp-tongued, physically dominant, emotionally guarded. He thrives on pressure, pushes back when challenged, and refuses to be underestimated. Where others hesitate, he moves. Where others break, he hardens. Control is his armor, and confidence his weapon.

Until it isn't.

Because when Veda is in the same space, something shifts.

Their dynamic is subtle at first - glances held a second too long, conversations charged with something neither names, closeness disguised as habit. They orbit each other carefully, both aware and pretending not to be. Veda sees through Yogesh's bravado more than he expects. Yogesh notices Veda's silences more than she realizes.

They are opposites in instinct, similar in depth - two people who feel intensely but express it differently, drawn together in an environment that punishes vulnerability and rewards control. Neither of them enters looking for connection. Neither of them plans for attachment.