The shaded pathway lined with old trees stretched ahead of them, sunlight breaking through in uneven patches, flickering across the ground as they walked.
A light breeze moved through, rustling the leaves above like a quiet background rhythm to their conversation.
Aanya was mid-sentence—something about a professor's tendency to overcomplicate simple diagrams—when Sagnik's phone buzzed in his hand.
He glanced at it briefly while walking.
Paused.
Then looked up.
"…We're late," he said simply.
Aanya stopped so abruptly that her bag shifted on her shoulder. "What?"
He tilted the screen slightly toward her.
The time.
Her eyes widened.
For a full second, she just stared at it.
Then—
"Oh no."
And that was all it took.
The calm pace broke instantly.
"Run," she said.
"We're already walking fast."
"That's not fast enough."
"It is mathematically—"
"I don't care!"
She grabbed his wrist without thinking and pulled him forward.
For a moment, Sagnik let himself be dragged, expression unchanged, but his steps immediately adjusted to hers, faster now, matching her panic in rhythm more than in emotion.
Aanya's face had already gone slightly red—not just from the sudden speed, but from the realization that they were that kind of late where you don't enter quietly anymore.
He, on the other hand, looked like someone merely changing walking pace.
Which somehow made her more annoyed.
They slipped into class just as the professor turned toward the board.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just late enough to require quiet, careful entry.
Aanya slid into her seat quickly, adjusting her hair with rushed fingers, trying to regulate her breathing.
Her cheeks were still warm.
Sagnik sat beside her calmly, placing his notebook down like nothing in the world had shifted in the last five minutes.
As if they hadn't just rushed through half the campus.
As if she hadn't been the one dragging him.
She shot him a look.
He didn't return it immediately.
Only after a moment did his eyes shift toward her.
"…You're breathing too fast," he murmured.
"I ran," she whispered back.
"You insisted on running."
"You didn't object."
"You were very convincing."
That made her glare at him harder.
Which, unfortunately for her, only made the corner of his mouth twitch slightly.
Not a smile.
Almost one.
The professor continued writing on the board as if nothing had happened.
"Try to keep up," he said without turning around.
Aanya straightened immediately, pulling her notebook closer, forcing her focus back into the lecture. The adrenaline from the rush was still there—slightly uneven breathing, faint warmth in her cheeks—but slowly, the rhythm of class began to take over again.
Sagnik was already writing.
Not hurried.
Not strained.
Just steady.
Aanya glanced at him once, annoyed at how quickly he had slipped back into normalcy, then forced herself to follow the diagram being drawn on the board.
Minutes stretched.
Pages filled.
The classroom settled into that familiar medical silence where everyone is listening, but only half the brain is actually cooperating.
At one point, the professor paused and asked a question.
No one responded immediately.
That predictable hesitation hung in the room.
Aanya knew the answer.
She almost raised her hand.
Almost.
Before she could fully commit, Sagnik answered first—calm, precise, no hesitation at all.
The professor nodded. "Correct."
Aanya narrowed her eyes slightly.
She leaned in a fraction. "You didn't even look uncertain."
He didn't turn toward her fully, still watching the board.
"Because I wasn't."
"That's unfair."
"It's Microbiology."
"That doesn't explain anything."
"It explains everything."
That finally made her exhale sharply through her nose, half annoyed, half amused, and she looked away before she smiled.
The rest of the lecture passed in fragments.
Definitions.
Labels.
Diagrams that started to look the same after a point.
At some moment, Aanya stopped actively listening and started just copying, letting her hand move on autopilot while her mind drifted in and out of focus.
Sagnik, beside her, remained consistent—writing, pausing, underlining, as if fatigue didn't quite reach him in the same way.
Every now and then, she would glance sideways and catch small details she didn't consciously register: the way he adjusted his pen grip when thinking, the slight pause before he underlined something, the calm way he turned pages without rushing.
It irritated her slightly how composed he was.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it made her more aware of her own chaos.
By the time the lecture ended, the classroom felt heavier.
Not emotionally.
Just tired.
Books closed slowly.
Pens clicked shut.
Students stretched, sighed, leaned back in their chairs like their bones had temporarily given up.
Aanya rested her head back for a second. "My brain is not functioning anymore."
"It functioned earlier," Sagnik said.
"That was a different lifetime."
He didn't argue.
Just closed his notebook and placed it neatly in his bag.
The next few hours blurred into the typical medical college rhythm.
A third class.
A short break where someone complained loudly about attendance rules.
Another lecture where the projector didn't cooperate for the first ten minutes.
Somewhere in between, Aanya bought a packet of chips she didn't really need and ate half of it without realizing.
Sagnik didn't comment.
But when she tried to take the last piece, he moved it slightly away from her without looking.
"Hey," she muttered.
"You weren't even noticing."
"That's not the point."
"It is exactly the point."
She stared at him for a second, then gave up, leaning back with exaggerated disappointment.
"You're very annoying today."
"I've been consistent."
"That's the problem."
That earned her a brief glance.
Not offended.
Just amused in a restrained way that didn't fully show on his face but softened his eyes slightly.
As afternoon deepened, sunlight shifted across the classroom windows.
The light turned warmer, lazier.
Energy dropped across the room in waves.
Even the professor's voice felt slightly slower by now.