first day sparks
549 Words
The gates of St. Augustine University opened like a promise.
Aarohi Sharma stepped through them at exactly 8:47 AM, heart racing faster than the auto-rickshaw she'd just jumped out of. Eighteen. Barely a week into being officially adult. Backpack slung over one shoulder, white kurti tucked neatly into high-waisted jeans, long hair loose and catching the morning sun. She felt eyes on her—not staring, but noticing. She liked it. For the first time, she didn't shrink from it.
She had plans. Big ones.
Journalism degree. Internship at a top publication by third year. Travel the world on assignments. Fall in love, maybe, but only if it didn't slow her down. No distractions. No regrets. Life was too short for playing small.
The campus buzzed—seniors laughing in clusters, freshers clutching maps like lifelines. Aarohi walked straight to the Arts block for her first lecture: Advanced English Literature (Honours). She'd fought her parents for this elective. "It's impractical," they'd said. "Do something safe."
She'd smiled sweetly and enrolled anyway.
The lecture hall was half-full when she slipped in. Wooden benches, high ceiling, smell of polished floors and old paper. She chose a seat in the third row—close enough to see the board, far enough not to look desperate.
Then he walked in.
Professor Arjun Malhotra.
Late thirties, tall, shoulders broad under a charcoal shirt, sleeves already rolled to forearms. Dark hair slightly messy, as if he'd been reading late into the night. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes—deep, almost black—swept the room once, assessing, then settled.
On her.
Just for a heartbeat.
But it felt like minutes.
He set his satchel down, voice calm but carrying effortlessly.
"Good morning. I'm Professor Malhotra. This is not a beginner's class. If you're here by mistake, the exit is behind you."
A few nervous laughs. Aarohi didn't laugh. She leaned forward, pen ready.
He began without preamble.
"Today we start with desire in literature. Not the polite kind. The kind that ruins reputations, ends careers, burns cities. The kind that makes people lie to themselves."
He quoted Byron. Then Shelley. Then something from Sappho in Greek, translating it himself—low, intimate, like he was speaking only to the words.
Aarohi felt heat climb her neck. Not embarrassment. Something sharper.
She raised her hand on instinct.
"Yes?" His gaze found her again.
"Miss...?"
"Aarohi Sharma."
"Go on, Aarohi."
She swallowed. "Desire isn't always destructive. Sometimes it's the only honest thing. The thing that makes us alive."
Silence for two seconds.
Then his lips curved—just the smallest fraction.
"Alive at what cost, Miss Sharma?"
She met his eyes. "Whatever it takes."
He held her stare longer than necessary.
"Noted."
Class ended. Students rushed out. Aarohi packed slowly, pulse still loud in her ears.
As she passed the podium, he spoke without looking up from his notes.
"Miss Sharma."
She stopped.
"Office hours start next week. Wednesdays, 4 to 6. If you want to discuss... honesty in literature."
It wasn't an invitation.
It was a challenge.
She smiled—small, bold.
"I'll be there, Professor."
She walked out into sunlight, wind lifting her hair.
For the first time in her life, she felt like the story was just beginning.
End of Episode 1
- Writer
