When The Players Falls

Chapter 2: The Chase Begins

From the moment he saw her, Riyan activated the routine. A borrowed pen here, a compliment there — “Your handwriting looks like a fairy’s,” he’d whisper with a grin. Alya would giggle, always looking slightly confused, like she hadn’t realized it was a line. She blushed easily, or at least acted like she did.

Riyan was hooked — but something felt different this time. Alya wasn’t biting. She played along with his teasing but never truly reacted the way others did. No dreamy stares. No sudden crushes. She smiled, thanked him, then looked away.

The more indifferent she seemed, the more obsessed he became.

He started trying harder. Bringing her chocolates. Writing little poems. Walking her home. She never turned him away — always graceful, polite, and sweet — but never once did she let him in. Riyan’s player instincts buzzed with frustration and desire.

And Alya? She just kept smiling, her eyes wide and “clueless.”

Riyan was not used to losing. Especially not like this.

By week three, he had unofficially declared Alya a personal challenge—no, a mission. She wasn’t resisting him. That would’ve been easier. She was... dodging him with elegance. With calculated softness. Like she knew the rules of the game but refused to play by them.

When he handed her a heart-shaped lollipop with a wink, she accepted it, nodded, and asked sincerely,

“Is this a part of some science experiment?”

He laughed awkwardly. “What? No. It’s for you.”

“Oh.” She examined it. “Should I write a thank-you note or just give you a tissue if you get cavities?”

She was dead serious. Or at least acted like she was.

One time, he tried to bump her gently with his shoulder while walking out of class. Casual, flirtatious.

Alya staggered two steps like a feather, turned to him with mock confusion and said,

“Oh! Was that gravity or your heart trying to make contact?”

Was she being sarcastic? He couldn’t tell. That was the problem. She never gave anything away.

He even staged a pretend fall in the corridor once, near her, half-expecting her to offer her hand, gasp, or at least blush like a normal schoolgirl. Alya just stood there, tilted her head, and asked in perfect concern:

“Do you need a nurse or an applause?”

The girl was unbreakable.

And worse—she made him laugh.

That was new. Dangerous. This wasn’t supposed to be fun in that way.

Riyan’s friends noticed the change. He wasn’t flirting with others. He stopped making loud jokes in class. He even volunteered for blackboard duty after Alya mentioned once that she “liked the symmetry of neatly wiped surfaces.”

They teased him relentlessly.

“Bro’s gone soft.”

“Next thing we know he’ll be writing her name in calligraphy.”

He already had. Twice. In the back of his notebook.

But the worst part? Alya still greeted him the same way every day:

A nod.

A smile.

A “Hi, Riyan.”

Nothing more. Nothing less.

She never asked if he missed her. Never tried to linger in conversation. She was consistently distant in the most charming way possible.

And so, Riyan began thinking, What if I actually like her?

Not like the usual. Not like a “let’s see what happens.”

No. Something different.

He stared at her from across the room once during art class, watching how she tilted her head while coloring the wings of a butterfly. She didn’t rush. She blended colors slowly, like it meant something.

This one’s not a trophy, he thought. She’s a riddle.

And Alya, quietly aware of his gaze, kept her eyes on the paper, smiling ever so faintly.

She already knew.

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