morning 🌄 view in India

The first time Aarav saw Meera, he was late for class. The corridors of St. Xavier’s College were half-empty, echoing with hurried footsteps and the faint sound of a guitar somewhere near the auditorium. Aarav had a habit of walking fast, as if he was always running late — for class, for assignments, or maybe for life itself. He turned a corner sharply and collided with someone. Books fell, papers fluttered like lost feathers, and a soft voice said, “Careful!” When he looked up, she was kneeling, gathering her papers — strands of hair falling over her face, sunlight from the window painting her in gold. For a second, he forgot to breathe. “I’m really sorry,” Aarav said quickly, bending to help. “It’s okay,” she smiled. “You’re the fifth person to bump into me today. I think I attract collisions.” Her tone was light, teasing — but something about her voice made it linger in his mind even after she walked away. Later, he learned her name: Meera Kapoor, first-year literature student, writer for the college magazine, known for her soft voice and fierce opinions. She wrote poems about heartbreak, though everyone said she had never been in love. Aarav, on the other hand, was an engineering student — practical, quiet, the kind of boy who never spoke much but thought too much. Their worlds shouldn’t have collided again. But destiny, it seemed, was fond of repetition. Two weeks later, they met again — this time in the library. Meera was sitting on the floor, back against a shelf, reading a poetry book with her headphones in. Aarav hesitated but eventually walked up. “That’s Neruda,” he said, pointing at the book cover. She looked up, surprised. “You know poetry?” “Not really. My roommate uses his quotes to flirt with girls,” Aarav admitted. She laughed — a small, musical sound. “Then you must have heard: ‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where…’” He smiled. “I’ll remember that line. Might come in handy.” “Don’t misuse it,” she said playfully, putting a bookmark between the pages. “It’s too beautiful to waste on half-hearted love.” From that day, Aarav started spending more time in the library — reading, or pretending to. Sometimes, they sat near each other and talked about little things: books, music, deadlines, and why the canteen samosas always tasted like disappointment. He learned she loved old songs, late-night walks, and stories that didn’t always have happy endings. She said happiness was overrated — that sometimes, sadness had its own kind of beauty. He didn’t agree then. But he would, soon.