Eyes on You

Chapter 10: (His POV): The Wrong Script

As I walked out of the school gates, the "Second Row Mafia" was in high spirits. They were loud, shoving each other, and dissecting every minor event of the day. I was walking with them, nodding at the right times, but my mind was stuck in a loop of that three-second stare-down in French class. My skin still felt tight, my ears still felt warm. I was waiting for the adrenaline to fade, but it was replaced by a nagging, restless anxiety.

"Yo," one of the guys said, throwing a heavy arm over my shoulder and breaking my trance. "Did you see her today? Ritika? She was wearing that blue ribbon again. You were staring so hard I thought your head was actually going to unscrew and fall off your neck."

The rest of the guys chimed in immediately, laughing and whistling, their voices echoing off the brick walls of the school. "Man’s got it bad. You’ve been ‘leaning back’ to check on her since the first week of September. Just ask her for her number already, bro. The suspense is killing us."

I forced a laugh, but it felt hollow and metallic, like a sound effect played at the completely wrong time in a movie. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered, dropping my gaze to my scuffed sneakers.

Six weeks ago, I would have leaned into the teasing. I would have played along, smirked, and let the attention settle on me like a crown. I would have felt like the king of the hallway. But now, every time they mentioned her name, it felt like they were reading from a script for a play I wasn't even starring in anymore. Ritika was a character from a story I’d stopped reading, but my friends were still turning the pages for me, forcing me to play a lead role I didn't want.

"I'm telling you," another friend added, nudging me hard in the ribs with his elbow. "She knows. I saw her looking toward our row today during the translation task. She’s definitely waiting for you to finally make a move. The path is clear, man."

My stomach did a slow, sickening flip. She saw me looking toward their row. I looked up, scanning the crowded, sun-drenched courtyard, and that’s when I saw her. Not Ritika.

Her. She was standing near the edge of the courtyard, tucked under the shade of a large tree with Aarna. They were huddled close together, shoulders hunched, the way people do when they’re sharing something massive and devastating. Even from across the yard, I could see the rigid tension in her posture. She looked... different. The intense, focused light I’d seen in her eyes during third period—the look that made me feel like the only person in the world—was gone. In its place was something shadowed, heavy, and shielded.

She caught my eye for a split second—a flicker of a glance that lasted less than a heartbeat—and then she looked away so fast it felt like a physical slap to the face. There was no spark this time. No "short circuit." Just a cold, sharp wall of static.

"See?" my friend whispered, his voice laced with triumph as he completely misinterpreted the entire moment. You’re the only topic of conversation over there, bro. Go say hi to Ritika while she's still standing there."

I wanted to scream at them to shut up. I wanted to tell them that they were looking at the wrong girl. That I was looking at the wrong girl. I wanted to walk over to that tree, pull her away from the noise, and explain that the geometry was all wrong. I wanted to tell her that when I leaned back, I wasn't looking past her—I was looking at her, through her, for her. I wanted to tell her that Ritika was just a name from last year, but she was the only person I saw in high-definition now.

But I stayed frozen, rooted to the pavement by my own reputation. I was the leader of the second row, the guy who "coasted," the guy who had the "Ritika crush." That was the version of me everyone knew, and I realized with a sudden, sinking horror that she believed that version, too. If I walked over to her now, what would I even say? 'Hey, I know everyone thinks I like your friend, but I actually just spent an hour staring at the way you hold your pen?' I watched them walk away, their backpacks bobbing in the sea of students until they disappeared past the school gates. The distance between us felt miles wide, even though we’d just been two desks apart an hour ago.

"I'll catch you guys later," I said, breaking away from the group abruptly. My voice was tight, leaving no room for argument.

"Where you going? We’re hitting the cafe for shakes!"

"Forgot a book. Left it in my locker," I lied, turning back toward the empty, echoing school building.

I sat on the cold stone steps of the foyer, the afternoon sun starting to dip behind the trees and casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. I pulled out my phone, opening a blank note, but my thumbs hovered over the screen. I didn't know what to write. I felt like I had spent the last month building a bridge out of glances and worksheet-handouts, only to realize I’d accidentally built it to the wrong person’s house.

Everyone thought I was winning. My friends thought I was inches away from getting the girl. But as I sat there in the silence, listening to the distant shouts of the football team on the field, I realized I’d never felt more like I was losing. I wasn't the main character of a romance. I was a guy who had accidentally written himself into the wrong story, and I had absolutely no idea how to change the ending without losing everything.