Chapter Sixteen
1114 Words
Aanya's POV
The moment Aanya stepped onto the campus grounds, the air felt different—thicker, almost pressing against her chest.
It wasn’t the morning breeze or the sun filtering through the trees that made her uncomfortable. It was the glances. The stares. The quiet murmurs that stopped the second she passed.
She hugged her bag to her chest a little tighter, trying to shield herself from invisible knives. Her steps quickened instinctively, like she could outrun the judgment curling around her like smoke.
Somewhere to her right, she heard a group of girls whisper her name.
“...that’s her, right?”
“Stayed at his place, I heard...”
“She was wearing his shirt...”
Aanya kept walking.
Her breath hitched, but her feet didn’t falter. Don’t react. Don’t let them win. She repeated it like a mantra in her head.
She wasn't new to whispers. Back in India, even minor acts of defiance had sparked rumors. But this felt different—personal. As if people were peeling back her skin with their eyes, hoping to find scandal written in her bones.
What made it worse was that they were talking about him too.
Ryan Williamson.
The man she was trying so hard to forget.
The man who haunted her every thought since that morning.
The kiss.
The stare.
His shirt draped around her like a secret she wasn’t ready to share.
She hated that she remembered exactly how it smelled—clean, warm, a bit like cedar and sin.
She shoved the memory away and entered her classroom.
Surprisingly, the lectures passed quicker than they had yesterday. Maybe because she had buried herself in them with sheer desperation. She scribbled down notes, nodded at professors, and ignored every other student like they didn’t exist.
That was the only way she could function—pretend no one saw her, and she saw no one.
When the lunch bell rang at 1:30 PM, she exhaled deeply. Not relief—just air she forgot she was holding.
She joined her two close friends, Trisha and Meenal, near the garden benches outside the cafeteria. They were talking about a meme page on i********:, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Aanya laughed—softly, cautiously, like her voice wasn’t used to joy anymore.
A joke about their psychology professor made her snort, and just as she wiped away a tear from laughing too hard—
She felt it.
That strange prickle on her neck.
That heavy, consuming gaze.
She froze mid-laugh.
Her heart stuttered, the color draining from her face. She scanned the crowd on instinct.
And then her eyes locked with him.
Ryan Williamson stood across the courtyard, near the administration building—watching her. Not just watching. Studying her.
His hands were in his pockets, his charcoal suit pressed and pristine under the August sun. His eyes—those stormy, ruthless eyes—were fixed solely on her.
Aanya’s breath hitched.
Everything she’d tried to suppress over the last twenty-four hours—the kiss, the confusion, the blush that refused to fade—came rushing back like a tidal wave.
No. No. Not again.
Her heart pounded against her ribcage like it wanted to run before her feet did.
She looked away first. Swallowed hard. Then turned to her friends.
“I—I forgot something at home,” she said suddenly.
“What? You still have classes—” Meenal blinked, confused.
“Yeah. I know. But I’m not feeling great, honestly.” She forced a weak smile. “I’ll catch up on notes later, okay?”
Before they could protest, she had already started walking.
Correction: half-walking, half-running.
She didn’t turn around to see if he followed. She couldn’t.
All she knew was if she stood there a second longer, she might’ve caved. Might’ve walked up to him and demanded answers to questions she didn’t even understand herself.
So she ran.
By the time she reached her apartment, her legs were aching.
She barely locked the door before dropping her bag with a thud and collapsing onto her bed, face first. The room smelled faintly of lavender and floor cleaner. Normally it calmed her.
Not today.
She didn’t even change clothes—just curled up under her blanket, shoes still on, and closed her eyes.
Sleep came quickly—sweaty, restless, and full of jumbled dreams. One minute she was back in the club, the next in Ryan’s penthouse kitchen, and then... his lips.
Always his lips.
6:00 PM
Aanya blinked awake to soft shadows filling her room.
Her throat was dry, her head foggy. She didn’t feel good. Something between a mild fever and a tension headache. Her body felt too heavy for her skin.
Still, she pushed herself up, shuffled to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face.
She didn’t want to be the kind of girl who ran from her problems. That’s not who she was.
But Ryan wasn’t just a “problem.”
He was a storm—the kind that wrapped around your life, whether you wanted it or not.
And somewhere, deep down, she was terrified that if she stayed too close… she wouldn’t want to leave.
In the tiny kitchen, she tried to make something edible.
She opened a pack of noodles, chopped up some leftover vegetables, and boiled water. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind wasn’t there.
Even the scent of warm food made her stomach churn.
She barely ate four bites.
The rest of it stayed on the table—forgotten, half-eaten, like her thoughts.
The utensils lay scattered. Sauce splattered on the counter. Plates left abandoned.
She didn’t care. The energy to clean, to think, to feel—was gone.
She left everything messy and curled up again on her couch this time, wrapping the fuzzy blanket tighter around her body. The silence was loud. Unforgiving.
11:02 PM
A soft knock.
Then the sound of the doorbell.
Aanya’s eyes fluttered open, her body sluggish with fever. She hadn’t heard the street noises fade, hadn’t realized how late it had gotten.
She rubbed her temples.
Doorbell. Again.
“Coming,” she mumbled groggily, not even thinking. Her body moved on autopilot—blanket sliding off her shoulders, feet dragging across the cold floor.
She was still in the clothes from college, hair a frizzy mess, face pale and flushed.
Her vision swam for a second.
The doorbell rang a third time.
She reached for the knob, unlocking it without thinking.
She opened the door.
And then—froze.
Eyes widening. Breath catching in her throat.
- Writer
