Alina’s POV
Zayn’s eyes kept drifting to the window, his spoon untouched. The glow from the hanging bulb above us flickered softly, catching the edge of his jaw—tense, unreadable.
I pushed a pea around my plate, pretending not to notice. But his silence had weight, pressing down on the table between us.
“Don’t you like the food?” I finally asked. My voice sounded too careful, like I was afraid to break something fragile.
His head snapped toward me, startled. “Oh—uh, I’ll eat it now.” He forced a smile, lifted a spoonful of rice, and chewed like he needed to convince me he was fine. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Something’s off. I knew it, even if he wouldn’t say.
“So,” I tried again, “how are finals going? You still enjoying the torture?”
He chuckled weakly. “Hmm… going well.
