AUTHOR’S POV
The campus was unrecognizable.
The central courtyard, usually dull and scattered with lazy groups of students, had transformed into a tapestry of fairy lights, colorful streamers, and small paper lanterns strung across trees. A temporary stage stood at one end, speakers humming with soft instrumentals as students bustled around, setting things in place.
Rhea clutched the edges of her dupatta nervously, fingers tracing the embroidered edges. Anaya was practically bouncing beside her, phone in hand, recording everything for her story.
“Look at this vibe! I swear this campus only looks alive during fests,” Anaya grinned. “And you — look at you! Miss shy poet finally out in the open.”
Rhea rolled her eyes but smiled. She’d worn a pale lavender kurti with silver earrings, hair in loose waves, lips tinted a soft pink. Not for anyone in particular, she told herself.
But she knew the truth.
Every glance toward the stage made her stomach flutter.
Would he be here already?
Would he recognize her words?
Would he know it was her?
As the sky darkened and the crowd thickened, the lights seemed to blur into a soft, romantic haze. Voices rose and fell like waves — laughter, conversations, the occasional shriek of a friend spotting another.
Rhea kept her notebook clutched to her chest, her name not on the participants list. It was anonymous readings tonight. She’d handed her poem in a sealed envelope to the event host half an hour ago.
It was happening.
---
Kabir arrived late, as usual.
He was in his favorite navy blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, a slight smirk on his face as he scanned the crowd. Arjun caught up to him, handing him a drink.
“Bro! This crowd’s insane. Open Mic’s starting in ten. I told you to come early.”
Kabir shrugged. “Good things come to those who wait.”
He wasn’t looking for good things though.
He was looking for someone.
He didn’t know her face. Didn’t even know her name. But he knew she was here. Every instinct in him said so.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling quickly.
@SilentSoul_07 had posted a story ten minutes ago.
A dimly lit shot of the stage.
> “Tonight, where stories live louder than names.”
His pulse quickened.
She was here.
Somewhere in this blur of faces, laughter, and music.
He pocketed his phone, his sharp gaze scanning the girls nearby, wondering if one of them was carrying a heart full of poems about him without even knowing.
---
“First performance up!” the host’s voice boomed from the speakers, making Rhea jump.
The Open Mic had begun.
One by one, students went up — singers, dancers, a guy trying awkward stand-up. Anaya cheered the loudest for everyone, while Rhea’s heart thudded louder with each passing act.
When the host finally picked up a sealed envelope and announced, “An anonymous poet with a piece titled When Eyes Find Eyes in Crowds,” Rhea’s legs nearly gave out.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” Anaya whispered, grabbing her arm.
Rhea nodded, throat dry.
“I swear to God, if you don’t go stand by the stage, I’ll drag you there.”
Rhea took a deep breath, her hands clammy.
But she moved.
Slipped through the crowd.
And stood at the far edge of the stage where the lights couldn’t touch her face.
The host unfolded the paper and began to read.
---
“When Eyes Find Eyes in Crowds”
Some nights are written in stolen glances, In words too shy to be spoken out loud.
And sometimes, in the blur of nameless faces, Two hearts whisper what lips cannot.
You’re a stranger I’ve never met, But my soul’s been telling your story for days.
Maybe you’ll hear yourself in these lines, Or maybe, you’ll walk by unaware —And that, too, would be a poem.
---
Rhea watched the crowd closely as the lines floated over them, soft as dusk.
And then she saw him.
Standing by the tree line, drink in hand, eyes fixed on the stage.
On the voice.
On her words.
Her heart raced.
He was there.
And his expression had shifted — the smirk replaced with something quieter, something that made Rhea feel like she was falling through the sky without a parachute.
---
The moment the poem began, Kabir knew.
Every word felt like a thread tying itself around his ribcage, pulling, tugging.
His friends cheered, but their voices felt distant.
He didn’t care who was reading it.
Because it was hers.
His poet. His stranger.
And somehow, the words felt like they’d been written inside his own chest.
His gaze swept the edge of the stage. A shadowy figure stood half in the dark, head bowed, notebook hugged to her side.
He couldn’t see her face.
But he knew.
It was her.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
Because if this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake.
---
The applause was polite but distant to Rhea’s ears. She barely heard it. Her pulse roared louder than any cheer, and her legs threatened to buckle as she stepped back into the shadows.
She clutched her notebook, the soft feel of its worn pages grounding her as she slipped into the sea of students, trying to disappear.
Anaya found her a minute later, eyes bright, face flushed with excitement.
“Rhea! That was beautiful, my God. You should’ve seen them — everyone was so quiet you could’ve heard a pin drop.”
Rhea forced a smile, though her gaze kept flickering back to the courtyard.
Where was he?
Had he left?
Had he stayed?
Had he even known it was for him?
And yet, something inside her hummed with certainty.
He’d heard.
And he’d felt it.
“I need… water,” Rhea mumbled, making an excuse to step away.
---
Kabir couldn’t stay still.
The poem had ended minutes ago, but the lines echoed inside his head, bouncing around like stubborn sparks refusing to die out.
He scanned the crowd. Faces, so many of them. But not the one he needed.
The girl in the shadows. The one with the trembling hands clutching a notebook like it was life itself.
And then, there — near the corner of the courtyard by the tea stall, pale lavender kurti, hair falling in soft waves.
He didn’t think. Just moved.
---
Rhea ordered a tea she wouldn’t drink, more for the need to keep her hands occupied. The cool night air made goosebumps rise on her skin.
And then she felt it.
A presence beside her.
The kind that prickles your skin before your brain registers it.
She turned her head slightly — and there he was.
Kabir Malhotra.
Up close.
Real.
He leaned against the counter, casually, though his eyes weren’t casual at all.
They were intense, watching her like she was a riddle he’d been chasing for weeks.
Their eyes met.
And just like that, Rhea felt the world tilt.
For a second, she forgot every poem she’d ever written.
---
Kabir cleared his throat, leaning a little closer as though the crowd’s noise demanded it.
“Good poem,” he said, voice low.
Rhea’s stomach somersaulted. She turned her eyes back to the tea vendor, forcing calm into her voice. “Thanks.”
He studied her for a beat. “Wrote it yourself?”
Rhea lifted an eyebrow. “Obviously. Why?”
He smirked. “Felt personal.”
“It was meant to,” she replied before she could stop herself.
Kabir chuckled, a soft, genuine sound that made something inside her ache.
“Glad I stayed for it,” he said, reaching for his cup of tea. “Didn’t know poetry nights could be… interesting.”
“They usually aren’t,” Rhea replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Tonight was different.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving hers. “It was.”
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The world around them blurred — just the hum of music, flickering lights, laughter from somewhere far away.
And then Kabir asked, casual but calculated, “You on Instagram?”
Rhea’s heart skipped. Was he guessing? Did he already know?
“Maybe,” she teased.
“Name?”
She sipped her tea, stalling. “Anonymous poet rule. Can’t just give myself away like that.”
Kabir leaned in, eyes gleaming. “I like a good mystery.”
She bit her lip. “Then maybe you’ll figure it out.”
And before she could lose her nerve, Rhea smiled — a proper, real one — and walked away into the crowd, leaving him standing there with his untouched tea and a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
-
Well damn.
She was trouble, and he was in no mood to resist it.
As she disappeared into the crowd, Kabir pulled out his phone. His DMs to @SilentSoul_07 were still open. The last message had been a simple “Good luck for tonight.”
No reply.
Yet.
But now, he was sure.
It was her.
Without thinking twice, he typed out:
> “Your words hit harder in person.”
And hit send.
---
The message pinged her phone barely a minute after she’d left the tea stall.
She knew it was him.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Anaya was beside her now, tugging her toward a group of seniors offering chocolates and sparklers, but Rhea’s world had narrowed to one conversation.
Her heart stammering, she replied:
> “Some words are meant to find their people.”
A beat later, his reply:
“Then I guess I’m people.”
Rhea laughed — the kind of laugh that surprises you when it bubbles out, soft and breathless.
Somewhere deep inside, something clicked into place.
---
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