He remembered her before he ever spoke a word.
Mishka Nagar. Curly hair that tumbled in every direction and somehow always framed her face like it was made for him to watch. Hazel-brown eyes that looked like they held the world, though she carried herself like she had no idea how heavy it could be. She was his sister’s best friend, a presence that should have been untouchable, off-limits, untarnished, and yet she existed in every corner of his day.
He stole glances whenever he could. In the classroom, she bent over her notebooks, pencil moving like it had a rhythm only she could hear. The crease in her brow when a question stumped her, the small tilt of her head when she read something carefully, the way she bit her lip when she laughed at a joke no one else seemed to catch—he cataloged it all. He remembered every detail: the way sunlight caught in her hair, the faint scent of whatever shampoo she always used, the soft sigh she let out when she scribbled down an answer and it satisfied her.
She didn’t notice him. Not really. She laughed at his best friend’s jokes, tossed quick smiles at other people, and carried herself with the kind of righteous, almost stubborn seriousness that made it impossible for anyone—not just him—to approach her without fear of crossing some invisible line. She didn’t belong to him. She didn’t even notice him.
And yet, he thought she was his.
He watched while she studied, while she tucked her hair behind her ear and focused on things that weren’t him, while she moved through rooms like she had no idea he existed. Every laugh she gave to someone else made his stomach twist, a strange, unfamiliar ache he didn’t have the words for yet. Every time someone brushed past her, brushed into her orbit, he felt a quiet, insistent jealousy, the kind that makes you want to curl yourself into the space between them and claim it, just so no one else can.
She was kind, and fierce, and righteous in ways that made him dizzy. She didn’t understand the effect she had, couldn’t imagine the gravity she carried simply by existing. And he… he remembered everything. Every motion, every expression, every quiet glance that no one else caught. She forgot most of it. Her life moved forward with a careless momentum he envied, while he stored each stolen moment like a treasure no one else would ever see.
There were no words. There were no confessions. No awkward moments where he stumbled and ruined it. Nothing but observation and longing. And maybe obsession—he didn’t have that word yet—but the way his heart thudded every time she came near, the way he noticed how sunlight pooled across her skin, the way he imagined small, impossible futures where she looked at him and knew—he couldn’t name it, but he felt it in every cell.
She liked someone else, his best friend, and he knew it. He could see it in the way she laughed, the way she lingered near him, the slight sparkle of something unspoken in her hazel-brown eyes. And it hurt him. Not enough to be cruel—he didn’t know that yet—but it hurt. It made him quiet, tense, sharp. He didn’t approach her. He didn’t speak. He just watched. He remembered. He waited for something he couldn’t define. Something he wasn’t allowed to name.
And even then, he thought she belonged to him. That maybe, somehow, her smiles and her little righteous indignations and her curls and her voice were pieces of a world he was allowed to occupy. He didn’t know how wrong he was. How little he understood. How much he was only beginning to feel.
But it started here. With stolen glances, quiet longing, and the kind of ache that knows it may never be returned. With Mishka, who existed like sunlight, and Atharva, who had only begun to learn how to watch and wait, and hope that someday, somehow, he might not be invisible to her.
They knew each other, ever since they were kids but never got to interact much, she was always running, running away from him without her knowing and he hated it, he hated how much he wanted her to look at him, even a glance, just a glance was enough. But she never did. Until one day—
It happened in the hallway, between classes, when no one seemed to notice.
Mishka’s pen had slipped from her hand, rolling across the floor in a way that seemed almost deliberate to him. He didn’t know why he noticed, except that every small detail about her seemed to matter.
He bent down, careful not to draw attention. The pen was heavier than it looked. “Here,” he said, his voice catching slightly, betraying more courage than he had meant to summon.
She looked up. For a single heartbeat, she paused. Her curls tumbled over her forehead, and her hazel-brown eyes widened just enough that he thought she might see him. See him. Really see him.
But she didn’t.
She took the pen, murmured a quiet “Thanks,” and turned back to her notebook. Her attention drifted instantly to the page in front of her, curls bouncing lightly as she moved. No glance back. No smile. Nothing.
It should have been enough, he told himself. He had done something. He had reached across the invisible wall he’d built around himself and interacted with her, even briefly. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.
He felt the sting immediately, sharp in his chest. His ego, a fragile, quiet thing he barely admitted to himself, hurt that she hadn’t looked at him. That she hadn’t even acknowledged him beyond the most functional, passing courtesy. He had imagined more: a flicker of curiosity, a hint of amusement, even a trace of interest. Nothing came.
He stayed where he was a moment longer, pen in hand, watching her move down the hallway. Her small, deliberate steps, the way she tucked her notebook under her arm, the subtle bounce of her curls—everything registered. He memorized it all. Every sway of her body, every blink, every small tilt of her head. And she didn’t know. She would never know.
He wanted to call out, to say something else. Something clever. Something that would make her glance at him. But he couldn’t. His chest tightened again, and his hands fumbled. He wasn’t bold like Atharva—he wasn’t someone who could just step into her orbit and be seen. He had to stay quiet, stay invisible, stay careful.
And yet, even as he walked away, pretending nothing had happened, a part of him burned. That small sting of being ignored, of being invisible, made him ache in a way he didn’t understand. That ache would linger, unspoken and secret, tucked into the corners of his mind, ready to surface every time he saw her again.
Because she had noticed nothing—and that hurt more than any scolding or rejection could.
"Mujhe fark nahi padta, nahi dekh rahi na dekhe."
He repeatedly told himself. But it still hurt.
He tried not to care until one incident, one tiny little fist bump with another guy changed everything.
It was a small thing. Nothing important, really.
Adi—just a friend, nothing more—had leaned over her desk, and for some reason they laughed at the same joke. He saw Adi’s hand lift for a quick fist bump, and before he could think, Mishka’s palm met it. A flicker of motion, a brief brush of connection, and the world seemed to shift under him.
He felt it immediately. A sharp twist in his chest. Jealousy, sudden and burning. Why him? Why not him? It was absurd. He hated himself for feeling it. Adi wasn’t someone she liked. Adi didn’t matter. And yet, seeing her laugh, seeing her share that tiny moment of contact with anyone else—it hurt more than he thought it could.
He clenched his fists at his sides, tried to straighten his posture, tried to look anywhere but at her. But his eyes betrayed him. He followed every glance, every flicker of her smile, every small curve of her laugh. She didn’t know. She didn’t even notice him watching. She never did.
And that was the cruelest part.
She had no idea. She had no idea how he cataloged these moments. How he replayed them later, turning them over in his mind, dissecting her laugh, the warmth of her hand, the way she tossed her curls back without thinking. How he imagined that fist bump as something meant for him instead. How he imagined holding her hand, just once, and having her laugh just for him.
He hated himself for wanting her like that. Hated himself for caring, hated himself for imagining. And yet… he did.
And he would remember it. Every flicker, every laugh, every hand movement. Even if she forgot.
Because she was Mishka. And she was his first, impossible obsession.
And this was the moment he decided that if he can't share this happy moment with her, he'll make sure he will make moment so unforgettable that it will leave a scar on her permanently.
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