Mornings after guest lectures had a strange rhythm.
The college felt lighter, as if inspiration hung in the air, but no one knew what to do with it.
Except Pranathi.
She woke up late, groaned into her pillow, and immediately regretted every decision she'd made since 2019.
Her glasses fogged as soon as she stepped out of her hostel room.
The air smelled of wet dust and overcooked parathas — the first drizzle of the week had done what it always did: made life ten times harder for people with spectacles.
She wiped the lenses with the edge of her dupatta and muttered,
"I swear the person who invented rain didn't wear glasses."
"Talking to the sky again?" Neha's voice came from behind, cheerful as ever.
"Talking to my fate," Pranathi replied, adjusting her bag. "Sky's useless."
"Same difference," Neha said, sliding an arm around her shoulder. "Come on, they're serving upma in the mess."
"I'd rather eat my lab assignments."
"Then starve in style."
The canteen was a symphony of clatter and sarcasm.
Second-year juniors were glued to laptops, pretending to code while secretly watching reels. Third-years huddled around phones comparing offer letters.
Their usual table — second from the window, wobbling on one leg — was already occupied by Ritesh and Sreeja, mid-debate over who'd survive if the internet collapsed for a week.
"Ritesh wouldn't," Pranathi said, sliding into the seat. "He'd start talking to Alexa through the mirror."
"Funny," he said, munching toast. "By the way, your new boyfriend's lecture went viral. Half the class is now googling quantum computing."
Pranathi almost choked on her chai. "Who?"
"Dr Ishaan Dev," Sreeja said, deadpan. "He smiled exactly once. Half the girls in the auditorium claimed it was at them."
Neha smirked. "And the other half swore he smiled at Pranathi."
"Oh, please," Pranathi said. "He smiled at the projector when it stopped lagging."
"Still counts," Ritesh said.
Pranathi glared. "You all need new hobbies."
Sreeja leaned in. "Admit it, though — he's not like the other visiting lecturers. No PowerPoint, no boasting. Just... quiet clarity. You were listening, right?"
"I was," Pranathi admitted, "because he didn't talk nonsense. But don't get dramatic, okay? It was just a lecture."
Neha grinned. "That's exactly what people say before falling for someone's syllabus."
"Shut up and finish your chai," Pranathi said, but her ears burned.
The rest of the day passed in half-focus.
The coding lab felt dull; even the computers seemed tired.
Outside, the drizzle turned into an annoying mist that clung to everything — her bag, her books, her patience.
By evening, she realised something was missing. Her main notebook — the one with the purple spine and folded corners — wasn't in her bag.
She checked the desk, the lab drawers, and her locker. Nothing.
A flash of memory struck: she'd carried it to the auditorium yesterday, scribbling notes through Ishaan's talk.
She groaned. "Perfect. Now the gods are collecting my stationery too."
Neha looked up from her phone. "Lost your notebook?"
"The one with my project notes."
"Oh no. That's like losing your child."
"I don't even have a boyfriend, Neha, but thanks for the maternal analogy."
"Check the admin block tomorrow. Maybe the guest-sir found it."
"Yeah," Pranathi muttered. "He seems like the kind who alphabetises lost property."
That night, she sat by her window, glasses fogged again from humidity, watching the drizzle turn into steady rain.
The reflections of hostel lights trembled in puddles below.
She hated rain. It blurred her vision, delayed her buses, and made her hair look like frizzed Ethernet cables.
Still, somewhere between frustration and fatigue, she found herself remembering a single line from the lecture:
"Every crash is a lesson in limits."
She whispered it out loud, tasting the words. They sounded annoyingly wise.
Morning came too early.
The campus smelled like damp notebooks and ambition.
As she walked toward the lab, her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
"Dr Ishaan Dev here. Found a notebook yesterday after the lecture. Purple spine. Assuming it's yours."
She stopped mid-corridor, blinking at the message. Where did he even get my number?
Then typed back, "Yes, sir. Thank you! I was planning to check the auditorium today."
A few seconds later, another message appeared.
"I'm at the lab till five. You can collect it anytime. Also, make backups — even notebooks crash."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "That's the nerdiest joke I've ever read," she said under her breath.
"You'd be surprised how many of my jokes have backup copies."
Her thumb froze mid-typing. Did he just—?
Before she could think of a reply, a follow-up arrived:
"Sorry, that sounded less funny than intended. Old habit. See you at the lab."
She laughed quietly, alone in the corridor, drawing a few curious glances.
The lab felt different that day — quieter, cleaner, as if someone had rearranged the silence.
Ishaan sat near the front, sleeves rolled up, typing something that looked like a symphony of logic.
When he looked up, the air changed texture.
"Ah, Pranathi," he said, standing. "I was beginning to think your notebook had more attendance than you."
She blinked. "I was waiting for the rain to stop."
"Ah," he said, glancing at her fogged glasses. "Natural enemy of clarity."
"Exactly."
He smiled slightly. "Here."
He handed her the notebook — pages neat, corners straightened, a yellow sticky note inside.
His handwriting was clean, deliberate:
Read this when you can — 'Ethical Paradoxes in Quantum Decision Systems.' It reminded me of your question about unpredictability.
She looked up. "You... remembered that?"
He shrugged. "Questions stay longer than answers."
Her mind blanked for a second. She tucked the notebook against her chest like armour.
"Thank you," she said, trying to sound professional.
"You're welcome. And Pranathi?"
She looked up.
"Don't lose this one. Margins tell more than the text."
She walked out before she could overthink what that meant.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving behind the scent of wet leaves and electricity.
Her friends spotted her near the stairwell.
"Recovered the notebook?" Neha called.
"Yes, with divine intervention," Pranathi said.
Ritesh grinned. "Divine or Dev?"
"Both start with D," Sreeja added.
Pranathi threw a paper ball at them and walked ahead, but her smile betrayed her.
That night, she read the paper Ishaan had suggested.
Half the terminology flew over her head.
But one line caught her:
When systems learn morality, human imperfection becomes their teacher.
She underlined it, leaned back, and whispered to herself, "Maybe that's what he meant."
Her health app buzzed again: Low activity today. Eat something.
She ignored it, just like her emotions.
Outside, the puddles were drying, streetlights reflecting on them one last time —
and for the first time in months, she didn't feel lost, just... in progress.
By the time the clock hit midnight, her hostel room looked like a battlefield of open notebooks, sticky notes, and half-drunk coffee.
She shut her laptop and leaned back, rubbing her eyes.
Her glasses had fogged again — this time not from humidity, but exhaustion.
Somewhere between reading the paper and rereading Ishaan’s note, she’d stopped understanding the sentences and started hearing his voice in her head instead.
Margins tell more than the text.
She muttered, “He talks like he swallowed a philosophy textbook.”
From the bed across, Neha rolled over. “Still awake? You look like you’re plotting world domination.”
“Just debugging my career,” Pranathi said.
Neha yawned. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your offer letter soon. Probably from NASA.”
“Funny. I couldn’t even get shortlisted for Infosys.”
“Infosys can’t handle your sarcasm.”
That earned a small laugh, which quickly died into silence.
Pranathi lay back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning like unending thoughts.
She wasn’t in love — of course not.
But something about Ishaan’s calm certainty bothered her.
People weren’t supposed to be that composed.
Especially when she herself felt like a glitch pretending to be code.
The next morning, she entered the lab early again.
Her notebook sat where she’d left it, the yellow sticky note still attached.
She peeled it off and slipped it into her wallet — not because it meant anything, just because she hated littering.
That’s what she told herself, anyway.
Ritesh and Sreeja barged in a few minutes later.
“Madam,” Ritesh announced dramatically, “word is you and our visiting scholar had a long meeting yesterday.”
“It was five minutes,” she said flatly.
“Five minutes is a long time when people fall in love at first sight.”
She glared. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll make you debug my project for a week.”
Neha joined in, grinning. “Okay, but for real, how does he have your number? Even class toppers don’t get direct messages from guest lecturers.”
“He probably asked the department coordinator,” Pranathi said, a little too quickly.
Sreeja raised an eyebrow. “Wow. He asked for your number? That’s even worse.”
Pranathi rolled her eyes. “For official reasons. I left my notebook. You all are hopeless.”
Still, later that day, when she passed the department noticeboard, she noticed a new sheet pinned beside the internship forms:
Department Contact Directory – Final Year CSE Students.
Her name was there — number, roll, email.
So he hadn’t asked privately. It was there for everyone.
A wave of relief washed through her — mixed with something she didn’t name.
By noon, the heat had turned unbearable.
The ceiling fans barely moved, and the power kept flickering like the universe was buffering her life.
In the middle of it all, Ishaan entered the lab for his weekly session.
He wasn’t carrying a laptop this time — just a notebook and that same unbothered calm.
“All right,” he said, placing his notes on the table. “Let’s test how much of last week survived.”
Someone groaned.
Ritesh whispered, “We’re dead.”
Pranathi muttered, “Speak for yourself.”
He began walking between rows, asking questions like puzzles.
“What’s the difference between intelligence and imitation?”
No one answered.
He looked at Pranathi. “You usually have an opinion.”
She blinked. “I thought you only wanted answers.”
“Opinion is an answer,” he said, lips twitching.
Her voice came steady: “Imitation copies outcome. Intelligence copies process.”
The faintest smile touched his face. “Exactly.”
Ritesh whispered loudly, “Of course she’d get it right.”
Ishaan chuckled — softly, but enough to turn heads. “That’s what happens when you read your notes instead of losing them.”
Her cheeks warmed. She turned to her screen, pretending to be offended but smiling under her breath.
After class, he stayed back, rearranging files on the desk.
Most students had already left for lunch.
Pranathi hesitated, debating whether to say thank you again for the paper suggestion.
Before she could decide, he said, “You actually read it, didn’t you?”
She froze. “How do you know?”
“You look like you’re still arguing with it.”
“I’m just trying to understand why machines need ethics when humans barely have it.”
“That’s exactly why.”
His answer came too quickly, too certain.
Something in his tone made her both curious and irritated.
“So you think machines can save us from ourselves?” she challenged.
“I think understanding them might.”
“Optimistic,” she said.
“Necessary,” he replied.
They held eye contact for a beat too long.
It wasn’t flirtation — it was gravity.
Then she broke it first. “I should go. My friends are waiting.”
He nodded. “Don’t let them bully you about the notebook again.”
She almost smiled. Too late for that.
Outside, she found her friends leaning against the corridor railing, mid-gossip.
“So?” Neha asked immediately. “What did Dev sir want this time?”
“An argument,” Pranathi said dryly.
“Ah, yes, your love language.”
“Very funny. You all behave like I’m starring in a soap opera.”
Ritesh grinned. “Not yet. But give it time.”
That night, she tried focusing on her code again, but the cursor blinked back as it knew better.
For every line she wrote, she thought of one word he’d said: Necessary.
Why did he have to make everything sound like a moral lesson?
And why, in the middle of irritation, did she feel… seen?
She snapped the laptop shut.
“Enough,” she muttered to the empty room.
She hated this.
Hated the way he made her think, the way his voice stayed in her head longer than logic allowed.
And maybe, without realising it, that’s exactly where her hatred began — not from disdain, but from recognition.
From seeing in him the same stubborn certainty she fought within herself.
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