The college felt quieter in the late afternoon.
Most students had already left, their laughter fading into distant echoes across the corridors. Soft sunlight slipped through the tall windows, painting golden lines across the empty hallways.
Poonam walked slowly toward the cultural wing, holding the paper Professor Mehra had given her.
Music Room — Practice Permission
She hesitated outside the door for a moment before pushing it open.
The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old instruments. A piano rested near the corner, microphones stood neatly arranged, and thick curtains softened the outside noise.
For the first time that day, she felt at ease.
No crowd.
No watching eyes.
Just silence.
She placed her bag down and stood near the microphone, taking a slow breath.
At first, her voice came out softly — almost unsure.
Then the melody grew steadier.
Her singing filled the room, warm and emotional, carrying feelings she never spoke aloud. Every note felt honest, gentle, and deeply personal.
Outside the slightly open door, footsteps slowed.
Anshu had been passing by on his way to the art studio when the sound reached him.
He stopped.
The voice was familiar.
He didn't step inside. He didn't interrupt.
He simply stood there, listening without realizing how long he had stayed.
Something about the song felt… comforting. Different from the noisy world outside.
When the last note faded, he quietly walked away before she could notice.
🎨 The Art Studio
The art studio stood at the end of another corridor, filled with canvases, charcoal pencils, and unfinished student projects.
Anshu sat at a desk near the window, sketchbook open.
He tried focusing on the orientation banner design assigned by the professor.
Lines. Shapes. Layout ideas.
But nothing felt right.
Without thinking, his pencil began moving on a blank page.
Soft curves formed first.
Then strands of hair.
Then eyes looking slightly downward.
He paused.
The realization came slowly.
He had drawn Poonam.
Not intentionally.
Not consciously.
Just from memory.
Anshu stared at the sketch for a long moment before closing the book halfway, as if hiding it from himself.
"This is just practice," he muttered quietly.
Yet he didn't tear the page.
Back in the Music Room
Poonam finished practicing and gathered her things, unaware that anyone had heard her.
She felt lighter — calmer than she had all day.
As she stepped into the corridor, she noticed faint pencil marks on a nearby notice board — signs pointing toward the art studio.
For a brief second, she wondered if Anshu might be there working on the project.
The thought appeared suddenly.
And just as quickly, she pushed it away.
It didn't matter.
They were only working together because they had to.
Nothing more.
Outside, evening clouds slowly covered the sky.
Two different rooms.
Two different talents.
Music and art moving separately — yet unknowingly connected.
And somewhere between notes and sketches, emotions neither of them understood had begun taking shape.