(Seerat's POV)
I didn't look for him anymore.
Days passed, and I stopped glancing toward the library doors, expecting to see him walk in. I stopped lingering near the roof stairs, stopped listening for the sound of heavy boots on old stone. It didn't matter. I told myself I had imagined it—the weight of his gaze, the fleeting moments that had felt like something more. People leave. I had always known that.
So, I let myself forget.
Ali and the music club made it easier.
The music club had quickly become a strange but welcome part of my routine. I found myself spending more time in that warm, instrument-filled room, where the scent of wood and worn-out sheet music clung to the air. Rehearsals were messy but fun, filled with teasing and last-minute changes, and Ali had a way of making me feel like I had always belonged there.
He was effortlessly loud, filling every room he stepped into, but in a way that never overwhelmed me. His humor was quick, sharp, and sometimes absurd. He called me "newbie" even after I had learned every practice set by heart. He noticed when I was too quiet, nudging me into conversations without making it feel like a demand.
And most of all, he didn't ask me about things I wasn't ready to say.
He never asked why I sometimes stared too long at nothing. Never asked why my fingers faltered on the keys when my thoughts strayed. He just handed me a drink, made some offhand comment about how tea was an inferior beverage, and acted like everything was fine.
Maybe that's why I let my guard down around him.
Maybe that's why, when our group was sitting outside after practice one evening—huddled around a rickety café table as the city buzzed around us—I found myself relaxing into the easy rhythm of their laughter.
"Alright, important question." Priya leaned forward, fixing me with a mock-serious look. "If you had to pick between being able to sing but never play an instrument again or playing an instrument but never singing, what would you choose?"
I considered it, absently tracing the rim of my cup. "Never play an instrument again," I said finally.
Ali groaned. "Another traitor. This is a disgrace."
Priya smirked. "See? Real musicians know what's up."
Aarav chuckled. "You just like winning arguments."
"Obviously."
I was smiling before I realized it.
"Next question." Priya leaned forward, eyes narrowed like this was life-or-death. "Would you rather be able to read minds or talk to animals?"
I blinked. "Um… talk to animals?"
Ali nearly choked on his drink. "What? No! Mind reading, obviously."
"Absolutely not," I said. "I don't want to know what people are thinking. Have you met people?"
Aarav laughed. "She's got a point."
"Yeah," Priya added, sipping her iced coffee. "Besides, animals are pure. People are a mess."
Ali shook his head, dramatically offended. "You guys are all cowards. I'd love to know what goes on in people's heads."
"You already assume everyone loves you," I said dryly.
Ali grinned. "Exactly. I'd just be confirming it."
The conversation shifted again, moving from one absurd topic to another, and I let myself settle into the moment. Into the warmth of being included. I wasn't used to this—to fitting into something so easily.
I was so caught up in it that I almost didn't hear the next part.
"By the way," Priya said, stealing a sip of Aarav's drink like it was her own, "we finally got a proper lineup for the fest. Everyone's participating this time, even the ones who keep ghosting us."
Ali made a face. "I wouldn't hold my breath on that."
"Still, he said he'd be here. And I swear if he bails, I'm dragging him by the collar."
I frowned slightly. "Who are you talking about?"
There was a beat of silence. Then, Priya turned to me, waving a hand like it was nothing. "Oh, just this guy—Irshad. He's in the club."
Something in my chest stilled.
I blinked. "What?"
"He's our lead male vocalist," Priya supplied. "Well, in theory. He barely shows up."
Ali snorted. "Yeah, it's a miracle if he attends two practices in a row."
I didn't respond right away.
Irshad was in the club?
He had been this whole time?
The realization settled oddly in my chest. I had spent weeks convincing myself that our brief interactions had been nothing. That whatever I thought I had seen in his eyes had never been real. That he had simply lost interest.
But if he had been here all along, then… what had he been avoiding?
The answer hit me before I could stop it.
Me.
I swallowed, forcing a casual tone. "I didn't know… we had another singer."
Ali smirked. "Yeah, and he's annoying about it because he's good."
"Unfortunately," Priya added with a sigh.
Aarav grinned. "Admit it, you just don't like that he sings better than you."
Priya threw a sugar packet at him.
Ali chuckled but turned his gaze back to me. "You okay, newbie?"
I nodded automatically.
But I wasn't sure if I meant it.
***
The first time I saw him at practice, it was like nothing had ever happened.
And that, somehow, was the worst part.
The next day, we were all gathered in the music room, preparing for the fest, when the door swung open. The energy in the room shifted, voices lowering just slightly, as if acknowledging something unspoken.
And then I saw him.
Irshad stepped inside, casual as ever, dressed in his usual dark hoodie and ripped jeans, his sleeves pushed up, revealing the ink that curled around his forearms—dark lines and intricate patterns I had never noticed before. I hadn't realized he had so many. But then again, I suppose I never really knew him at all.
He carried himself the same way—easy, confident—but there was something different in the way he scanned the room. And when his gaze landed on me, something unreadable flickered in his expression.
For a second—just a second—I thought he might say something.
But he didn't.
His eyes flickered past me like I was nothing more than another face in the room, and then he was walking toward the other side, greeting Priya with a lazy nod, throwing some sarcastic remark at Aarav.
Like I wasn't there at all.
And maybe that was for the best.
I focused on my sheet music, pretending my stomach hadn't twisted.
Our first interaction—if it could even be called that—was purely professional. When we were assigned to the same set, I braced myself for awkwardness. But Irshad made it easy to pretend there was nothing there. He kept his distance, speaking only when necessary.
Gone was the boy who went out of his way... Maybe that boy never existed. Maybe he would've done the same for anyone.
Of course, that's what it was. I should have known; after all, I'm not anything special.
I worked with him like I would with anyone else, pretending the ghost of something unspoken hadn't settled between us.
Slowly, I convinced myself that there was never anything.
Why would someone like Irshad have ever been interested in me anyway?
***
I thought it would get easier.
And for the most part, it had.
The music club had become a comfort—something steady, something fun. The people here were loud, messy, and ridiculous in a way that felt effortless. It wasn't long before I stopped feeling like an outsider and let myself just… belong.
Even Ali had stopped calling me newbie every other sentence. (Though, to be fair, he had only replaced it with tea traitor, which was arguably worse.)
I didn't think about Irshad much anymore.
Not in the way I used to.
Sure, I noticed him at practice. It was impossible not to. He had one of those voices that filled the space, made people stop what they were doing just to listen. And when he played guitar, he did it with the kind of ease that came from knowing something so well it felt like an extension of himself.
But I didn't dwell on it.
He was just another club member. Just another person I knew in passing.
And if there was something odd about the way he kept his distance at first, I ignored it. Because eventually, even that seemed to fade.
At first, our conversations were short. Simple things—quick exchanges about setlists, timing, whether or not we'd survive another week of rehearsals without Priya actually throwing her mic stand at someone.
Then, slowly, it became easier.
And that was enough.
The festival rehearsals were grueling.
With the event barely three weeks away, our practices had doubled, stretching late into the evening. Even Ali—who usually treated everything with the casual air of someone who'd rather be anywhere else—was focused, pushing us to sharpen our sets.
It was easy to fall into its rhythm. The late-night coffee runs. The frustration of missed notes. The exhilaration of getting something just right.
And if I noticed that Irshad only showed up when absolutely necessary—when his parts needed work, when his voice was required—I didn't say anything.
Neither did anyone else.
***
It happened on a Thursday evening.
Practice had run over time again, everyone exhausted, the room filled with the scattered sounds of packing up. I was adjusting my bag strap when I heard it.
"Hey, can I talk to you?"
I turned automatically.
Irshad stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking about as casual as always. But something about the way he was standing—just the slightest bit tense, like he wasn't entirely sure about this—felt new.
I blinked. "Yeah, sure."
Ali was still inside, flipping a drumstick between his fingers, but he didn't say anything, just kept his head down like he wasn't listening.
Irshad nodded toward the piano. "You've gotten better."
I hesitated. "Huh?"
His lips twitched slightly. "At playing. You've improved since the first time I heard you."
I wasn't sure why that caught me so off guard.
I mean, of course, he had heard me play. He had been in this club long before I had. But the fact that he had noticed—really noticed—wasn't something I had expected.
"Uh. Thanks," I said, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "You're not so bad yourself."
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, well. I try."
There was a pause.
It wasn't awkward. Not really. Just something… new.
Then, with a nod, he said, "See you at practice, then."
"Yeah," I said. "See you."
And that was it.
It wasn't a big moment. It wasn't loaded with meaning.
It was just… normal.
And for the first time, I didn't think too much about it.