Harvard was never meant to feel like this—lonely, cold, dipped in quiet stares and louder silences. Back home in Mumbai, life was noise and colors and monsoon sweat, and rickshaw horns that somehow sounded like home. I was the kind of girl who fought for her seat in the local train and her spot in the top 3% of every class. And when the acceptance letter came—with the scholarship, the stamp of Harvard—I thought I was unstoppable. Turns out, excellence doesn’t make you feel less invisible. The kids here? They're bred for this place. Trust fund babies and secret society legacies. And me? Just a girl with coconut oil in her hair and Parle-G in her suitcase. But I survived. Even learned how to shrink myself into silence so they wouldn’t stare too long. And then… there was him. Deven Sharma. Half-Indian, half-American, all arrogance. A walking Calvin Klein ad with cheekbones sharp enough to slash dreams. Rich. Confident. Unbothered. The kind of guy professors loved and girls swarmed like moths to a designer flame. The kind who could say something cruel with a smile and you'd thank him for it. I met him during orientation. We were two brown faces in a sea of pale smiles, and something in me reached out instinctively. Desperately. “I just… it’s weird being us here,” I’d said. He looked at me, head tilted like I was a science experiment, and said— “I don’t really get into all that Indian stuff. I’m not like… you.” Like me. What does that even mean? After that, I made it a point to hate him. Loudly. Visibly. Viscerally. Every time I heard his name whispered in some dorm hallway. Every time he kissed another girl and left before breakfast. Every time he laughed like the world owed him something. It’s been two months. And homesickness clings to me like haldi on a wedding dress. So when my friends—Meher (chaotic good), Isha (chill but always hungry), and Radhika (snark queen)—dragged me to a Navratri celebration two towns over, I said yes. Because they promised garba, good food, and maybe a cute Gujju boy. I didn’t expect to feel like me again. Wearing my deep blue lehenga, blouse stitched just right, dupatta pinned perfectly, and jhumkas swaying with every step—I wasn’t the scholarship girl anymore. I was home again. Even if it was just for a night. And then… I saw him. Deven. In a dark red kurta, sleeves rolled up to the forearms, hair tousled like he just stepped out of an overpriced cologne ad. Laughing with his equally hot, equally annoying friends. And when his eyes landed on me? He froze. Like the music skipped a beat just for him. I looked away. Obviously. But Deven Sharma is not the type to be ignored. He walked over, all smug confidence and sinful charm, stood too close, and said— “Didn’t think you knew how to dress for anything other than an academic funeral.”