The Day He Came Back

The first thing that hit me that morning wasn’t sunlight. It was the smell of chai and the sound of slogans.

“Azadi! Azadi!”

The voices outside my hostel window were already echoing through the corridor. Typical DU morning, protests before breakfast. I yawned, tied my hair into a messy bun, and checked my phone.

7:48 a.m.

Great. Another day of student council chaos, deadlines, and chai that tastes like boiled water. I pulled on my kurta and grabbed my tote bag stuffed with campaign pamphlets. As I stepped out, Ritu waved from the next room.

“Arre Ira, you’re actually on time today?”

“Don’t jinx it,” I muttered, slipping into my sandals.

Outside, the air buzzed with noise, autos honking, students arguing about notes, someone strumming a guitar near the canteen. I loved this madness. This campus was messy, loud, imperfect… and mine. By the time I reached the Arts Faculty, the student union volunteers were already setting up banners for the annual cultural fest. I was the Joint Secretary of our union, meaning I did most of the work while everyone else took selfies.

“Guys, the posters for Nazaara 2025 need to go up today,” I said, scanning the piles of chart paper. “If anyone folds them again, I swear—”

Before I could finish, a familiar voice sliced through the air.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Revolution herself.”

I froze.

That voice hadn’t echoed on this campus in two years.

Slowly, I turned.

And there he was, Rehan Malik leaning against a door like he owned the place.

White shirt sleeves rolled up, a faint smirk on his face, sunglasses pushed up in his hair. The same posture, the same irritating calm confidence that used to make me want to throw a chair.

“Rehan,” I said flatly. “You’re back.”

He grinned. “Missed me?”

I blinked. “Like one misses a root canal.”

He laughed softly, that low, infuriating laugh that made nearby volunteers turn to stare.

Of course they did. He was Rehan Malik, the former Union President who’d left mid-term for an internship in Mumbai and, apparently, had returned just in time for elections.

“Relax, Sharma ji,” he said, walking closer. “I’m just here to help with the fest.”

“Help? You don’t even attend meetings without turning them into debates.” He placed his hands in his pockets. “Still allergic to compliments, I see.”

I ignored him and turned back to my volunteers, forcing my heartbeat to steady. “Focus, people. We have a deadline.”

He chuckled behind me. “Still bossing everyone around.”

“I manage, not boss.” He taunted“Same thing.”

I exhaled through my nose, counting silently—one, two, three—the way I always did when I wanted to punch him but couldn’t afford an FIR.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The rest of the morning blurred into instructions and phone calls. Rehan kept hovering, making suggestions no one asked for.

“Maybe shift the stage closer to the fountain,” he said, sipping chai like a consultant.

I snapped, “Maybe mind your own work.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you owned the campus.”

“I don’t. I just care enough to keep it functional.”

He smiled slow, deliberate. “Still the same, Ira. Firebrand, perfectionist, impossible to argue with.”

I wanted to say something clever, but my throat had that familiar tightness—the one that came whenever Rehan was around. Anger mixed with something else I refused to name.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

By noon, the sun had turned ruthless. I found a little shade near the canteen, half-melting into my plastic chair. Ritu plopped down beside me.

“You look like you’re about to murder someone,” she said, biting into a samosa.

“Maybe I am.”

“Let me guess—Rehan Malik?”

I glared. “He’s everywhere, yaar. Suddenly acting like this is his comeback tour.”

Ritu smirked. “Still gets under your skin, huh?”

I stared at the chai stall across the path, where Rehan stood laughing with a few juniors. “He thinks everything’s a joke.”

“And you think everything’s a battle,” she said softly. “That’s why watching you two fight is like live entertainment.”

I gave her a look. “Not funny.”

But she wasn’t wrong. During our first year, Rehan and I had been on opposite panels in every student election. Our debates used to draw crowds. Some even made memes about our arguments, “Ira vs Rehan: The Sequel No One Asked For.”

I’d won last year’s seat by fifteen votes. Fifteen. And then he’d left, just when things were finally calm.

So why was he back now?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

At two p.m., we had a planning meeting in the seminar hall. Everyone sat scattered with laptops and notebooks. I took my seat near the window.

And of course, the empty chair next to me filled with him.

“Taken,” I said.

He smiled. “By me, apparently.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you have minions to sit with?”

He leaned back, tapping his pen. “You’re fun to annoy.”

“Try breathing less near me.”

“Still dramatic.”

The coordinator, Professor Menon, entered before I could retort.

“Alright, people, let’s discuss the schedule for Nazaara 2025,” she said.

As discussions began, Rehan kept interrupting—correcting points, suggesting alternatives. Every word from him felt like sandpaper. When it was my turn to present logistics, he cut in again.

“Actually, I think her budget estimate for decor is unrealistic.”

I snapped my head toward him. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “You’ve added too much for lighting. We can cut costs there.”

I clenched my jaw. “I’ve done this before, Rehan. You can keep your unsolicited advice.”

Menon frowned. “Let’s stay civil, please.”

Rehan leaned forward. “I’m just saying we could use that extra money for performers.”

“Or maybe you could let me finish a sentence,” I said sharply.

Silence fell. Everyone stared.

Menon sighed. “Enough. Both of you will handle the final venue and budget together. Tomorrow morning, 9 a.m., my office.”

My stomach dropped. “Ma’am—”

“No arguments. Consider it a peace assignment.”

Rehan smirked. “Looking forward to our partnership, Madam Secretary.” I glared at him until the meeting ended, but he didn’t look away.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

When I finally stepped out into the courtyard, the sun was setting, painting the sky a burnt orange. Students lounged on the steps, guitars playing somewhere in the background. It should’ve been peaceful. But my mind was a storm. Working with Rehan again was the last thing I wanted.

He walked past just then, holding a folder, and said, “Don’t stress too much, Ira. It’s just work.”

I shot back, “For you, everything’s just something.”

He paused, turning slightly, his expression unreadable now. “And for you, everything’s a fight.” For a moment, neither of us said anything. The noise of campus life faded behind us. I could hear my heartbeat, fast and uneven.

Then he smiled faintly, that infuriating half-smile that made you want to slap and stare at him at the same time.

“See you tomorrow, partner,” he said, walking away.

I watched his silhouette disappear into the glow of streetlights, heat still rising in my chest.

Tomorrow was going to be hell.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*