Sparks in the Seminar Hall

By the time I reached the seminar hall next morning, my patience was already wearing thin.

Rehan was there before me, sitting cross-legged on the table, sipping chai from a paper cup like he was auditioning for a “calm under chaos” commercial.

Of course he was early. Just to make me look late.

“Good morning, partner,” he said, emphasising the last word with a grin.

“Please, don’t call me that. Mujhe allergy hai,” I replied, dumping my files on the table.

He smirked. “Toh kya bolu? Dil ki Malika?”

My eyes widened but I decided to ignore him and started arranging the venue maps. “We have to finalise budget, seating, lights, and stage setup by noon. Professor Menon wants the file today.”

“Relax, Sharma ji,” he said, leaning back. “Itna tension kyun leti ho? It’s just a fest.”

“Exactly. It’s our fest. Not a movie set where you improvise and leave everyone confused.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Ouch. Still holding grudges, I see.”

I snapped a ruler on the table. “Stop talking and start working.”

He gave a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

For the next thirty minutes, silence.

Only the sound of my pen scratching and his occasional humming, some annoying tune he knew would get stuck in my head.

I glanced up once. He was bent over his notebook, concentration softening the usual arrogance. The sunlight through the window caught in his hair; for a split second, he looked almost,

I blinked hard. What the hell, Ira.

“Tumhare design mein ye stage centre pe kyun hai?” he asked suddenly.

“Because it aligns with the audience seating,” I replied. “Symmetry, visibility, crowd flow, basic event logic.”

He came closer, pointing at the plan. “But if we shift it thoda left, we can leave space for sponsors’ stalls. Revenue badhega.”

I hated that he was right. “Fine,” I muttered. “But then we need extra lighting on that side.”

“Done.” He scribbled something. “See? Teamwork.”

“Accidental teamwork,” I said.

He laughed. “You should learn to say thank you.”

I looked at him straight. “And you should learn to shut up.”

He chuckled. “Fair trade.”

At noon, we went out for chai near the canteen.

The campus was buzzing—students rehearsing dances, painters decorating walls, seniors shouting orders. It was the kind of chaos I usually thrived in, but today everything felt off-balance.

Rehan ordered without asking. “Do cutting chai, sirf ek me chini aur ek plate bun-maska.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Tumhe kaise pata I drink chai bina chini?”

He smiled. “I remember.”

I frowned. “You shouldn’t.”

He shrugged. “Can’t help it.”

Silence settled for a few seconds. The clatter of cups and the smell of ginger filled the gap.

I tried to focus on my phone, scrolling through the event list.

He was still looking at me.

“Kya dekh rahe ho?” I asked.

“Tumhari aankhein,” he said quickly. “Bas… tum badal gayi ho.”

“Achha? Kaise?”

“Thodi serious ho gayi ho. Pehle har baat pe hasti thi.”

I gave a dry laugh. “Maybe because people stopped being funny.”

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. Instead, he tapped his cup lightly. “You still fight like hell though.”

“Habit,” I said, finishing my chai. “Comes from dealing with people like you.”

He grinned. “Glad I could contribute.”

We walked back toward the auditorium with our folders. The corridor smelled of paint and dust; volunteers were arguing about banner size.

Menon ma’am’s voice carried from inside: “I hope you two are actually cooperating.”

I forced a smile. “Of course, ma’am.”

Rehan added, “Perfect coordination. She orders, I obey.”

Menon rolled her eyes. “Whatever works. Just deliver the plan by evening.”

When she left, I turned to him. “Stop making jokes about me bossing you around.”

“Why? Sach toh hai.”

I stepped closer. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

He leaned in too, his voice low. “No. I just think you get scared when someone challenges you.”

My pulse spiked. “I don’t get scared.”

He smiled faintly. “Prove it.”

For a heartbeat, we stood too close, his eyes daring, my breath uneven.

Then someone shouted from outside, “Bhaiya, ladder kidhar rakhein?”

The spell broke. I stepped back. “We’re done for today.”

“Sure,” he said, but his tone was softer. “See you tomorrow.”

That night, lying on my hostel bed, I tried to read but couldn’t.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him leaning over the blueprint, the way his voice dipped when he said “prove it.”

Idiot, I muttered to myself. He’s just trying to get under your skin. Like always.

But somewhere under the irritation, there was a flicker of something else—something I didn’t want to name yet.

Tomorrow, we’d meet again.

And if there’s one thing I knew about Rehan Malik, it’s that he never played safe.