Saanvi had always believed that if she kept her head down long enough, life would remain simple.

The college gates were taller than she expected. Iron bars painted a clean black, the emblem of the institution fixed at the centre like a quiet warning. Students moved past her in loose groups — some laughing too loudly, some already looking bored by the first day. She adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped inside.

Her father had called twice that morning.

Her mother had sent three messages, each one ending with the same line: Remain careful.

She had replied to both with the same soft obedience she had practised for years.

The campus smelled of wet grass and new paper. Old trees lined the main path, their shadows long in the early light. Somewhere a group of seniors were already calling out instructions for orientation. Saanvi kept walking, eyes lowered just enough to appear polite, high enough to memorise the way.

She found her name on the second notice board.

Saanvi Sharma – B.A. Literature – Section C

The letters looked too clean. Too permanent.

By afternoon she had met her roommate, collected her timetable, and learned the fastest route between the library and the girls’ hostel. She had also learned that most people here spoke faster than she did, dressed with more ease, and carried a kind of unthinking confidence she had never been taught.

Ritesh messaged her at 4:17 p.m.

How is it?

Did you eat?

Call when free.

She stared at the messages for a moment longer than necessary. Then she typed back:

It’s fine. Orientation is long. I’ll call at night.

She did not tell him that her hands still smelled of the metal railing she had held while climbing the stairs. She did not tell him that a senior professor had looked at her for a second too long while reading the attendance list. She did not tell him that something in the air here felt less protected than home.

Evening settled quietly.

From the hostel window she could see the old administrative block, its windows already lit. A few students still crossed the lawn in pairs. Somewhere music played from a phone, thin and distant. Saanvi rested her forehead against the cool glass and let the day rearrange itself inside her.

She had come here to study.

To remain careful.

To keep the version of herself her family had packed into her suitcase.

But as the last light left the trees, she caught her own reflection in the window — eyes darker than she remembered, mouth closed around words she had not spoken yet.

For the first time that day, she did not look away.

Something in the glass seemed to hold her gaze a moment longer than it should have.

And somewhere beyond the campus walls, the night began to gather the kind of silence that does not remain empty for long.