The first-period bell hadn’t even finished ringing when the classroom door creaked open.

Mrs. Sharma paused mid-sentence, marker hovering over the whiteboard.

Every head turned.

A boy stood at the threshold—tallish, a little over 5’10”, messy black hair falling into his eyes, uniform slightly wrinkled like he’d pulled it out of the laundry basket five minutes ago.

He clutched a transfer slip like it was a life jacket.

“Class, this is Ishaan Verma,” Mrs. Sharma announced. “He’s joined us from Lucknow. Please make him feel welcome.”

A few polite “hi”s floated around.

Anvi Chauhan, perched on the second-last bench by the window, didn’t bother.

She was busy twisting her long black hair into a knot with a pencil, sunglasses pushed up like a headband even though they were indoors.

Typical Anvi behavior.

Ishaan scanned the room nervously.

The only empty seat?

Right behind Anvi.

Great.

He walked down the aisle, trying not to trip over outstretched legs.

When he reached the bench, Anvi didn’t move her bag from the chair.

She just raised an eyebrow.

“Seat’s taken?” he asked quietly.

“By my emotional support bag,” she replied without looking up from her phone. “But I guess it can share.”

Ishaan hesitated, then gently lifted the bag and placed it on the floor.

He slid into the seat.

The moment he sat, Anvi turned halfway.

“You’re in my light,” she said, deadpan.

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“The window light. I need it for my aesthetic. Move left.”

There was barely any space to move left.

He shifted two inches anyway.

Anvi smirked. “Better. Name?”

“Ishaan.”

“I heard. I’m Anvi Chauhan. Unofficial queen of this row. You’ll pay taxes in the form of notes and snacks.”

He let out a small, surprised laugh. “Noted.”

Mrs. Sharma resumed teaching Physics, something about projectile motion. Anvi immediately propped her feet on the bench in front of her (which was empty because no one dared sit there).

Ishaan opened his notebook, pen ready.

Ten minutes in, a crumpled paper ball landed on his desk.

He opened it.

“Do you always take notes like you’re solving the meaning of life or is this a transferee thing?”

He glanced back.

Anvi was pretending to listen to the teacher, chin in hand, but her eyes flicked to him.

He wrote back: “Just trying not to fail on day one. Is that allowed here?”

He tossed it forward.

She caught it without looking.

Smooth.

She scribbled quickly and flicked it back.

“Only if you share. What did Sharma ma’am just say about maximum height?”

He wrote the formula neatly and sent it forward.

She read it, nodded approvingly, then wrote again.

“Not bad, Lucknow. You might survive this class. You owe me Maggi after school for emotional damages.”

He smiled despite himself.

“Emotional damages for what?”

“Having to crane my neck to borrow your notes. My delicate spine, Ishaan. Think of my delicate spine.”

He actually laughed out loud this time.

Mrs. Sharma shot him a look.

“Ishaan Verma, something funny about projectiles?”

“No ma’am, sorry,” he mumbled, face red.

Anvi turned fully now, grinning like a cat who’d stolen cream.

“Welcome to St. Mary’s,” she whispered.

“Population: me.”

The rest of the period passed in flying notes.

Anvi: “Favorite movie?”

Ishaan: “Interstellar.”

Anvi: “Nerd. Approved.”

Anvi: “You play anything?”

Ishaan: “Basketball… a little.”

Anvi: “We have trials tomorrow. You’re trying out. I decide who makes the team.”

Ishaan: “You’re on the team?”

Anvi: “I’m the team manager, scorer, cheerleader, and occasional ball-stealer. Multi-talented.”

When the bell rang, everyone rushed out. Ishaan packed slowly.

Anvi was still there, swinging her bag over one shoulder.

“You coming or do I have to drag you to the canteen?” she asked.

He stood up, surprised. “I—uh—sure.”

She started walking, not waiting to see if he followed. He did.

In the corridor, she suddenly stopped and turned.

“One rule, Verma.”

“What?”

“Don’t fall in love with me. Everyone does. It’s tragic. I’m a heartbreaker.”

He raised both hands. “I’ll try my best to resist your… delicate spine.”

Anvi stared at him for a second—then burst out laughing.

Loud, unapologetic, head-thrown-back laughing that made people turn.

“I like you, transferee,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You’re quiet, but you’ve got bite.”

Ishaan smiled shyly. “Thanks… I think?”

She punched his arm lightly. “Come on.

First you’re buying me cold coffee. Then we’ll see if you’re worth keeping around.”

As they walked toward the canteen, Anvi talking a mile a minute and Ishaan listening with a small, growing smile, neither of them noticed the tiny spark that had just ignited in the last bench of Class 12-C.

It was going to be a very interesting year.