Aarohi Sharma had a ritual.
Not one she’d say out loud, of course. That would make it sound silly. But it was real — as real as the heavy monsoon sky above her college gates that morning.
She always arrived fifteen minutes early to her Modern Indian Literature class. Always took the back-left corner seat — where the light from the tall window pooled across her notebook just right. She’d rest her cheek against her palm, tune out the low buzz of the class, and let the professor’s words drift into her notebook as thoughts instead of notes.
But today, she was late.
Thanks to a bus breakdown, a missed rickshaw, and her hair deciding to rebel in humid weather, Aarohi burst into the lecture hall five minutes after class had started — slightly out of breath, notebook clutched to her chest.
She scanned the rows automatically.
Back row, left corner — taken.
Her seat.
Taken.
By him.
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He sat there like he owned the place — long legs stretched out, arm draped across the back of the next chair, like the seat had never belonged to anyone else. He had the kind of face that looked like it had heard the word "handsome" a few too many times — sharp jawline, perfectly messy hair, and a lazy confidence in his posture that screamed “entitled.”
Aarohi blinked. Then blinked again.
Was he new?
He wasn’t from her class. She would’ve remembered someone with that level of I’m-too-cool-to-care energy.
She slid into the row, lips pressed together, and approached him.
“Excuse me,” she whispered, leaning in. “You’re in my seat.”
He looked up from his phone — slowly. Amused.
“Didn’t see your name on it.”
Aarohi’s brows twitched. Not a great start to her morning.
“I always sit here,” she said firmly, but still low enough not to disturb the class.
He tilted his head. “And today, you didn’t. So…”
He gestured vaguely at the seat beneath him and smiled like he’d just explained gravity.
She narrowed her eyes. Her fingers itched to slap her notebook down in front of him like a declaration of war.
Instead, she sat one seat away — her seat’s neighbor, the lesser twin. Close enough to glare at him from the corner of her eye. Close enough to plot his demise.
---
The professor’s voice floated in from the front — something about post-independence poetry — but Aarohi wasn’t listening.
She was staring at the back of Seat Thief’s head, mentally composing a list:
1. Tall enough to be annoying.
2. Smug.
3. Probably the kind of guy who calls girls “ma’am” in mock chivalry.
4. Should never sit in her seat again.
Midway through class, she noticed he’d pulled out a debate folder. Bold red label: Kiaan Malhotra — Law Dept.
Of course. A law student. That explained everything — the confidence, the cocky smirk, the fact that he talked like the world owed him a mic and a spotlight.
She scribbled angrily in the margin of her notebook:
> “Next time, arrive early. Win the seat war.”
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As the bell rang and students began packing up, she stood up and turned to him.
“Glad you enjoyed my seat,” she said coolly. “It won’t be free tomorrow.”
He looked up, grinned. “We’ll see.”
---
Outside, the sky finally let go — the rain falling in sheets. Aarohi walked slowly, lips tight, mind racing. The calm of her corner seat had been broken.
And something told her — this wasn’t the last time.
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