In the heart of Assam, where the Brahmaputra gently curved past the city, stood IIT Guwahati, a place where science met serenity, and students sculpted dreams with diligence. Amid the vibrant rush of academic life, the Department of Biomedical Engineering hummed with young minds solving puzzles of the human body and the human soul alike.
It was the first week of August, and the much-awaited Fresher's Night was set to begin. This year, the organizing committee had chosen a glamorous Western theme—suits, gowns, heels, bow ties, and jazz. The open-air amphitheatre near the hostels had been transformed with shimmering fairy lights, a red carpet entrance, elegant chandeliers, and soulful music. Students glided through the venue in flowing gowns and sharp tuxedos, exchanging smiles and admiring the grandeur.
Among the buzz was Ashita Mehra, a second-year biomedical engineering student with a heart full of sunshine and a laugh that could melt walls. She wasn't a fresher, but she had been made the head of the organizing committee this year. Her gown was dark blue, her hair curled softly at the edges, and her eyes sparkled with pride and anticipation as she supervised the last-minute arrangements.
A few days before the event, she'd gathered the courage to message Shivesh Singh, a third-year student from the same department. Known for his sharp mind and quiet nature, Shivesh rarely attended college events, much less dressed up for one. But Ashita's message had been simple and warm:
“Will you be my partner for the fresher’s night and the paper dance? Please say yes. I think we’ll win.”
To her surprise, he replied almost instantly:
“Yes. I’d like that.”
Now, on the evening of the event, Shivesh stood at the amphitheatre entrance in a tailored navy-blue suit, looking every bit like he’d stepped out of a classic novel. He sipped chai quietly, scanning the crowd. But his eyes stopped when he saw Ashita.
As the party reached its peak, and the DJ began the much-awaited slow set for the paper dance, Ashita walked up to Shivesh with a grin. “Ready to hold my hand and step on newspapers like our life depends on it?”
He chuckled softly. “I said yes, didn’t I?”
A simple “yes” leads to something you never saw coming.
They danced, balancing on shrinking squares of paper. Her heels carefully avoided the edge as she whispered, "You're surprisingly good at this." Shivesh smiled faintly, replying, "I had a good partner." The soft music, the fairy lights above them, and the paper below their feet made the moment feel dreamlike—like time had bent just for them. After the dance, while catching their breath near the refreshment counter, Ashita looked at him curiously and asked, “Are you single?”
Shivesh hesitated, gave a small smile, and softly said, “Yes, I’m single.” Two souls, entirely different, yet somehow syncing perfectly. Her laughter softened his quietude, while his presence gave her a strange sense of calm.
Days turned into weeks. Ashita and Shivesh started seeing each other more. It began with coffee after lab sessions, evolved into shared lunches in the canteen, and then long walks along the Brahmaputra bank discussing poetry, the future of neuroprosthetics, and the madness of molecular imaging.
Ashita loved festivals, especially Diwali. She dragged Shivesh into helping her with rangoli decorations for the girls’ hostel. Though he preferred avoiding crowds, he found himself enjoying her chaos. One night, she caught him staring.
"What?" she asked, smirking.
"Nothing. Just… wondering how you light up more than those diyas."
Ashita froze, then turned red. "Poetry? From Shivesh Singh? Should I be concerned?"
He shrugged. "Must be your influence."
Unknown to Ashita, Shivesh had a habit. He wrote letters. He believed some emotions were better penned than spoken. After every moment they shared, he wrote to her. But he never gave her any.
During the annual winter fest, Ashita participated in a street play and invited Shivesh. She looked radiant on stage, her voice powerful, her emotions raw. Shivesh watched, mesmerized. After the play, they stood on the terrace near the academic block, the chill in the air no match for the warmth between them.
"So," she said, holding a cup of hot chai, "you never talk about your family. Why?"
Shivesh sighed. "My mother left when I was ten. Father raised me. He’s… strict. Practical. Not big on emotions. I guess I inherited the silence."
Ashita placed a hand on his. "I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to say everything. Just… let me in."
That night, he handed her a letter.
"What's this?"
"The first of many."
She opened it later that night. It read:
"I don’t know when I started waiting for your voice, your stories, your chaos. But I do. And if I ever find the courage, I’ll ask you something. Until then, let these words speak for me. - Shivesh"
March arrived with exam pressure and internship applications. Shivesh had secured a research internship at a medical imaging startup in Pune. It was a big deal, but he hadn’t told Ashita yet.
She found out through a lab mate.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, hurt.
“I didn’t want to distract you. You’ve been preparing for your research symposium. And… I didn’t know how to say it.”
Ashita’s voice cracked. “You always write things down. Why couldn’t you write this too?”
He handed her a crumpled letter. She read it in silence:
"I’m scared, Ashita. Of leaving. Of losing what we have. Of not knowing if it’ll still be the same when I return. But I also want to make something of myself, for you. For us."
At the railway station, just before boarding his train, Shivesh looked at her.
“I’ll come back.”
Ashita nodded, holding back tears. “I’ll wait.”
And she did. Through months of silence, occasional texts, and the void his absence left behind. She focused on her research, started a poetry blog (where she posted parts of his letters), and even gave a TEDx talk at the IIT campus about "Introverts Who Speak in Silence."
A year passed. One day, the campus buzzed with news: Shivesh was back.
Ashita ran to the old amphitheatre, the place that had once hosted laughter, fairy lights, and a paper dance. And there he was, framed by the same golden lights, looking exactly like the boy who had changed everything—and nothing at all.
He handed her a thick envelope.
"Your final letter," he said.
She opened it, heart pounding, the past rushing back in flashes—the chai breaks, the rangoli laughter, the quiet letters. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded the paper.
"I found the courage, Ashita. Will you be my forever chaos, and let me be your calm? Will you marry me?"
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked at him.
“A simple ‘yes’ leads to something you never saw coming.”
And she said, “Yes.”
They danced again under the stars, just like that first night.
Only this time, forever had already begun.
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