Three years ago

The university campus always looked its best in the rain. Wet stone paths, thick green trees swaying, and the scent of petrichor hanging in the air like perfume. Students rushed for shelter under ledges and stairwells, laughing, running, slipping.

Aashika Pandey, however, stood perfectly still under the massive peepal tree near the library, raindrops sliding over her like secrets. Her white kurti clung to her frame, soaked entirely. She didn't move. She didn't care.

Because he was standing there too.

Riaz Malhotra.

Holding an umbrella but not using it, just watching her through the sheet of rain. For once, he wasn't surrounded by girls. No crowd. No noise. Just him. Her. And the kind of silence that only ever existed between the two of them.

"You're going to catch a cold,"  he said finally, his voice just loud enough to cut through the downpour.

Aashika turned her head toward him. Her hair was soaked, a few strands clinging to her cheek. She didn't answer, but her eyes locked with his like a question left unanswered for years.

He stepped closer. His shoes splashed in the puddles as he walked over to her. He didn't try to shelter her. He didn't tell her to move.

Instead, he pulled off his black hoodie in one smooth motion and placed it over her shoulders. It was warm. It smelled like him—mint, smoke, rain, and something darker she couldn't name.

She looked up at him.

"You'll get wet,"  she murmured.

"I don't care."

Simple. Quiet. Real.

She didn't return the hoodie.

Not then. Not ever.

They had always existed in this gray space. Not friends. Not lovers. But something in between that felt more sacred than either. Riaz had his own. His games. His late-night fights and stories. Aashika had her books. Her music. Her quiet smiles and unspoken longing.

But they always found each other. In corridors. In classrooms. In silence.

One day, he passed her a note during class. Just a question mark drawn in black ink. That was it.

And she—she kept it tucked inside her diary.

He once scared off a senior who tried to flirt with her outside the cafeteria. The guy ended up with a broken wrist. Riaz never spoke about it. Neither did she. But when she sat beside him the next day in the library, closer than usual, he didn't move away.

He liked watching her when she didn't know.

She liked pretending she didn't know he was watching.

Graduation was supposed to be the day.

She had written the words in her head a thousand times:

I love you, Riaz.

He never gave her the chance.

She stood outside the auditorium with a small box—a silver bracelet she saved up for. Something simple. Something real.

But he never came.

Hours later, she learned the truth.

His parents died in a car crash that morning.

He left the city before sunset.

And her box stayed in her room. Unopened. Forgotten.

“Her letter stayed unread. His heart stayed unfinished.” 

Except by her.

Back in the present, Aashika stared at her apartment closet. That same black hoodie hung there, still smelling faintly of him.

She hadn't worn it in months.

But tonight, as the rain returned to Mumbai, she reached for it.

And slipped it over her shoulders.

Because sometimes, ghosts keep you warm.