5: Something Real

The next two weeks passed like a mixtape — fast in places, slow in others, always just slightly out of sync.

Mornings began with pain. Reluctant, groggy pain.

Every sunrise started the same: the brutal chirp of Jorge’s $7 alarm clock (which sounded suspiciously like a dying goat), followed by the heavy groan of bodies that had not yet forgiven them for their newfound commitment to fitness. Bharath and Jorge, still bleary-eyed and half-zipped into their windcheaters, would grab their gym bags like they were being sent to war. There was no conversation on the way to the SAC gym — just a shared silence made sacred by mutual suffering.

Their mornings were powered by equal parts protein bars, campus tap water, and shame. The shame came mostly from the mirror-lined gym walls — reminders that other gym goers were somehow already ripped like demigods who’d stepped straight out of Gladiator. Jorge whispered conspiratorially one morning, “I think that dude’s lats have abs.”

Bharath nodded solemnly. “He flexed and I felt spiritually attacked.”

But they kept going.

Each rep, each creaky shoulder press, each wobbly plank, each silently judgmental assisted pull-up — it wasn’t just about getting stronger. It was about routine. About proving, if only to themselves, that they could commit. That they could show up.

Even when Jorge nearly face-planted during burpees. Even when Bharath accidentally did bicep curls on a leg machine. Even when they both reached for the last clean towel and almost reenacted a scene from a kung fu movie in slow motion.

They sweat. They cursed. They limped.

But they showed up.

Tyrel never joined. “My workout,” he declared proudly from the comfort of his throne (the dorm couch), “is walking from the fridge to the couch, bicep curling two cans of Coke, and dodging responsibility.” He had a different kind of discipline — a spiritual commitment to leisure. But like clockwork, when Bharath and Jorge returned, sweaty and broken, Tyrel would be there, arms outstretched like a preacher welcoming lost souls.

“Ayyy, the nerd squad returns! You boys out there gettin’ biceps or just protein farts?”

“Little bit of both,” Jorge wheezed, flopping onto his bed like he’d been shot.

“Smells like someone’s internal organs are rebelling,” Tyrel added, dramatically waving a pillow.

They’d laugh. Not because anything was funny — but because laughing hurt less than crying.

By midweek, Bharath could lift his arms without assistance, Jorge could squat without invoking divine mercy, and the assisted pull-up machine had begrudgingly removed another plate.

It was slow. It was painful. It was absurd.

But they were doing it.

Together.

And in the shared ache of early mornings and sore evenings, something was forming — not just muscle, but momentum.

A rhythm.

A kind of ugly, sweaty, incredibly human magic.

Classes followed.

CS lectures. Discrete Math. Industrial Engineering. Calculus. Physics. Most students struggled to keep up. Bharath didn’t.

It wasn’t just that he understood the material — he absorbed it. Patterns made sense to him. Systems clicked into place like puzzle pieces he could already see forming. He asked sharp, specific questions. He finished labs early but never made a big deal out of it. When the professor gave the class a problem to solve, Bharath would tilt his head slightly, frown in thought, and then quietly raise his hand when everyone else was still rereading the first sentence.

But what truly set him apart was the way he shared that brilliance.

He didn’t show off. He didn’t preen. He never acted like he was smarter than the rest — even though, clearly, he was. If anything, he seemed almost shy about it. Like intelligence was something he was lucky to have, not something he wore as armor.

He explained things gently. Kindly. He’d whisper sideways instructions to struggling classmates. Offer analogies about tacos and cricket and vending machines. He made people laugh and learn at the same time. And he never made them feel small.

Marisol noticed. She noticed everything.

Every day those two weeks, she had sat beside him — not just because it was convenient, or because they were study partners now, or because it had become routine. But because something about being next to Bharath felt ... right.

Safe, yes. But also weirdly exciting.

It was hard to put into words. There was a rhythm between them now — jokes tossed back and forth without thinking, the way their legs bumped sometimes under the table and neither of them flinched away, the way she’d glance at him just to see if he was smiling at the same ridiculous part of the professor’s lecture that made her laugh.

She couldn’t explain why she felt so at ease. Or why she sometimes found herself watching him when she wasn’t supposed to — the way he frowned when he was deep in thought, or how his fingers tapped lightly against his notebook when he was trying to visualize a concept.

She couldn’t explain why his silence didn’t make her nervous.

She couldn’t explain why his awkwardness was kind of ... adorable.

And then there was the gym.

Bharath wasn’t out of shape. But he wasn’t ripped either. There were guys on campus who walked around like they were auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad — arms the size of Marisol’s thighs and confidence that bordered on arrogance. She had dated boys like that in high school. Pretty, performative boys who looked good in pictures and were absolutely exhausting to be around.

Bharath wasn’t like that.

He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. But every morning, without fail, he went to the gym with Jorge. Quiet. Focused. Determined.

When she teased him once — “Trying to get swole for someone special?” — he would flush, duck his head, and mutter, “Just trying to be better.”

And that? That stayed with her.

Because she realized: he wasn’t doing it to impress anyone. He was doing it because he believed in showing up. Because effort mattered to him. Because discipline meant something. Because he was always trying — not to prove, but to grow.

For someone like Marisol, who had grown up craving consistency, that kind of stability was unexpectedly sexy.

And he didn’t even know it.

She found herself looking forward to every class — not for the lectures, but for him. For the half-whispered jokes. For the way he sometimes passed her notes that were part explanation, part cartoon of a stick figure screaming “Recursion is pain!” For the way he always pulled out her chair without making a show of it. For the way he listened when she talked, really listened, like her thoughts mattered more than the grade they were chasing.

She’d learned more in two weeks beside Bharath than she had during her entire senior year. And not just about programming or calculus. About confidence. Patience. Quiet resilience.

And he never made her feel like she owed him for it.

He didn’t hold it over her head. Didn’t lord his intelligence. If anything, he acted like she was the one doing him a favor just by showing up.

He made it feel like her success was her own — even when he was the one guiding her to it.

That was new.

And it was dangerous.

Because she knew what desire felt like. She’d felt it for boys who were smooth-talking liars. She’d felt it in stolen kisses and late-night texts. She’d felt it and regretted it.

But this?

This wasn’t a fire. This was a spark that had patience.

This was something that made her stomach flutter when he rubbed his chin while explaining matrix multiplication or stare at her with pride as she solved something based on what he just taught her.

This was something that made her want to reach across the table and fix the fold in his collar or made her forget to refresh her lip gloss because he wasn’t looking at her lips — he was looking at her notes, trying to help her understand.

It wasn’t sexual. Not yet. But it was absolutely desire.

She could see the way he looked at her — sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t watching. That tiny pause. That flicker of admiration in his eyes. The way his voice dipped lower, more careful, when she leaned in close. He desired her. It was obvious.

And yet ... he never took liberties.

Never tried to touch her unnecessarily. Never flirted too hard. Never even hinted that he thought their closeness meant anything more than friendship.

He still acted like he didn’t believe a girl like her could ever want someone like him.

That made something tighten in her chest. Because he didn’t know.

He didn’t know that sometimes she walked a little slower between classes so their shoulders would brush. That sometimes she said something dumb just to hear him laugh. That when he explained a hard problem, she’d stop taking notes just to admire the focus on his face.

He didn’t know that she was starting to replay their conversations at night. Didn’t know that she’d started wearing her hair differently — higher ponytails, just because she liked the way he glanced at the curve of her neck when she leaned over her notes.

He didn’t know that sometimes, just sometimes, she imagined what it would be like if he did reach out. Not because he thought he could — but because he finally realized he was wanted.

She wanted him to know. But she didn’t want to break it.

Not yet.

Not when it was still forming — this fragile thing between them that wasn’t quite a friendship and wasn’t quite a crush but was somehow more real than either.

So she waited.

Teased him. Encouraged him. Laughed louder. Sat closer.

And hoped that someday soon, he’d see it.

He’d see her.

Not as someone friendly. Not as someone generous with her time.

But as someone who, in the space of one exhausting, magical, caffeinated, problem-set-filled week — was slowly starting to fall for him.

Not hard.

Not fast.

But honestly.

And for a girl like Marisol, who had always been told to guard her heart?

That was the most dangerous fall of all.

Marisol sat cross-legged on her bed, fresh out of a hot shower, her damp hair pulled into a lazy bun, donning her favorite tank top and shorts. Her laptop glowed beside her, playing a muted rerun of FRIENDS, but her attention wasn’t on the screen. It hadn’t been for the past twenty minutes.

Across the room, Mia lay sprawled on the floor on a faux fur rug, her glossy teen magazine tossed aside, her chin propped up in her hand. “So...” she said, smirking. “Are we just gonna pretend you’re not obsessing?”

“I’m not obsessing,” Marisol said, too quickly.

Mia raised a perfectly shaped brow. “Girl, you said the word ‘gym’ three times in two minutes. That’s a new record.”

Marisol groaned and flopped backward onto her pillow. “It’s not even about the gym.”

“So it’s about him.”

A beat. Then, softer, “Maybe.”

Mia sat up. “Okay. Spill. Who is this mystery nerd turning you into a soap opera?”

Marisol smiled despite herself. “His name’s Bharath. He’s from India. CS major. Smart as hell. But not, like, obnoxious-smart.”

“Okay,” Mia said, intrigued. “Go on.”

“He’s just ... different, Mia. He’s kind. Like, genuinely kind. And focused. You should see him in class — he doesn’t just know the material, he gets it. And then he helps the rest of us without making it feel like he’s helping. It’s like ... he makes you feel smart even when you’re completely lost.”

Mia narrowed her eyes playfully. “That’s hot. In a weirdly tutor-y way.”

“It is!” Marisol sat up now, animated. “And it’s not just the brain stuff. Like, he’s been going to the gym every morning with Jorge. He’s not even out of shape — he just wants to improve. Quietly. Without announcing it to the world.”

Mia grinned. “So you’re into gym rats now?”

“No! I mean—he’s not even trying to get jacked to impress anyone. He just ... shows up. Every day. No fuss. And it’s kinda—” She hesitated, cheeks pink. “Sexy.”

Mia burst out laughing. “Oh my god. My sister’s got it bad.”

Marisol rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. “It’s not just that. He listens. Like, really listens. He doesn’t treat me like I owe him anything for being around me. And trust me — I’ve seen that look before. That transactional look. But Bharath? He doesn’t expect anything. Even when it’s obvious he ... you know.”

Mia nodded, catching on. “He wants you.”

“Yeah. I can see it in his eyes sometimes,” Marisol said, quieter now. “But he never crosses a line. Never assumes.”

“That’s rare.”

“Right?” Marisol’s voice was hushed now, almost reverent. “It’s like ... he respects the space between us. Even though we’re always together — in class, at lunch, study sessions — he still thinks I’m just being friendly. Like he’s convinced someone like me wouldn’t really be interested in someone like him.”

Mia tilted her head. “And are you?”

Marisol looked down at her hands. “That’s the thing. I don’t know how to explain it. He’s not the guy I thought I’d be drawn to. He’s quiet. He’s awkward. He tucks in his T-shirts sometimes. He actually does homework before it’s due. But...”

“But?”

“But when I’m with him, I feel ... steady. Seen. I feel like I don’t have to perform. Like I can just be.”

Mia was silent for a long moment. Then: “You know what that sounds like?”

“What?”

“Someone who makes you feel safe and curious. And that’s a dangerous combo.”

Marisol laughed. “That’s terrifying.”

“Also,” Mia added slyly, “I’ve never seen you smile this much while talking about anyone. Not even when you had that weird Freddie Prince Jr. phase.”

“That was not a phase. And you were also obsessed.”

“True,” Mia admitted. “But you didn’t giggle like this.”

“I’m not giggling.”

“You are totally giggling.”

Marisol threw a pillow at her, but her face was warm, her heart even warmer. She flopped back onto her bed again, staring at the ceiling now.

After a while, Mia said softly, “You think he’s the real deal?”

“I think...” Marisol hesitated, then whispered, “I think I want to find out.”

Elsewhere on campus ... Ayesha Patel was winning.

By every visible or intangible metric used to measure popularity, she was thriving.

By Friday afternoon, her name had already become shorthand for untouchable beauty and smooth social dominance — not just among the Desi crowd, but across the campus green. Freshmen whispered about her. Upperclassmen noticed her. Even professors seemed to pause a second longer when she raised her hand — which she did just often enough to show she was sharp, but never enough to seem try-hard.

Gorgeous. Stylish. Effortlessly social. She walked through Georgia Tech like the sidewalks had been laid just for her.

There was always someone beside her — usually the beautiful and elegant Zara, snapping gum and spouting the latest gossip like an over caffeinated news anchor. But the rest of her orbit rotated constantly. A tall engineering sophomore from UGA who drove a BMW. A smirking poli-sci major with a slick haircut and suspiciously manicured eyebrows. A film studies TA who quoted Fight Club like it was scripture.

Ayesha flitted from group to group with the ease of someone who had never learned to second-guess her welcome.

ISA meetings. Psychology club socials. Campus mixers. Thursday night bonfires. Friday evening football games. Her face was in every polaroid, her laughter in every dorm’s retelling of “who was at that party.” She had become a feature of Tech — like the library steps or the greasy smell of Chick-fil-A.

And yet...

Sometimes — just sometimes — when the quad buzzed with energy, and the breeze tossed her hair just right, and her friends circled her like moths to flame ... her eyes would flicker.

Not at the cameras. Not at the compliments.

At him. Bharath.

She never spoke to him again. Not since that morning in Calculus, when she’d laughed too loudly, said things she didn’t quite mean, and watched Marisol throw down that casual little dagger of a comment in response.

He hadn’t looked back since.

And that — more than anything — lodged in her ribs like a splinter.

She watched him from afar sometimes. Pretended not to. But she did.

Watched the way he leaned over to help classmates — not to show off, not to gain anything — just to help. Watched how people slowly began sitting nearer to him in lecture halls, like he was becoming magnetic without trying. Watched how he walked with Marisol beside him, books in one hand, coffee in the other, laughing like he was home.

Marisol.

God, that girl.

Too pretty. Too sure of herself. And yet somehow real. There was a rawness to her Ayesha couldn’t fake — couldn’t even mimic. The way she brushed off the stares. The way she smiled without effort. The way she never needed to own a room because she was the room.

And Bharath looked at her like she was sunlight.

Ayesha remembered when he used to look at her like that.

It had only been a few minutes — that cab ride from the airport, that polite conversation about flights and majors and what they were most nervous about — but she’d seen it. That spark of admiration. That hope. That possibility.

And maybe ... she’d liked it more than she realized at the time.

Zara had teased her once, not long after the Calculus lecture. They’d been lounging on the grass near the fountain, picking at fruit salad and watching some frat boys play frisbee shirtless.

“You sure he’s not your type?” Zara asked, chewing on a grape.

Ayesha laughed. Light. Breezy. “Please. I’ve moved way past that cab ride.”

But even then, the way her eyes darted toward the CS building — just for a second — told a different story.

Because the truth was: She wasn’t sure anymore.

He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t own a car or a leather jacket or even good shoes.

But he had something else.

Something she hadn’t noticed at first — or hadn’t valued.

A quiet gravity. A kindness that didn’t seek attention. A focus that wasn’t performative. And something about the way he looked at Marisol — and didn’t look at her — made her chest feel tight in a way she couldn’t explain.

It wasn’t just jealousy. Not exactly.

It was ... confusion.

Why wasn’t he trying to win her over again?

Everyone else did. Guys always circled back. Always tried one more time. Always acted like her disinterest was a challenge to overcome.

But Bharath?

He’d vanished. Not literally — she saw him all the time. But emotionally? Socially?

He had disappeared from her attention like smoke.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even seem angry. Or hurt. Or bitter.

He was just ... living.

Without her.

Ayesha twirled her water bottle between her fingers, sitting alone on the stone bench near the library steps. Zara had run off to meet someone. The buzz of campus life swirled around her — laughter, footsteps, the occasional honk from the street — but none of it touched her.

Because across the green, just outside the dining hall, Marisol was laughing.

And Bharath was standing next to her, holding a book like he always did, nodding, listening, smiling like he belonged.

And Ayesha — the girl who had everything — suddenly felt like she had missed something important.

Something that wasn’t interested in coming back.

Not even for a second look.

And that?

That stung.

She capped her water bottle too tightly, stood, and walked off with perfect posture and a face set to “unbothered.”

But inside?

Something small — something real — had cracked.

And she didn’t know how to fix it.

Back in Room 202, the weeks ended like it began — with junk food, banter, and LAN games.

Age of Empires now had a standing Thursday night spot. Ravi had finally figured out how to make siege engines. Jorge kept naming his villagers after Mexican and Colombian telenovela characters. Tyrel refused to build walls. Bharath dominated every match like a quiet god.

Between matches, they studied. Talked. Dreamed out loud.

And slowly, Georgia Tech began to feel like home for Bharath and his friends.

Saturday morning came quietly.

No alarms. No lectures. No trains and buses to catch.

It was the first morning all week that didn’t demand anything from her. And yet, Marisol Rivera had never felt more restless.

She lay sprawled on her bed in a tank top and pajama shorts, one foot flat on the wall, flipping her pencil between her fingers like a bored magician. Her calculus notebook lay open beside her, but the formulas blurred together like they’d made a pact to sabotage her concentration.

And she knew why.

Her brain was full of someone else’s voice.

“Imagine slope like acceleration,” Bharath had said, tilting his head that way he always did when he was explaining something. “It’s not just rise over run. It’s how fast you’re changing. Like a car.”

It was absurd how that had stuck with her.

Not the math. Not the concept.

His voice. His face. His dumb analogies that somehow made everything click.

Marisol groaned, flipped over onto her stomach, and buried her face in the pillow.

God, what was wrong with her?

She wasn’t fifteen. She didn’t get crushes anymore. She didn’t stare at her notes like they were a portal to someone else’s eyes. She didn’t miss someone this way — like a dull ache in her chest that she couldn’t stretch out.

Most of the boys she’d dated in high school had been ... well, exhausting. Charming in short bursts, attention-starved in long ones. They always wanted something. Always acted like she owed them for simply existing in their orbit.

Bharath wasn’t like that.

He didn’t orbit her. He didn’t even seem aware there was an orbit to begin with.

And weirdly? That was part of the problem.

Because he didn’t expect anything from her.

And that made her want to give him everything.

There was something deeply unfair about how comfortable he made her feel. Like he carried this aura of quiet care without knowing he did. Like he was an old soul who still double-checked his zippers and apologized for laughing too loud in class.

And maybe that was what made her want to scream into her pillow the most — that he didn’t even know how desirable he was.

He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t jacked (ok he was pretty decent). He didn’t have tattoos or a fake accent or a perfectly curated playlist. But he was ... grounded. Disarmingly stable. Even that ridiculous gym routine he kept with Jorge — getting up every morning, deadlifting like he had something to prove to the gods — it wasn’t for show. It was for himself.

That kind of focus? That kind of self-discipline?

Sexy

Marisol had never said that word about a guy who voluntarily skipped sugar and read Java manuals for fun. But there it was. Sexy.

And it wasn’t just about the way he looked. Though ... the way his forearms flexed when he adjusted his backpack was doing things to her equilibrium.

No, it was the way he talked to people. The way he lifted everyone around him.

She’d seen him do it with Ravi — gently steering him through matrix problems like it was no big deal. She’d seen him let Jorge rant about math and then solve the whole set and still act like Jorge had done it himself.

And with her?

He never made her feel stupid. Not once.

Even when she asked the same question twice. Even when she doodled instead of solved. Even when she blanked out in the middle of a logical operator explanation and just stared at his mouth for longer than was reasonable.

He never smirked. Never condescended. Never used her confusion to feel smart.

He just helped.

And when she got something right?

He lit up like it was her win.

That did something to her. Deep in her chest. Like being seen — really seen — for the first time by someone who wasn’t trying to own the moment, but share it.

Marisol rolled onto her side and stared at the landline phone on her nightstand.

Pick it up. Put it down. Pick up again.

What if he was free?

What if he wasn’t?

Did she care?

She tried to convince herself this was about the problem set. About the fact that she still didn’t understand that nested loop question and that she needed to go over it before Monday.

But the truth? She just missed him.

Not in the way people said they missed a friend.

She missed his voice. His stupid examples. The way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck when he got sweaty. The way he never made a big deal about holding the door, but always did it anyway.

She missed the way her pulse sped up when he said her name.

God, she was in trouble.

Marisol stood, stretched, and tugged on her jeans — the comfy ones, not the ones she wore when she was trying. But halfway through brushing her hair, she stopped.

No.

She grabbed her fitted hoodie instead. The one he’d seen her in on Tuesday and had kind of blinked twice when she’d pulled it off mid-lecture.

No makeup.

Just earrings.

Effortless, but not invisible.

She was not going to call. That would be too obvious. She needed a reason to show up.

And then it hit her: the problem set.

Technically, they hadn’t finished the last question as a group.

Perfect.

By the time Mia stumbled in the front door, groaning about parking lot turns and parallel torture, Marisol was already halfway down the driveway, backpack slung low, heart pounding for no logical reason.

Bharath lay flat on his stomach on the carpet of Room 202, his chin resting on a pillow, a half-eaten bag of trail mix wedged under his arm like a teddy bear. He’d meant to work. Really. The Discrete Math worksheet was open in front of him, half-scribbled with logic trees and half-buried under a GamePro magazine someone had tossed across the room.

But his brain had revolted.

His arms ached from the morning gym session — Jorge had decided they were now “men of steel,” which apparently meant torturing their shoulders until they couldn’t lift spoons. And even though Bharath had finally managed one unassisted pull-up, the high from that was long gone, replaced by the low buzz of exhaustion and something else he couldn’t quite name.

So instead, they were watching reruns of Xena: Warrior Princess on the grainy dorm TV.

The colors were oversaturated, the action pure melodrama, and the audio slightly out of sync. It was glorious.

Jorge sat cross-legged on his bunk with a mixing bowl full of dry Froot Loops. Ravi had colonized Tyrel’s beanbag and was loudly pretending not to enjoy the show. Tyrel himself — in his self-declared role as “cultural ambassador of cool” — stood behind them with his hands on his hips, narrating like it was Game 7 of the NBA Finals.

“See that move? +10 dexterity. You know Xena got that main character plot armor.”

“She could kill you with her thighs,” Jorge said reverently.

“Death by thighs,” Ravi agreed. “An honorable death.”

Bharath chuckled, but his heart wasn’t in it.

His gaze flicked to the screen, then drifted — as it had all day — back to her.

Marisol.

It was stupid. He’d seen her just yesterday. They’d walked together from Industrial Engineering, talked about whether vending machines should be considered intelligent systems, laughed about that freshman who fell asleep mid-lecture and face planted into his calculator. He pretended that he hadn’t noticed that he had almost walked her all the way to the MARTA station just so that he could spend a little more time with her. She had just given him a smile. Probably didn’t want to create a scene.

But today?

Nothing.

No chit chat. No staring at her in secret admiring her beauty. Her graceful neck, her perfect face, her gorgeous smile. No shared classes and hallway marches to the next class. No shared lunches. No Marisol.

He hadn’t realized how much her presence had stitched itself into his daily rhythm — until it was missing.

Now, his mind was on a loop: her pen tapping against her notebook when she was thinking. The way she chewed her lip while reading questions. How her eyes sparkled when she laughed at one of his jokes — even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones.

He missed her.

More than it made sense for a two-week-old friendship.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know what he was to her. A study partner? A funny distraction? Some exotic brown boy with good notes?