What May Brought

Dhruv liked things simple. His world was a quiet one, defined by the sharp lines and precise angles of the buildings he sketched in his notebook. Most of his days were spent either in class or at a small café near the campus—a haven of peace where he could sip his coffee and draw undisturbed.

That peace shattered one afternoon when a whirlwind of curls, laughter, and an overfull coffee cup collided with his table.

“Oh no! I’m so, so sorry!”

Dhruv’s eyes darted to the dark coffee seeping into the pages of his sketchbook. His meticulously drawn façade of a museum was now a smudged mess. He looked up, ready to snap at whoever was responsible, but froze when he saw her.

She was petite, her wild curls bouncing as she frantically dabbed at the ruined pages with a tissue. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes—a striking shade, like the morning sky after a storm—were wide with genuine panic.

“It’s fine,” Dhruv said stiffly, though the clench of his jaw betrayed his frustration.

“It’s not fine,” she replied, her voice earnest. “I’ve completely ruined your work.”

“It’s just a sketch,” he muttered, closing the notebook, though the tightness in his voice gave him away.

She hesitated, her hands twisting the tissue nervously. “It’s clear you put a lot into it. Is there any way I can make this right?”

Dhruv sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. It’s just... frustrating.”

“I really am sorry,” she said again, softer this time. Her gaze lingered on the closed sketchbook. “I can’t draw at all, but I’ve always loved looking at art. What I saw before the spill—it was beautiful. Could I see more, if that’s okay?”

Her sincerity caught him off guard. He almost refused but found himself flipping to another page instead—a detailed drawing of an intricately designed pavilion.

Her eyes widened with admiration. “This is incredible. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” Dhruv said quietly, unsure how to handle the compliment.

“I’m May, by the way,” she said, her smile tentative but warm. “I just got here last week—exchange program from France.”

“Dhruv.”

“Nice to meet you, Dhruv.” She extended her hand, and before he could decide whether or not to take it, she added, “I owe you for the sketchbook. Let me make it up to you. There’s this jazz café nearby—it’s amazing. My treat.”

Dhruv hesitated. “I don’t listen to jazz.”

“Even better,” she said with a playful smile. “You might end up liking it.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving behind a faint whiff of coffee and an inexplicable sense of intrigue.