Chapter 1 introduction
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Anya’s Introduction
(Her Point of View)
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Delhi was her city—noisy, impatient, and full of people who walked too slow and talked too much. But she had carved her own routine in this madness. Every morning, she woke up a little late, skipped breakfast, and rushed to the library like she was being chased.
Her bag always hung on one shoulder, threatening to fall. Her hair was never perfectly tied. And her face—always slightly irritated, like the world had done her wrong again.
But she was focused. Laser-focused.
She wasn’t a topper. Not even close. But she worked hard. Not to beat anyone else—but for herself. To make her parents proud. To prove that she was more than just “average.”
She believed in effort, not fate. In logic, not God. She was an atheist, blunt and unapologetic.
The only thing she believed in?
That one damn seat.
It was hers. Second row from the window. Corner left. Close to the charging point. She reached late every day, yet claimed it with a conviction that scared people off.
Anyone who sat there faced her wrath.
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She didn’t talk to anyone. Didn't have time for fake library friendships. The only person she truly cared about was her best friend—but she lived far and worked in a different city now. So Anya studied alone. Fought alone.
And most days, she liked it that way.
Until one day—someone took her seat.
He was wearing black. Had a tilak on his forehead. Glasses on. Laptop open like he was running a business, not studying.
He didn’t even flinch when she stood there, fuming.
She imagined throwing her pen at him. Or pushing the table. Or whispering, “Get up, this isn’t yours.”
But she did nothing.
She simply sat two tables away.
And swore revenge in silence.
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Ved’s Introduction
(His Point of View)
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Banaras taught him two things—peace and patience.
Ved was the kind of person who found rhythm in routine. He believed in quiet mornings, in starting the day with prayer, and in sitting by his books like they were old friends. He didn’t rush. He didn’t panic. He simply existed—calm, composed, and a little hard to read.
He wasn’t loud, but people remembered him.
Not because he said much, but because when he did—he meant it.
He came to Delhi for his preparation. The city was fast, messy, loud. But he adjusted. He always did. His nature made it easy. He got along with everyone at the library. People liked him. Respected him.
But no one truly knew him.
Except maybe God. And his mother, back home.
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Every morning, he followed the same steps:
Wake up at 6. Do pooja. Freshen up. Eat something simple. Reach the library at 10 a.m. Sit at the same table. Pull out his book. Start the day.
That’s all.
Until one morning—she walked in.
