Chapter 1 : The Invisible Boy
Abhimanyu had mastered the art of invisibility. Not the Harry Potter cloak kind of invisibility—he wasn’t that lucky. His was the boring, everyday type: the kind where you could sit in a crowded classroom, laugh at your own joke, and still go completely unheard.
At nineteen, he had perfected the skill of slipping into the background. He wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t the kind of boy who turned heads either. A tall frame, lean build, always in the same faded jeans and a rotating collection of “decent” shirts his mother insisted on buying during sales. His hairstyle was what barbers called “safe.” His expression was what people called “neutral.” His vibe was what the universe called “forgettable.”
“Bro, you’re like that free Wi-Fi in college,” his friend Karan had once told him. “Always there, nobody notices, but when needed, we panic if you’re gone.”
Abhimanyu had laughed. That was the thing—he laughed a lot, but mostly at himself. It was safer that way.
Most days, he sat in the second-to-last row of class. Not the last row (reserved for legends and troublemakers) and not the first (for toppers who took notes like court stenographers). Second-to-last was the sweet spot: invisible enough not to be noticed, close enough to hear everything.
That morning was like any other. The sun baked the college courtyard, chai stalls already buzzing with sleepy students, and the dusty fans in his classroom spinning like they were reluctantly performing forced labor. Abhimanyu sat in his usual corner seat, notebook open, doodling superheroes fighting dragons. His pen was his best friend; at least it never ignored him.
“Why do I even show up?” he muttered to himself. “If attendance wasn’t mandatory, my bed and I would be having a love story more epic than Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol.”
He leaned back, stretched, and sighed. The professor hadn’t come yet. His classmates were busy—some gossiping about the upcoming fest, others cramming last-minute notes, and a few trying to impress each other with bad guitar riffs. Abhimanyu was an audience member in their movie, popcorn optional.
He had dreams, of course. Big ones. But dreams felt too dramatic when you couldn’t even get someone to remember your name after three semesters.
Sometimes, he thought about love. He wasn’t desperate—he told himself that. He just wanted someone who’d look at him like he wasn’t background music. Someone who’d see his jokes as funny, his silences as comforting, and his existence as more than a placeholder seat in class.
But then he’d laugh at himself.You? Love? Bro, you still get nervous ordering pani puri if too many people are watching.
He glanced at the clock. The professor was late. Students were restless. Abhimanyu tapped his pen against his notebook and began sketching a stick figure of himself holding a placard:“Hire me as a background actor.”
Just as he was adding a sad smiley, the classroom door banged open.
The sound made everyone turn.
A girl stood at the entrance—slightly out of breath, dupatta flying like it had just finished shooting for a Bollywood song. She was late.
The professor, who had just arrived a moment earlier, froze mid-step. His eyebrows twitched upward in disapproval.
“Rukmini!” His voice cut through the room. “Late again? How many times should I warn you?”
Abhimanyu had never heard that name before. Rukmini. The unfamiliar sounds hung in the air, and yet they were strangely beautiful.
The girl—Rukmini—pressed her lips together, trying not to grin. She was the kind of girl who didn’t just walk into a room; she entered like the universe had tilted slightly to make space for her. Tall enough to stand out, with hair that refused to stay neatly tied, and eyes that seemed like they carried both rebellion and apology at once.
The professor scanned the room. Every seat was filled—except the one right beside Abhimanyu.
“Sit there,” the professor ordered, pointing. “Next to… uh…” He squinted, trying to recall. “Next to… what’s your name again?”
His soul left his body. Three semesters. Three. And the professor still didn’t know his name.
“Abhimanyu, sir,” he said, voice low.
“Ah yes, Abhinav. Good. She’ll sit there.”
Abhimanyu sighed internally.Close enough.
Rukmini walked down the aisle, her sandals clicking softly, her dupatta brushing against chairs as she passed. And then—just like that—she slid into the seat beside him.
Abhimanyu stiffened. His invisibility cloak had just been snatched away, and the culprit sat inches away, flipping open her notebook as if she hadn’t just detonated his entire routine.
He tried not to look at her. He really did. But his peripheral vision betrayed him. She smelled faintly of jasmine and something citrusy, her handwriting was quick but messy, and she chewed her pen cap when she concentrated.
“Why are you staring?” she whispered suddenly, not even looking at him.
Abhimanyu choked on air. “I—I wasn’t.”
She smirked, finally turning her head slightly, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Relax. I was kidding.”
And just like that, Abhimanyu felt something he hadn’t in a long time—noticed.
