POV - Samarth

"I never drew her face from memory.

I drew it from what it felt like to lose it."

The scratch of charcoal was the only sound in the studio. Morning light spilled across the long tables of Vishwakarma Design Institute, touching jars of paint, rolled sketches, and the faint dust of forgotten dreams.

Some mornings, the quiet felt complete. Other days, it felt like it was waiting for something.

On my easel, she laughed again, Loud, fearless, beautiful. The darkness of her hair bled into the background, trapping the light itself.

"Samarth sir..."

Rishi's voice cut through the stillness. He carried a coffee in one hand and his usual half-awake grin on his face.

"You're still sketching her?" he said, leaning against a table. "You've been at it since sunrise."

I didn't look up. "Maybe she doesn't want to be finished."

"Or maybe you don't want her to be," he said, smirking. "I know you very well my friend."

I sighed, setting the charcoal down. "What made you visit this early, Rishi?"

He took a long sip of coffee. "Trouble." he said finally. "Arnav Sir tore Neel's design in front of the whole batch."

My hand froze midair, the charcoal smudging the edge of the page. "What?"

I reached for a tissue, wiping the charcoal off my fingers as I started to move. "Where is he?"

"Whoa, whoa," Rishi said, stepping in front of me. "Not again. Let him cool off. You can't keep running after every student, Samarth."

"He's not just any student," I muttered, untying my apron.

"This is a program for working professionals, not school kids," he said, frowning. "They can handle a bad critique."

I half-listened, still thinking about Neel. "You don't know Arnav Sir when he gets angry."

Rishi exhaled through his nose. "Yeah, and you don't know when to stop worrying."

When I didn't reply, his eyes landed on the easel. "By the way..." he grinned  "is she your secret girlfriend or what? Because half the batch is going to be heartbroken if that's true."

I gave him a flat look. "You really woke up early to discuss my secret love life?"

"Hey, I'm just saying," he said, raising his hands. "You draw her like she's real. Don't blame me if people start believing she is."

I shook my head, grabbing my satchel. "You need a new hobby, Rishi."

"And you need a life outside graphite and ghosts."

I ignored him and headed for the door.

"Samarth," he called after me, still laughing, "One day, you'll run out of excuses. Then you'll have to tell me who she is."

I paused at the doorway, looked back once - the frozen laugh, the light lost in her hair - and then turned away. I used to think silence was safer. I hadn't met the noise yet.

______________

By the time I reached the classroom, the place was quieter than usual , the kind of silence that came after a storm. A few students were hunched over their tables, pretending to work.

Neel wasn't one of them. He sat in the corner, staring at his crumpled layout sheet like it had personally failed him.

I pulled out a chair next to him, waited a second, then tapped his shoulder. "He said nothing at all?"

Neel looked up, eyes tired and a little glassy. "Nothing. Just one look and..." he made a ripping motion with his hands. "Gone. Three nights of work."

I glanced at the scraps on his table; clean cuts, no hesitation. Classic Arnav sir.

"What did you design?" I asked.

"Hotel play area," he said quietly. "I thought if I kept it simple this time, he'd finally approve."

I smiled faintly. "You thought wrong. He doesn't care if it's not cluttered. He cares if it's perfect."

"Yeah, but he doesn't even tell what's wrong," Neel said, his voice cracked - part anger, part exhaustion.. "Just tears it apart and walks off. How are we supposed to learn like that?"

I leaned back in the chair. "That's the thing about him, he's not going to tell you what's wrong - You're supposed to figure it out."

I paused for a second. "He teaches discipline.... Not design."

Neel didn't notice my voice trailed off. It wasn't just about design. That was how he was with everything... every mistake, every silence. You are expected to just know.

I looked away before the thought could dig deeper.

"Redo it," I said finally, "We'll go through it after lunch. Don't build just a play area; build a feeling."

He nodded slowly. "You really don't have to help, Samarth. You're just a guest faculty here."

"Yeah," I said, pushing the chair back. "That's probably why I can."

He looked up, smiling faintly. "You treat everyone like we're yours, you know that?"

I shrugged. "Occupational hazard."

Before he could reply, Tanisha appeared, clutching a portfolio and wearing that overly bright smile she thought worked on people. It didn't.

"Samarth," she called. "You got a minute? It's about the evening exhibition. My panel's a disaster."

I gave her a look. "Can we talk after I'm done here?"

"Sure," she said, walking in anyway. "Just don't ghost me again."

I raised an eyebrow. "Did I?"

She shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You helped me fix half my model and then ghosted before I could even say thanks."

"I had a class," I said.

"Yeah, yeah." She leaned against the table, arms crossed. "You always do."

I shook my head. "Focus on your panel, Tanisha."

"Fine," she said, backing out. "But you still owe me ten minutes before the show."

When she was gone, Neel chuckled under his breath. "You've got fans."

"Yeah," I said, glancing at his torn layout. "They'll disappear the minute they see how much work I make them redo."

The tension eased off his face; the smile this time reached his eyes.

"Now get started," I said, heading toward the door. "Lunch's on me if you finish before two."

______________

Arnav Sir's office was nothing like the rest of Vishwakarma. Where the studios breathed chaos, his cabin felt sterile - the kind of space that made you conscious of every breath. Not a thing out of place. Even the clock ticked softly, like it knew better than to interrupt him.

He was already seated when I walked in, a stack of submissions in front of him. Fifty-five,still impossibly composed, posture straight, gaze steady, the kind of man who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. I used to think that was strength. Now, I'm not so sure.

"Sit," he said without looking up. I did.

He flipped through a few sheets, then stopped at one. Neel's redone layout.

"Did you guide him on this?" There it was, the reason I'd been called.

"Just helped him fix the scale," I said. "He reworked it himself."

He nodded once, still staring at the design.

"It's better."

For a moment, I thought he'd stop there.

Then he sighed. "You still design like you're trying to prove something."

His words landed heavier than they should have. Maybe because they weren't just about design.

I felt my jaw tighten. "And you still find something to fix."

"Architecture isn't therapy."

I leaned back, exhaled. "Not everyone learns by getting torn apart."

He finally looked up. "And not everyone survives being comforted."

For a second, neither of us spoke.

He glanced back at the sheet. "You're still mistaking feeling for form."

"And you're still mistaking fear for discipline," I said quietly.

That got his attention. No anger, just that cold, precise calm that always hurt more than shouting.

"You think you understand me," he said.

"No," I said. "I stopped trying."

He straightened a paper on his desk, as if the argument itself was something to realign. "This institute is not a place for indulgence, Samarth. It carries my name."

"I know," I said, rising. "You remind us every day."

He didn't stop me when I turned to leave. He never did.

At the door, I hesitated. not sure if I wanted him to say something or just let me go, like always.

He said nothing.

When I reached the hallway, I glanced back through the glass. He was still at his desk, hand resting on the same file.

Then, slowly, he opened the top drawer and for a second, I saw it.

The sketch.

My sketch.

He looked at it longer than I expected. Maybe it wasn't the drawing he kept. Maybe it was the silence we never knew how to fill.

He'd never admit what he thought of anyone's work. He'd never say it, but I knew he saw something in it; in me.

Someday, I'd stop waiting to hear it and start understanding it. Maybe that's how it begins, not with words, but with someone who finally sees what you've been trying to build all along.

______________

The exhibition came once a year, like a festival people waited for but no one truly enjoyed. The hall buzzed with faculty, students, and guests moving in slow loops around framed sketches and architectural models.

I stood by the far wall, watching people pause in front of my sketch, the one everyone seemed to have an opinion about.

"You really have a thing for irony, don't you?"

I turned, and there he was - Rishi, leaning against the display board like he owned the place.

"Hiding the artist's name," he said, nodding toward the sketch, "but putting the damn thing in the most crowded corner of the hall? Classic you."

"Because I didn't want him to take it down," I said, half under my breath.

"Aha! Rebellion disguised as modesty! Interesting!"

I didn't answer.

People were stopping in front of the sketch now, heads tilted, polite murmurs, a few smiles.

"Beautiful face," someone said.

"Almost perfect," another added.

Each compliment landed wrong.

"Such warmth in her eyes"; "alive, almost breathing."

I wanted to laugh.

I turned away, shaking my head. "Impossible," I muttered.

And that's when I heard her.

A voice - calm, measured, and precise, the kind of tone that didn't seek attention but somehow held it anyway.

"The composition isn't about beauty," she said, her gaze steady on the sketch. "The way her hair falls isn't just shadow, it's... a kind of barrier." She paused, studying it again. "She's laughing, but not out of joy. More like she already knows herself... maybe she's laughing at the irony." Another small pause. "It's not sadness. It's awareness."

A few people turned to look at her.

For a second, I just stood there; caught off guard. Most people threw around words like "depth" or "expression," but this... this was precise. Like she'd peeled back the sketch layer by layer and seen what I hadn't said aloud.

Who is she?

Curiosity wasn't my thing; Yet somehow, she cracked a door I'd sealed years ago.

She stood near the far end of the display, light blue shirt tucked neatly into beige trousers, an ID card still folded in her hand, not around her neck. She didn't look like she belonged here, and yet she seemed to understand more than most who did.

Rishi let out a low whistle beside me. "Well, damn," he muttered. "And here I was thinking it was just your mystery girlfriend sketch."

I shot him a look, but he grinned anyway. "Guess someone finally cracked your code, Picasso."

He sipped his coffee, a smirk tugging at his lips, "Who is she, by the way? Beauty with brains! Because if this is her casual observation, I'd hate to see her in full lecture mode."

I didn't answer him. My eyes had already found her across the crowd, standing a few feet from the sketch, hands loosely folded, eyes still tracing every stroke like she was mapping its logic.

My feet moved before my judgment did.

Rishi followed me and smirked. "You're not seriously... "

"Shut up," I muttered.

She noticed me before I could say anything. Her eyes narrowed slightly, scanning me the way architects study a structure, quietly, with purpose.

"You're the artist, aren't you?" she said.

I blinked. "H..how... how do you know that?"

She tilted her head. "The way you're looking at it. Not evaluating but recalling. That's usually a giveaway."

For a moment, I didn't know what to say. She wasn't guessing. She was sure.

Rishi cleared his throat dramatically, breaking the silence. "I'll leave the art talk to people who actually understand it," he said, clapping my shoulder. "Try not to scare the new audience with your mysterious-artist vibe."

I rolled my eyes. "Get lost."

He was already walking away, whistling.

Across from me, she chuckled, enough to catch me off guard again.

Then she turned back to the sketch, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame.

"Not many people can read between the lines like you do," I said quietly.

"Maybe I just got lucky," she said, the corner of her lips curving faintly.

"Maybe," I replied, though we both knew it wasn't luck.

She shifted her bag and gave a small, almost shy smile.

"You're into design?" I asked.

"Architecture," she said. "Joining Vishwakarma from tomorrow."

That made me look at her differently.

"Really?"

"Yeah," she said. "Came to see what I've signed up for."

I nodded, trying to sound casual, "Well, then, welcome in advance."

She smiled. "Thanks." She extended her hand lightly. "I'm Diya, by the way."

I took it, her grip steady, warm. "Samarth," I said. "Guest faculty here and a freelance architect."

Her eyes widened a little. "Oh, you teach here?" She straightened slightly, like she'd been caught off guard. "Then I should probably call you 'sir,' right?"

I shook my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. "No need. Samarth is fine."

She hesitated, then smiled back. "Alright... Samarth. It's just I've heard so much about this place. Especially about Mr. Arnav. He's one of the reasons I applied."

And there it was.

The worship.

It always comes before the disappointment.

I looked at her for a moment longer than I should have. "Yeah, He tends to have that effect on people."

She caught the shift in my tone; her head tilted, curious rather than nosy.

"You know him well," she said - not a question, almost a quiet conclusion.

Something in my chest tightened.

No one ever said it like that.

Before I could answer, someone called her name from across the hall.

She turned, glanced back once more, and for a second, our eyes met, hers bright with curiosity, maybe a little admiration she hadn't meant to show.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Samarth," she said, her voice lighter this time, almost careful.

And just like that, she was gone.

Still, I watched the doorway longer than necessary.

Some people exit quietly... and still manage to remain, unannounced, in your thoughts.