DIYA'S POV
The noodles tasted like ash.
Diya poked at her plate, hyperaware of Maddy sitting just two seats away. She could feel his gaze flickering to her—waiting, maybe, for her to offer him a bite like she used to.
She didn't.
Harsh's words echoed in her mind: "Stop depending on the gestures."
So she kept her chopsticks to herself. Kept her eyes on her food. Kept her heart behind the walls she was learning to build.
It shouldn't have hurt this much.
But when Maddy abruptly stood and left the canteen without a word, the chopsticks trembled in her grip.
MADDY'S POV
He couldn't breathe.
The canteen was too loud, too bright, too full of Diya moving on without him.
Watching her deliberately not share her food—something so small, so theirs—felt like losing her all over again.
He fled outside, the humid air sticking to his skin.
His phone buzzed. Harsh: Where'd you go?
Maddy didn't reply.
Because the truth was too pathetic:
I couldn't watch her stop needing me.
HARSH'S POV
He saw it all—the way Diya's jaw tightened when Maddy left. The way Maddy's hands had clenched into fists under the table. The way neither of them knew how to bridge this gap they'd created.
"Eat up," he said lightly, nudging Diya's plate closer. "Before it gets cold."
She nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on the empty doorway where Maddy had disappeared.
Harsh sighed.
This wasn't protecting her anymore.
This was watching two people drown in shallow water.