12-09-2025, 05:03 PM
Scene 3 – Priya: The College Beauty
Priya lives just a couple of houses down from mine, on the same street. It’s one of those narrow lanes where everyone knows everyone else, not in a nosy, irritating way, but in that small-town, “we’ve been bumping into each other for years” way. Our families have known each other since childhood. Sometimes, when I’m walking home, I see her mother watering the plants, or my father chatting with her father about electricity bills or the price of vegetables at the market.
So yes, I’ve grown up seeing her around, in a way that makes her both familiar and utterly unattainable.
And she is unattainable.
Priya is… stunning. Effortlessly so. You know how in movies, there’s always that heroine who walks into a room, and suddenly everything changes? The music swells, the camera zooms in, and everyone is struck silent by her presence? That’s Priya. Only it’s not just in slow motion. It’s every day. Every step she takes seems perfectly timed, every glance she shares seems like it’s meant to leave an impression. She’s not the kind of beauty that demands attention; no, she’s the kind that effortlessly commands it without lifting a finger.
Her hair falls in soft, perfect waves, catching the light as if it’s been styled by the hands of angels themselves. It seems to glow in any setting, classrooms, the street, even the dull parking lot. The way it frames her face, curling just slightly at the ends, makes her look like she’s stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Her skin is flawless, like porcelain, glowing even under the harsh fluorescent lights of our classrooms. The kind of skin that makes you wonder if the sun itself has kissed her. And then her eyes… my God, her eyes.
They’re not just eyes. They’re the kind of eyes that hold a universe in them, full of untold stories. One moment, they sparkle with playful mischief, the next, they soften into a thoughtful gaze that makes you want to dive in deeper, to know what she’s thinking. When she looks at you, for a split second, it feels like you’re the only person in the room, like you’re the center of her world.
And her smile? Don’t even get me started. That smile is like a sunrise. It’s the kind that can stop you dead in your tracks, the kind that makes a tired lecturer pause mid-lecture and wonder if he’s lost the plot, the kind that makes you feel warm even on the coldest days. It’s the smile that makes the world around you seem just a little more bearable, just a little more beautiful.
But it’s not just her beauty. Priya is brilliant. And I don’t just mean she gets good grades, she gets it. She absorbs knowledge the way a sponge soaks up water, but with so much grace and effortlessness that you can’t help but feel both amazed and slightly inadequate. The coding problems that make me pull my hair out? She solves them with the kind of ease that makes you wonder if the universe whispered the answers only to her. While I’m over here, panicking in the lab, praying the program doesn’t throw an error for the millionth time, she’s the one breezing through assignments and solving problems before anyone else even notices.
Of course, my dad notices too. All the time.
“Rahul, look at Priya! She’s already finished the assignment. Did you even start yours?”
“Yes, Dad, I’m… uh… learning… in my own style,” I mumble, desperately wishing I could disappear into the desk.
He shakes his head, the dramatic sigh that follows speaking volumes. “Your style won’t get you anywhere. Look at Priya, she plans, she works, she delivers. You should take notes from her!”
Take notes from her? If only it were that simple. I could copy her study habits, follow her routines, mimic her focus… but I can’t copy her. I can’t copy her grace, her effortless charm, the way she makes every room brighter the second she steps into it. I can’t replicate the way she walks into a classroom and suddenly makes it feel like the air is different, lighter, more exciting, like something good is about to happen.
Every time my father mentions her, I feel that mix of admiration and irritation. Envy. I envy her. I envy how easily she navigates through life, how she has everyone’s attention without even trying, how she smiles, talks, laughs, and excels, all at once.
And yet… I like her. Deeply. Maybe foolishly.
I like her laugh, her wit, her gentle teasing, the way she makes even the most ordinary moments feel like something extraordinary. I like how she makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger than my own quiet world, like I’m not just a bystander. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, the way she tucks hair behind her ear absentmindedly, the soft cadence of her voice when she explains something, it’s addicting. Every little gesture of hers feels monumental, and yet, I’m left here, just Rahul, watching, wishing, and trying to convince myself that being the observer is enough.
Being around her is… complicated.
I watch how she interacts with the gang. It’s like watching a film star play their part in the most natural way, everything she does just seems to fit. She laughs at Amit’s terrible jokes with a sparkle in her eyes that makes everyone else laugh too. She teases Kabir for exaggerating his stories, rolls her eyes at Varun’s antics, and somehow keeps Ria and Nisha in check with just a few well-chosen words.
It’s effortless. It’s magnetic. It’s infuriating.
And then there’s the subtle way she affects me. I notice the little things I shouldn’t: the curve of her wrist when she picks up a pen, the faint scent of jasmine she wears that lingers in the air long after she’s gone, the soft hum in her voice when she’s absorbed in something. The way she moves with that confidence, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but gets it anyway, makes my heart race. My brain scrambles for the right words. I envy her brilliance, her beauty, her effortless charm, and I can’t stop liking her. It’s a dangerous combination, like watching the sun from behind a glass window, knowing you can’t touch it.
Despite all this, she treats me like a friend. It’s casual, comfortable, and so completely unaware of the storm she’s creating in my mind. She smiles at me when we meet in the morning, teases me lightly when I struggle with a code snippet, and once even gave me a high-five when I managed to debug a tricky problem. Small gestures, really. But to me, they’re monumental.
Our families joke about it sometimes. My mother teases me endlessly:
“You should pay attention, Rahul. Priya is clever, hardworking, and disciplined. If you don’t learn from her, you’ll never keep up in life.”
I nod and smile, pretending it doesn’t bother me. She’s far ahead of me in almost every way that matters, smarter, prettier, more confident. But still… she’s part of my small world. Part of my street, my neighborhood, my college. Like a glowing heroine, walking through my dull little life, lighting up everything she touches.
Sometimes, I hate her for it. Not really hate… more like… envy mixed with fascination. She makes me feel alive, makes me want to be better, makes me feel inadequate, and hopeful, all at once.
I know she has her crushes, her attention, her little infatuations. And I know I’m not at the top of that list. But still, every time I see her walking down the street near my house, every time she laughs with the gang in class, I can’t help myself. I notice. I admire. I envy. I like her.
And that… is Priya.
Priya lives just a couple of houses down from mine, on the same street. It’s one of those narrow lanes where everyone knows everyone else, not in a nosy, irritating way, but in that small-town, “we’ve been bumping into each other for years” way. Our families have known each other since childhood. Sometimes, when I’m walking home, I see her mother watering the plants, or my father chatting with her father about electricity bills or the price of vegetables at the market.
So yes, I’ve grown up seeing her around, in a way that makes her both familiar and utterly unattainable.
And she is unattainable.
Priya is… stunning. Effortlessly so. You know how in movies, there’s always that heroine who walks into a room, and suddenly everything changes? The music swells, the camera zooms in, and everyone is struck silent by her presence? That’s Priya. Only it’s not just in slow motion. It’s every day. Every step she takes seems perfectly timed, every glance she shares seems like it’s meant to leave an impression. She’s not the kind of beauty that demands attention; no, she’s the kind that effortlessly commands it without lifting a finger.
Her hair falls in soft, perfect waves, catching the light as if it’s been styled by the hands of angels themselves. It seems to glow in any setting, classrooms, the street, even the dull parking lot. The way it frames her face, curling just slightly at the ends, makes her look like she’s stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Her skin is flawless, like porcelain, glowing even under the harsh fluorescent lights of our classrooms. The kind of skin that makes you wonder if the sun itself has kissed her. And then her eyes… my God, her eyes.
They’re not just eyes. They’re the kind of eyes that hold a universe in them, full of untold stories. One moment, they sparkle with playful mischief, the next, they soften into a thoughtful gaze that makes you want to dive in deeper, to know what she’s thinking. When she looks at you, for a split second, it feels like you’re the only person in the room, like you’re the center of her world.
And her smile? Don’t even get me started. That smile is like a sunrise. It’s the kind that can stop you dead in your tracks, the kind that makes a tired lecturer pause mid-lecture and wonder if he’s lost the plot, the kind that makes you feel warm even on the coldest days. It’s the smile that makes the world around you seem just a little more bearable, just a little more beautiful.
But it’s not just her beauty. Priya is brilliant. And I don’t just mean she gets good grades, she gets it. She absorbs knowledge the way a sponge soaks up water, but with so much grace and effortlessness that you can’t help but feel both amazed and slightly inadequate. The coding problems that make me pull my hair out? She solves them with the kind of ease that makes you wonder if the universe whispered the answers only to her. While I’m over here, panicking in the lab, praying the program doesn’t throw an error for the millionth time, she’s the one breezing through assignments and solving problems before anyone else even notices.
Of course, my dad notices too. All the time.
“Rahul, look at Priya! She’s already finished the assignment. Did you even start yours?”
“Yes, Dad, I’m… uh… learning… in my own style,” I mumble, desperately wishing I could disappear into the desk.
He shakes his head, the dramatic sigh that follows speaking volumes. “Your style won’t get you anywhere. Look at Priya, she plans, she works, she delivers. You should take notes from her!”
Take notes from her? If only it were that simple. I could copy her study habits, follow her routines, mimic her focus… but I can’t copy her. I can’t copy her grace, her effortless charm, the way she makes every room brighter the second she steps into it. I can’t replicate the way she walks into a classroom and suddenly makes it feel like the air is different, lighter, more exciting, like something good is about to happen.
Every time my father mentions her, I feel that mix of admiration and irritation. Envy. I envy her. I envy how easily she navigates through life, how she has everyone’s attention without even trying, how she smiles, talks, laughs, and excels, all at once.
And yet… I like her. Deeply. Maybe foolishly.
I like her laugh, her wit, her gentle teasing, the way she makes even the most ordinary moments feel like something extraordinary. I like how she makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger than my own quiet world, like I’m not just a bystander. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, the way she tucks hair behind her ear absentmindedly, the soft cadence of her voice when she explains something, it’s addicting. Every little gesture of hers feels monumental, and yet, I’m left here, just Rahul, watching, wishing, and trying to convince myself that being the observer is enough.
Being around her is… complicated.
I watch how she interacts with the gang. It’s like watching a film star play their part in the most natural way, everything she does just seems to fit. She laughs at Amit’s terrible jokes with a sparkle in her eyes that makes everyone else laugh too. She teases Kabir for exaggerating his stories, rolls her eyes at Varun’s antics, and somehow keeps Ria and Nisha in check with just a few well-chosen words.
It’s effortless. It’s magnetic. It’s infuriating.
And then there’s the subtle way she affects me. I notice the little things I shouldn’t: the curve of her wrist when she picks up a pen, the faint scent of jasmine she wears that lingers in the air long after she’s gone, the soft hum in her voice when she’s absorbed in something. The way she moves with that confidence, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but gets it anyway, makes my heart race. My brain scrambles for the right words. I envy her brilliance, her beauty, her effortless charm, and I can’t stop liking her. It’s a dangerous combination, like watching the sun from behind a glass window, knowing you can’t touch it.
Despite all this, she treats me like a friend. It’s casual, comfortable, and so completely unaware of the storm she’s creating in my mind. She smiles at me when we meet in the morning, teases me lightly when I struggle with a code snippet, and once even gave me a high-five when I managed to debug a tricky problem. Small gestures, really. But to me, they’re monumental.
Our families joke about it sometimes. My mother teases me endlessly:
“You should pay attention, Rahul. Priya is clever, hardworking, and disciplined. If you don’t learn from her, you’ll never keep up in life.”
I nod and smile, pretending it doesn’t bother me. She’s far ahead of me in almost every way that matters, smarter, prettier, more confident. But still… she’s part of my small world. Part of my street, my neighborhood, my college. Like a glowing heroine, walking through my dull little life, lighting up everything she touches.
Sometimes, I hate her for it. Not really hate… more like… envy mixed with fascination. She makes me feel alive, makes me want to be better, makes me feel inadequate, and hopeful, all at once.
I know she has her crushes, her attention, her little infatuations. And I know I’m not at the top of that list. But still, every time I see her walking down the street near my house, every time she laughs with the gang in class, I can’t help myself. I notice. I admire. I envy. I like her.
And that… is Priya.
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