03-03-2026, 12:53 PM
The air at the Chinesischer Turm beer garden was thick with the scent of roasted chicken, salty pretzels, and the hum of a thousand conversations in a dozen different languages. It was the quintessential Munich orientation experience—long wooden benches, liter-sized Maß glasses, and the golden glow of lanterns hanging from the chestnut trees.
The "Flight Group" had expanded. Now, there were nearly twenty Indian students huddled together, a loud island of Hindi, Telugu, and Malayalam in a sea of German Bavarian culture. Arjun was already three beers deep, loud and charismatic, high-fiving a group of Spanish Erasmus students. Aditi was politely discussing credit points with a guy from Delhi.
And then there was Shreya.
She sat at the edge of the bench, her small frame swallowed by a denim jacket. She felt like an island. The year she’d spent at home in Hyderabad, brooding over her rescinded offer while her peers posted LinkedIn updates, had done a number on her social confidence. Every time she tried to join a conversation about "Machine Learning electives" or "part-time HiWi jobs," her throat felt tight. She felt older than her 23 years, yet somehow smaller.
Across the table, Vicky was the center of gravity. His 6-foot athletic frame made him easy to spot. He was relaxed, leaning back with a half-finished beer, his dark skin looking even richer under the warm amber lights. He was navigating the social waters with the ease of someone who had spent two years in the Bangalore corporate grind.
But he wasn't really listening to Arjun’s jokes. His eyes kept drifting to the end of the bench.
The Discomfort: Shreya was picking at the salt on a giant pretzel, her head down. A German student tried to ask her if the seat next to her was free, and she jumped, stammering a quick "Yes" before retreating back into her shell.
Vicky stood up, excused himself from a conversation about BMW internships, and maneuvered his way around the crowded table.
He didn't sit next to her. He stood behind her, his presence a literal shield against the jostling crowd of the beer garden.
"Too loud?" he asked, leaning down so his voice was a private vibration near her ear.
Shreya looked up, relieved but shy.
"Just... a lot. Everyone seems so ahead of things, Vicky. I feel like I forgot how to talk to people who aren't my parents."
Vicky didn't offer a pep talk. Instead, he reached down and picked up her near-full glass of Radler.
"Come on. Let’s walk. The beer is better when you aren't being elbowed by a drunk tourist."
They slipped away from the group. The moment they stepped onto the dark, gravel paths of the Englischer Garten, the noise of the beer garden faded into a rhythmic pulse.
"You don't have to 'mingle' to belong here," Vicky said, his stride slowing to match her shorter steps.
"Most of them are faking the confidence. You’re just the only one honest enough to look overwhelmed."
"You're not faking it," she countered, looking up at him.
Vicky stopped under the shadow of a massive oak tree. The moonlight caught the sharp line of his jaw and the relaxed, athletic set of his shoulders.
"I'm 24, Shreya. I've seen enough corporate bullshit to know that the loudest person in the room is usually the most scared. I’m not scared. Especially not here."
He looked down at her—really looked at her. In the shadows, her dusky skin looked like velvet. Her curves, soft and feminine, were a sharp contrast to his hard, lean edges.
"You have a habit of hiding," he whispered, stepping closer. The space between them vanished. He could smell the floral scent of her hair mixed with the crisp night air.
"I'm not hiding," she breathed, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.
"Yes, you are." He reached out, his large hand gently cupping her face. His thumb traced the line of her lower lip, a bold, sensual gesture that shattered the 'friendly' vibe of the night. "But I see you."
Shreya didn't pull away. She leaned into his palm, her eyes fluttering shut. For the first time since landing in Germany, the cold didn't bother her.
The "Flight Group" had expanded. Now, there were nearly twenty Indian students huddled together, a loud island of Hindi, Telugu, and Malayalam in a sea of German Bavarian culture. Arjun was already three beers deep, loud and charismatic, high-fiving a group of Spanish Erasmus students. Aditi was politely discussing credit points with a guy from Delhi.
And then there was Shreya.
She sat at the edge of the bench, her small frame swallowed by a denim jacket. She felt like an island. The year she’d spent at home in Hyderabad, brooding over her rescinded offer while her peers posted LinkedIn updates, had done a number on her social confidence. Every time she tried to join a conversation about "Machine Learning electives" or "part-time HiWi jobs," her throat felt tight. She felt older than her 23 years, yet somehow smaller.
Across the table, Vicky was the center of gravity. His 6-foot athletic frame made him easy to spot. He was relaxed, leaning back with a half-finished beer, his dark skin looking even richer under the warm amber lights. He was navigating the social waters with the ease of someone who had spent two years in the Bangalore corporate grind.
But he wasn't really listening to Arjun’s jokes. His eyes kept drifting to the end of the bench.
The Discomfort: Shreya was picking at the salt on a giant pretzel, her head down. A German student tried to ask her if the seat next to her was free, and she jumped, stammering a quick "Yes" before retreating back into her shell.
Vicky stood up, excused himself from a conversation about BMW internships, and maneuvered his way around the crowded table.
He didn't sit next to her. He stood behind her, his presence a literal shield against the jostling crowd of the beer garden.
"Too loud?" he asked, leaning down so his voice was a private vibration near her ear.
Shreya looked up, relieved but shy.
"Just... a lot. Everyone seems so ahead of things, Vicky. I feel like I forgot how to talk to people who aren't my parents."
Vicky didn't offer a pep talk. Instead, he reached down and picked up her near-full glass of Radler.
"Come on. Let’s walk. The beer is better when you aren't being elbowed by a drunk tourist."
They slipped away from the group. The moment they stepped onto the dark, gravel paths of the Englischer Garten, the noise of the beer garden faded into a rhythmic pulse.
"You don't have to 'mingle' to belong here," Vicky said, his stride slowing to match her shorter steps.
"Most of them are faking the confidence. You’re just the only one honest enough to look overwhelmed."
"You're not faking it," she countered, looking up at him.
Vicky stopped under the shadow of a massive oak tree. The moonlight caught the sharp line of his jaw and the relaxed, athletic set of his shoulders.
"I'm 24, Shreya. I've seen enough corporate bullshit to know that the loudest person in the room is usually the most scared. I’m not scared. Especially not here."
He looked down at her—really looked at her. In the shadows, her dusky skin looked like velvet. Her curves, soft and feminine, were a sharp contrast to his hard, lean edges.
"You have a habit of hiding," he whispered, stepping closer. The space between them vanished. He could smell the floral scent of her hair mixed with the crisp night air.
"I'm not hiding," she breathed, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.
"Yes, you are." He reached out, his large hand gently cupping her face. His thumb traced the line of her lower lip, a bold, sensual gesture that shattered the 'friendly' vibe of the night. "But I see you."
Shreya didn't pull away. She leaned into his palm, her eyes fluttering shut. For the first time since landing in Germany, the cold didn't bother her.
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