On her first day, Siddharth wheeled Gatha into the college building. The corridors were alive with voices, footsteps, and the buzz of students finding their classes. He carefully placed her near the second row in the first-year classroom—close enough to follow the lecture, not too far from the board—before heading to his own class.

A professor walked in carrying his notes, adjusting his glasses as he began. He introduced the method he would use for teaching, explaining how it worked and why it would help them understand better. The students nodded, some scribbling quickly, others still adjusting to the rhythm of college life.

Then came introductions. One by one, each student stood up, said their name, and shared a few lines. When it was Gatha’s turn, the room went quiet. She remained seated.

The professor paused. He mistook her silence for arrogance. “Ego won’t carry you far in medicine,” he remarked, a trace of irritation in his voice, and quickly moved on.

But the truth was never ego. She couldn’t stand—she had lost the ability to walk after a road accident, and words didn’t come easily under pressure.

Years later, in her third year, she found herself more confident, more open. One day, during a class interaction, she explained softly, “I had an accident when I was younger. Since then, I cannot walk.”

Two classmates who knew her better told the professor the details. Shocked by his earlier misunderstanding, he later came to her and said quietly, “I owe you an apology. I judged too quickly. I admire you—for your courage, for your presence here. For me, it isn’t pity. It’s respect.”

When her turn came, Gatha spoke softly, her voice low but clear:

“My name is Gatha Thakur Adihotra.”

The professor, adjusting his spectacles, looked up sharply. “Thakur?” he repeated. “Are you somehow connected to Siddharth Thakur?”

At that moment, Gatha’s heart skipped. She hesitated, wondering if it was wise to say the truth aloud. Siddharth was far too popular in the college; many girls admired him, some even openly dreamed of being his wife. If she revealed it here, in front of everyone, she knew the reactions would be sharp, maybe even cruel.

Would it be fine to tell them? she asked herself. Would Siddharth be comfortable if the whole college knew?

But she had no choice. The professor was waiting, and every eye in the classroom was fixed on her.

Finally, she said in a quiet but steady tone, “Yes… he is my husband.”

The words dropped like a stone in water, sending ripples across the room.

Gasps broke out, followed by a rush of whispers. Several girls exchanged shocked glances, some even laughing in disbelief.

“Siddharth Thakur? Her husband?” one said under her breath. “But he’s so popular… so rich. How can it be?”

The laughter stung, and for a moment Gatha had no answer. She lowered her gaze, her hands gripping the rims of her wheelchair tightly.

The professor, however, raised his hand for silence. His voice turned firm. “Enough. It is obvious that Siddharth Thakur is her husband. That is the truth. There is no reason for anyone to question it.”

The giggles faded into uneasy quiet. Gatha sat there, heart still pounding, but with a strange calm beneath the storm. She had spoken the truth. And Siddharth, whether popular or not, was hers — that bond was undeniable.

The bell rang, and the professor gathered his notes. Students were still whispering about what had just happened when Siddharth appeared at the classroom door. He walked straight toward Gatha, his presence instantly drawing attention.

He carried her wheelchair with him, placing it carefully beside the bench. Then, without hesitation, he lifted Gatha in his arms and gently set her down into the chair. His movements were natural, practiced, filled with quiet care — the kind that spoke louder than words.

The room went silent for a moment. Then a girl in the front row, dressed in a mini skirt and crop top, raised her voice.

“This girl… the one who just claimed she’s your wife… is she really? Or is she just your sister or something?”

There was a ripple of laughter from a few others, the disbelief still lingering.

Siddharth didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and held up his wallpaper for all to see. On the screen was a picture — Gatha and Siddharth seated together on the wedding mandap, garlands around their necks, firelight flickering in the background.

Gasps filled the room. Some students froze, others covered their mouths, and many of the girls who had secretly admired Siddharth exchanged glances of shock and jealousy. The truth was undeniable.

Siddharth looked at them calmly. “She is my wife. That is all you need to know.”

The class fell silent again. Gatha sat quietly, her cheeks warm, but inside she felt an odd strength. The truth had been laid bare, and Siddharth had stood beside her without a moment’s hesitation.

Meeting Raj

After class, Siddharth wheeled Gatha out through the corridor. The stares followed them, but he ignored them all, his focus only on her.

“Come,” he said softly, “I want you to meet someone.”

They made their way to the courtyard, where a tall, lean boy with a worn backpack was waiting. His clothes were simple, and his shoes looked a little old, but his smile was wide and genuine when he saw Siddharth.

“Raj!” Siddharth called.

Raj waved. “At last, you’re free from class. And this must be…” His eyes softened as he looked at Gatha.

“This is my wife, Gatha,” Siddharth introduced proudly.

Raj nodded with respect, offering his hand. “I’ve heard about you. Siddharth’s told me a lot. It’s good to finally meet.”

Gatha smiled faintly. Raj wasn’t rich like Siddharth, not even close. He was from a lower middle-class family, studying here only through his scholarship and relentless effort. Yet there was something steady in his presence — a sincerity that made her feel at ease.

Siddharth placed his hand on Raj’s shoulder. “Raj is my only best friend,” he said simply. “Money never mattered between us.”

And for the first time since the storm of whispers in class, Gatha felt that maybe, just maybe, college life would be easier with Siddharth’s loyalty and Raj’s quiet friendship beside her.

With time, Gatha and Siddharth grew comfortable within the rhythm of college. The first weeks had been overwhelming—new faces, constant whispers, curious stares—but slowly, she learned how to carry herself.

When people taunted her or made sly remarks, she no longer let the words sting. Instead, she ignored them, her silence becoming its own quiet answer. She discovered that not everyone’s opinion mattered, and that strength often meant knowing when not to react.

She also became familiar with the college grounds. She knew which corridors had ramps, where the lifts worked reliably, and which classrooms were easiest for her to reach. The maze of hallways no longer felt confusing; she could tell exactly where the labs were, where the library turned busiest, and where the canteen served the best chai.

Most importantly, she found her grip on academics. The fear of falling behind was replaced by a steady routine. Her notes were organized, her lectures carefully followed, and she often revised with Siddharth and Raj. Together, they formed a rhythm of study that worked.

Everything, at last, seemed to be going well. It wasn’t perfect—there were still challenges, still whispers—but Gatha had begun to carve her place in the college. And this time, she felt she belonged.