Campus Love 3

Campus Love 3

Setting: Two days before the winter break ends.
The silence was slipping away.

Footsteps had returned to the corridors. Suitcases rolled along tiled floors. Laughter echoed faintly through the hostel stairwells again. Group chats buzzed with “Back to grind 💀💻” memes.

Arjun and Kavita both felt the shift.

Their world—that quiet, cotton-wrapped cocoon of shawls, warm mugs, shared kisses and soft carrying—was ending.

And yet, it had changed them forever.

Saturday Morning: Her Room.
Kavita was folding her blanket slowly. Arjun sat cross-legged on her bed, watching her in the golden morning light.

He was quiet.

She could sense it—his stillness wasn’t peaceful today. It was bracing.

He was pulling away from the softness, preparing to wear the “outside” face again.

“You’ll go back to sleeping in your room?” she asked.

He nodded faintly.

She looked at him. “Because others are back?”

He hesitated. Then: “I don’t want anyone to laugh at you.”

She sat beside him, close. Her large hand rested on his knee.

“Do you think I care what they say?”

“No,” he said honestly. “But I care when they look at you like you’re... unnatural. When they whisper.”

“And what about when I carry you?” she asked, gently. “You think they’ll mock you?”

“Maybe. Probably,” he said.

Then he added in a whisper, “But it still feels worth it.”

Her expression softened.

“Come here,” she said.

He looked at her. “Now?”

She nodded.

He crawled over into her lap.

And she gathered him gently, wrapping both arms under his back and knees.

Then she slowly lifted him, his full body curling into her without resistance.

Arjun exhaled deeply.

Her arms were wide, warm, and steady. She didn’t just lift him—she received him. He felt like a quiet bundle of memory and trust, nestled across her.

She sat back against the headboard, his head tucked under her chin.

Her hands moved slowly—one brushing his hair, the other around his waist.

“No one else will see this,” he murmured.

“No one needs to,” she replied. “Only you and me. That’s enough.”

He stayed there, completely still, for minutes.

And then, with her rocking him slowly, he whispered:

“Can I still sit like this once everyone’s back?”

She smiled against his hair.

“In here? Anytime.”

Later That Afternoon: Back in His Room.
His room felt cold. The bedsheet was tight. The chair too stiff.

Arjun tried to study, but his fingers kept tapping nervously.

He missed the blanket around their shoulders. Missed how she would tap his nose gently when he got a right answer. Missed her lap.

Then—soft knocking.

It was her.

She stepped inside silently, her tall 6 feet / 102 kg frame wrapped in her grey cardigan. Her glasses fogged from the cold outside.

She looked around.

“This room is too cold for your heart,” she said.

Arjun chuckled.

She stepped toward him and said quietly, “You don’t have to pretend yet. Not in front of me.”

He stood up, all of his small 5 feet 3 inches / 64 kgs frame. His hands reached up towards her instinctively. Like a child wanting his mom to pick him up in her arms.

And in the next moment—

She lifted him again.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically.

Just a gentle, seamless movement—like air folding around him.

He curled into her arms again, small and quiet.

She carried him across the room and sat down in his chair with him still on her lap, facing her.

Her arms were now around his waist. His knees bent beside her hips. His hands on her shoulders.

Their faces were inches apart.

“You always fit here,” she whispered.

Arjun smiled softly. “Maybe this is my actual seat.”

She chuckled. “Permanent placement. No need for ID.”

That Evening: Sitting by the Window
It was almost sunset. The orange light pooled across the floor like melted saffron.

Arjun lay in her lap now, facing up, her fingers stroking his temple.

She looked outside and murmured, “Do you know what I used to wish for every year on my birthday?”

He shook his head.

“To wake up and find myself... smaller. Shorter. Lighter. Like a girl from an ad.”

Arjun looked up at her, eyes soft.

“And now?” he asked.

She met his gaze.

“Now I just wish you’d stay in my arms longer.”


A quiet Sunday evening.
The common areas were starting to buzz again. Students had returned, lights flickered on across hostels, but Arjun and Kavita had quietly retreated into her room, shutting the world outside.

Kavita stood by the window, her long frame framed in the soft grey light.

Arjun sat on the bed, watching her silently.

She looked pensive.

“Is it a heavy memory?” he asked softly.

She turned to him.

And nodded.

“I was seventeen,” she said. “School farewell. Everyone was in saris and heels. It was the one day girls wanted to look grown-up.”

She gave a dry smile.

“I looked... too grown-up. Or that’s what they said.”

Arjun listened, not interrupting.

“My mother bought me a golden silk sari. And heels. Three inches. I didn’t want to wear them, but she said, ‘You’ll look like a goddess.’”

She paused.

“I walked into the hall, already 6’3” in heels. Taller than every teacher. Every boy. And the snickering started right away.”

She clenched her jaw lightly.

“Lady Transformer.”
“Miss Ladder.”
“Elephant in heels.”

Her hands trembled slightly.

“I stood for one picture. Just one. Then ran to the bathroom and cried until the mascara bled into my neck.”

Arjun rose from the bed, his chest aching.

“You’ve never told anyone that, have you?”

She shook her head.

“I threw the heels away that night. And I never wore a sari again.”

A pause.

Then: “I’ve hated mirrors since.”

Arjun stands before her. He stepped closer now.

His hands touched hers. She looked down at him. His small frame, 5'3"—but his eyes full of quiet strength.

“Come here,” he whispered.

She blinked. “Why?”

He didn’t explain.

He stepped even closer. She understood.

And gently, she bent slightly—he lifted one leg up first, then the other, and she wrapped both hands under his bottom, easily lifting him into her arms in a front carry hold.

One arm under him, holding him up like a strong mother lifting her sleepy child.

Arjun’s legs wrapped around her solid waist, his body pressed snugly against hers.

His arms slipped around her neck, holding her tightly.

He buried his face into the warm, soft curve of her neck, his nose brushing the bare skin where her dupatta had slipped, just above her collarbone.

She could feel his breath—gentle and warm, sighing onto her skin.

And she melted.

He turned his head slightly and pointed toward the full-length mirror in the corner of her room.

“Carry me there,” he whispered.

Still holding him with just one arm, she walked slowly toward the mirror. Her body steady. Solid. Calm.

She stood before the glass.

There they were.

A giant woman.
A small man clinging to her like her second heartbeat.
Her arms strong.
His face resting against her neck.
Her expression peaceful.
His, hidden—but safe.

They looked like a secret only love could explain.

He whispered softly, still nestled in her neck:

“They were wrong, Kavita.”

She didn’t respond.

He continued, “You didn’t look like an elephant. You looked like the pillar they could have leaned on but were too dumb to understand.”

Her breath trembled.

“You didn’t crack the floor. You held it steady.”

He leaned back slightly, looked up into her eyes.

“Do you know what you look like to me now?”

She shook her head, barely breathing.

“Like a living statue,” he whispered. “Something carved by God when he wanted to show the world what strength looks like when it knows how to be gentle.”

She exhaled, deeply shaken.

And he leaned in again, nuzzling his nose back into her skin.

She held him tighter.

Her hand rose to his back, palm wide, fingers spread across his spine.

She rocked slightly, the mirror swaying with their movement.

A single tear fell down her cheek.

“I hated that sari for years,” she whispered.

He murmured, “Wear it again. One day. For me.”

She looked down at him.

“I will,” she said. “If you let me carry you to the mirror again after.”

He smiled into her neck. “Always.”

She walked away from the mirror, still holding him close, his legs wrapped tight around her waist, his hands warm against her neck.

She sat down on her bed with him still on her, adjusting him carefully so that his bottom stayed nestled in her lap, his arms still around her.

Then she kissed his temple.

He whispered sleepily, “I love this spot.”

And she said, “It was made for you.”

Three days after their mirror moment, a quiet afternoon.
Outside, a soft drizzle dusted the windowpanes. Kavita’s room was dim and warm. A single yellow lamp glowed near the headboard, and a gentle scent of sandalwood incense lingered in the air.

Arjun sat at her desk, absentmindedly flipping through a paperback novel.

Kavita was standing in front of her cupboard, still for a long moment.

She pulled open the lower drawer—slowly. It creaked faintly. Inside, wrapped in old newspaper and tissue, lay a neatly folded golden silk sari. Slightly wrinkled with age, but still luminous.

She held it in both hands for a long time.

Then turned to him.

Her voice, barely above a whisper:
“I brought it here four years ago, thinking I’d never wear it again.”

Arjun turned.

His breath caught as he saw her holding the shimmering fabric—light gold, with faint red borders and tiny mirrorwork that caught the lamplight like stars.

He stood up. Quietly. Walked over.

“May I… see you in it?” he asked, gently.

She looked at him. Her hands clutched the sari tighter for a moment.

Then she nodded.

She stepped behind her long curtain, into the washroom alcove. Arjun stayed where he was, hands folded. The room had gone utterly silent, save for the faint patter of rain.

He could hear her moving.

The soft rustle of the sari.
The jingling of safety pins.
A breath held.
A sigh released.

Then—her voice, from behind the curtain:

“Close your eyes.”

He did.

He heard her footsteps approaching.
Felt the air shift.
And then—her whisper:

“Open them.”

What He Saw
Kavita stood before him, draped in the same golden sari—but something about her was different.

Yes, she was tall. Towering over him like always.
Yes, she was big. Her waist generous, her arms full, her bosom ample beneath the soft pleats.

But there was no shrinking.

She looked like the flame of a lamp—still, proud, glowing from within.

Arjun stared. Silent.

She looked down, suddenly unsure. “Too much?”

He stepped forward.

Then slowly, reverently, placed his palms on her wide hips, just lightly.

His voice was low.

“You look like a queen.”

She laughed softly—just a puff of air. “A very heavy queen.”

He leaned his forehead gently against her shoulder. “The only throne I want is your lap.”

Without speaking, she bent slightly, sliding one strong arm under his bottom, the other around his back, and lifted him smoothly into the front carry again.

He gasped softly. Her arms were warm against the smooth silk of the sari.

His arms slipped around her neck instinctively.

His legs wrapped tightly around her big, solid waist again.

He buried his face into her shoulder, his nose brushing her warm, bare skin above the blouse line.

The silk rustled as she adjusted her grip, holding him up with one broad arm under him.

“Too much fabric?” she teased.

He shook his head into her neck. “Perfect amount of Kavita.”

She sat on the bed now, still holding him across her body, now almost cradling him in the flowing folds of the sari.

His legs dangled over her lap, his head nestled under her chin again.

He toyed gently with the border of the sari between his fingers.

“You kept this all these years?” he whispered.

“I hated it,” she admitted. “But something told me I shouldn’t throw it away.”

He looked up at her.

“I’m glad you didn’t. I would’ve missed seeing you like this.”

She looked at him—really looked.

Then slowly leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Her lips lingered there, warm and steady.

An intimate moment of stillness.
For a long while, they didn’t speak.

He lay across her in silence, the golden sari pooling around them like molten honey.

Her palm rested on his back.

His head was nestled against her breast, listening to her heartbeat like a lullaby.

He whispered, “One day, when we grow old…”

She looked down.

He continued, “I want you to wear this again. Just for me. And carry me just like this. Even when I’m grey and wrinkled.”

She smiled, eyes soft.

“I’ll be stronger then. More practice.”

He chuckled.

“And heavier,” he added sleepily.

She kissed his hair.

“Even when we are old, you’ll still feel like a baby in my arms.”