He Caught Me Before I Felt

At twenty-one, Mithra stepped into her postgraduate life carrying quiet uncertainty. A new college, a new place, unfamiliar corridors filled with unfamiliar faces. Every morning, she wrapped herself in a saree she hadn’t chosen but had learned to accept. She didn’t love it, but she wore it with patience—just like she carried herself.
She never believed she would be noticed. Brown-skinned, short-haired, a little chubby—ordinary in every way, at least in her own eyes. She had come there with one clear purpose: her education. Love was never part of the plan.
And then, one ordinary day, she noticed Adhithya.
He didn’t try to stand out. He didn’t speak loudly or smile easily. His eyes were sharp yet calm, holding a seriousness that felt mature beyond his age. His eyebrows framed his expressions perfectly, and when he smiled—rarely—it softened everything around him. There was something about him that drew Mithra in, something steady and grounding.
She didn’t know his name.
She didn’t know his story.
Yet she saw him often—on staircases, in corridors, near classrooms. At first, their eye contact was accidental. Later, it wasn’t. Without realizing it, Mithra began looking for him every day. Not desperately, not consciously—just naturally.
Days passed. Weeks followed. Life moved forward with lectures, assignments, and routines. Still, somewhere between all of it, Adhithya quietly entered her thoughts. She didn’t call it love. She didn’t even call it attraction. It was simply… something she couldn’t explain.
Then one day, her body failed her.
Mithra remembered walking through the college corridor when everything suddenly felt distant. Sounds echoed unnaturally, faces blurred, and her legs weakened. People gathered around her. Some tried to lift her. Some shouted for help. But she was fading, slipping into darkness.
Just before everything disappeared, she felt arms around her.
Strong. Careful. Certain.
She didn’t see his face. She didn’t recognize his voice. But she felt safe.
Later, she would learn it was Adhithya.
When others hesitated, he lifted her without fear. Even when she was unconscious, he adjusted her saree properly, protecting her dignity in front of strangers. He didn’t treat her like a burden or a spectacle—he treated her like someone who mattered.
At the hospital, when only one person was allowed inside the room, Adhithya stayed. Mithra’s friends were there, frightened and unsure. He was calm, mature, composed. So he became the one who stood beside her.
He stayed through the silence.
Through the IV drip.
Through the waiting.
When Mithra slowly returned to consciousness, her friends were sitting near her. Adhithya was outside, speaking with the doctors. A few minutes later, he came back with juice in his hand and gently helped her drink.
That was the first time their eyes truly met.
The hospital room faded. Time slowed. Mithra’s heartbeat grew louder than the machines around her. Adhithya’s eyes held concern, relief, and something deeper—something unspoken. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.
Before leaving, he smiled.
Mithra smiled too—long after he was gone.
After that day, college felt different.
They still didn’t talk much. In fact, they hardly spoke at all. But their eyes met every single day—on staircases, in corridors, across classrooms. Silence became their language. Every look lingered longer than necessary. Every moment carried meaning.
Days turned into weeks.
Then Mithra’s health troubled her again.
She tried to hide it. She didn’t want to worry anyone. But Adhithya noticed—the tiredness in her face, the weakness in her steps. He came near her and asked softly if she was okay.
Before she could answer, everything went dark again.
This time, she fell against his shoulder.
Adhithya caught her instantly.
He didn’t panic. He didn’t shout. He held her firmly, called her name, tapped her cheeks gently, splashed water on her face, begging her to wake up. He carried her to the car himself, refusing to let go, his hands trembling—not with fear, but with care.
Slowly, Mithra returned.
When she opened her eyes, Adhithya was right there—relief flooding his face, his eyes shining with emotion he could no longer hide.
He smiled.
And without thinking, without planning, he kissed her forehead.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was instinctive.
Protective.
Pure.
“I won’t leave you anymore,” he whispered. “I’ll always be with you. You’re safe with me.”
Tears filled Mithra’s eyes—not from weakness, but from recognition. She hugged him tightly, resting her head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Strong. Real.
That was the moment everything changed.
They didn’t fall in love loudly.
They didn’t announce it to the world.
They didn’t rush.
They stayed.
Because some love stories don’t begin with attraction.
They begin with care.
They begin when someone holds you at your weakest—
and never lets you feel alone again.
Epilogue
Months passed.
Life moved forward with exams, responsibilities, and quiet dreams. But some things never changed. Adhithya still walked beside Mithra through college corridors. He still noticed when she was tired. He still held her hand a little tighter when the world felt heavy.
Mithra learned that love doesn’t always arrive with flowers or confessions. Sometimes, it arrives silently—through presence, through protection, through someone choosing you again and again.
Even now, whenever she feels weak, she remembers the way Adhithya caught her before she fell.
And she knows—
Some people don’t enter your life to impress you.
They enter to save you, to stay with you,
and to become home.