Vikram.
She stared at his name on the screen. Three rings. Four.
She answered on the fifth.
“Divya.” His voice was low, urgent, carrying an emotion she couldn’t name. “I’m so sorry about all this. The photos...”
“It’s fine.” She kept her voice neutral, professional, as the bus approached. “Tabloids make stories out of nothing. I understand how it works.”
“That’s… not exactly.” He paused. “Are you okay? Your family?”
She boarded the bus, moving to a seat near the back. “We’re managing. These things pass.”
“Divya, I...”
“Your eleven AM with Director Mirza is confirmed for tomorrow,” she continued, flipping through her mental calendar with practiced ease. “He sent an email yesterday evening about script revisions. I’ve forwarded them to you.”
The silence stretched so long she thought the call had dropped.
When he spoke again, his voice sounded different. Flatter. “Right. Thank you.”
“The afternoon shoot timing has been adjusted to accommodate the meeting. Rahul confirmed the change.”
Another pause. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s my job.” The words came out sharper than intended.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
The call ended with a soft click.
She stared at her reflection in the bus window. The same face. The same glasses. The same girl who’d woken up yesterday morning with everything in its proper place.
The bus lurched forward, carrying her toward the university.
???
At the university gate, conversations dipped as she passed. A few students pretended not to look. Others didn’t bother pretending.
One girl whispered to her friend, loud enough to be heard: “That’s her. From the photos.”
Divya kept walking. Spine straight. Chin level. Eyes forward.
She walked down the corridor to the office where Mrs. Menon waited behind a desk stacked with identical black folders.
Divya placed hers on top.
“This is my final submission, ma’am.”
Mrs. Menon looked up. Studied her for a moment longer than usual. Not with gossip in her eyes. With assessment. Recognition.
“Good,” she said simply. “On time, as always.”
Something in Divya’s chest loosened slightly.
This, at least, was something she could control. This, at least, belonged to her alone. Six months of research. Analysis. Argument. Work that existed independent of who touched her back or how cameras framed it.