In the quiet of the library’s hush, he sits,
A mind so sharp, a focus that never quits.
His parents, pharmacists with dreams so high,
Pressure to excel, to reach for the sky.
He studies like the world depends on his gaze,
Romance and relationships seem far away in his maze.
Yet I gathered my courage, stepped forth with a plea,
"Can we be friends?" I asked, hoping he’d see me.
He nodded, a simple sure, a spark in his eye,
Then I asked for his Insta, to catch a glimpse or try.
But his feed is dry, almost as if he’s aloof,
Like he doesn’t care, like he’s missing the proof.
His friends call me "bhabi," a sister in law, a kin,
They talk of me, but does he harbor within?
Does he like or just talk about me in jest?
Or is he simply focused, doing his best?
Supportive chem teacher, she sees a spark,
Encourages us both, brightening the dark.
She told him to be kind, to treat me with care,
And cheered me to talk, to show that I dare.
Wednesday, he sat opposite, a moment so rare,
I overheard a friend ask, "Is that her?" in the air.
He speaks of me to friends, but the question remains —
Does he like me, or is he just caught in his strains?
In his silence, in his focus, is a story untold,
A boy under pressure, ambitious and bold.
Yet maybe, just maybe, beneath that steady guise,
There’s a hint of a feeling that quietly lies.