Chapter 3: Blueprints and Unspoken Words

By the third week of classes, Elmridge felt less like a maze and more like a map Rhea was slowly learning to read.

But she still sat beneath the cherry blossom tree every afternoon.

It had become a ritual. Sometimes Aarav was already there, flipping through architectural textbooks or sketching in silence. Other times, she’d arrive first and pretend she wasn’t scanning the courtyard for him. Either way, they always ended up on that bench.

Together, but never too close.

Today, a paper fluttered between them—her psychology assignment on childhood attachment styles. She’d spent hours writing it in the library, chewing the end of her pen as she wondered whether she believed in attachment at all.

“You’re quiet today,” Aarav said, nudging her ankle gently with his sneaker. “Brain fried?”

Rhea smirked. “Fried. Boiled. Steamed.”

“Want to talk about it?”

She paused. “It’s about how early experiences shape our ability to connect. I’m supposed to analyze myself, but… I don’t know how honest I want to be.”

“Then lie creatively,” he said with a grin. “That's what artists do.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

A group of seniors walked by, laughing loudly, one of them tossing a paper plane that landed near Aarav’s feet. He picked it up lazily but paused mid-motion.

His expression changed.

Rhea noticed immediately. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers unfolded the plane, eyes scanning the crude message scribbled inside.

“Run all you want, golden boy. You can’t draw over the truth.”

Rhea blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aarav shrugged quickly, too quickly. “Nothing. Just a stupid prank.”

But his jaw had tightened. The kind of tension that doesn't come from jokes.

She didn’t press, but the words stayed with her—like cracks in a painting she couldn’t unsee.

He tucked the note into his sketchbook and changed the subject. “Hey, we got paired for the Cultural Fest showcase.”

Rhea looked up, confused. “We did?”

“Group list is on the student board. Architecture and Psych students collaborating for an art-therapy installation. We’re building something that explores memory and emotion.”

Her brows rose. “You already knew and didn’t tell me?”

“I wanted to see your face when I dropped the news.”

“You enjoy surprises?”

“Only the kind that don’t explode.”

She stared at him a moment longer. Whatever that note meant, it had clearly stirred something in him. But Aarav, with all his ease and sketches, was someone who carefully built walls behind every word.

Maybe that’s why she trusted him.

Because she did the same.

The next few days passed in a flurry of designs, late-night notes, and silent moments shared beneath diagrams and concept drafts. Aarav brought scraps of wood and wire; Rhea brought words and ideas. Slowly, their installation took form: a giant tree, half of it lush and blooming, the other half dry and leafless. Visitors would walk through it, triggering recordings of voices—some joyous, some heavy.

It was titled “Roots and Ruins.”

“Memories,” Aarav had explained, “aren’t just what you remember. They’re what grow from what you forget.”

Rhea had paused, looking at him like she wanted to ask something. But didn’t.

That night, she sat alone on the cherry blossom bench, sketchbook in her lap.

She opened it.

The paper plane note slipped out.

She stared at it, rereading the line.

You can’t draw over the truth.

Something about it made her chest tighten. She didn’t know Aarav’s truth yet. But she had a feeling it was messier than he let on.

Still, she folded the paper again and tucked it back in gently.

If he was hiding something…

She’d wait.