Page 108 - The World's Best Boyfriend

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‘But Sir, I saw it! I saw him burning the assignments,’ complained Aranya,

choking on her tears.
‘That’s the twenty-third time you’re repeating the same thing, Aranya. And
what if he did? Let it go,’ said Raghuvir, leaning back in his chair.
He wore a spotless kurta today with the same pair of jeans she saw him in on

Freshers’ Day, and leather chappals. Dhruv was leaning against the door,
yawning for dramatic effect. Despite the heat he wore a leather jacket, a white

shirt, a frayed pair of jeans and black loafers. Careless hair carefully done.
Eight years separated Dhruv and Raghuvir but they looked the same age.
Dhruv looked the vain, brash movie star, and Raghuvir, the sincere, piercing,
intelligent technocrat with a dress sense borrowed from the founder of Facebook.

In a parallel world or in a cheesy novel, they would be brothers who fall in love
with the same woman.

Aranya should have been angry, and maybe she was, somewhere deep inside,
but she was also a little dizzy, a little disoriented sneaking glances at Raghuvir’s
tired, painfully cute, beautiful face, which she was convinced was one of her
horrcruxes. She had spent hours, wrong, days Googling about Raghuvir,

downloading his images on her laptop, day-dreaming about being intelligent and
funny and mysterious in his class and yes, also songs, they had danced on songs

together.
Fuck you, Aranya. You’re a grown, intelligent woman. Stop staring at him as
if he’s God.

But he is like chocolate. With cream and sprinkles.
Stop talking in Internet meme language. You’re not retarded.
I’m sorry, but look at him.

Exactly. And look at you, you’re ugly enough to be a different species.
Whatever.
I hate you.

I am you.
Raghuvir continued, his voice suddenly grave, ‘And Dhruv, you need to keep
your attitude in check. The anger is cute. But I’m not one of your girls. I’m your

professor and I have seen dozens of you strut their fake machismo over the years