Cold Chemistry

If my college life were a chemical equation, it would look something like this:

boring lectures + confusing practicals + zero love life = a painfully average existence.

That was me — Nirmal. Chemistry department, first year, specializing in nothing except avoiding viva questions.

And then one random Tuesday morning, my life decided to conduct an unexpected reaction.

Her name was Elza.

She walked into our common language class like she owned the place — English department girl, that confident posture people in my department couldn’t even fake. 

I noticed her the moment she sat two rows ahead. Noticed — as in, completely forgot what the teacher was saying, forgot my notebook, forgot that I existed.

She was laughing softly at something her friend said, and in that one moment, my brain, which was supposed to handle complex reactions, turned into NaCl.
Plain, useless salt.

It’s funny how one person can ruin your entire academic focus with just one smile.

I was from Chemistry; she was from English.
She spoke in metaphors; I spoke in molecules.
If departments had borders, we were from two different countries.

Our only common ground? That one language elective class, every Tuesday and Thursday at 10 a.m.

But you know how life works sometimes — you meet hundreds of people, and then one random face decides to stay rent-free in your head.

That was Elza.

The girl who made Chemistry suddenly feel too simple, and life too complicated.

Our first conversation happened because of a pen.

Yeah, that’s how most tragic love stories begin — with stationery.

It was a boring Tuesday morning, and our language teacher was explaining some grammar rule that no one cared about. My eyes were on her — Elza — sitting two benches ahead, taking notes like her life depended on it.

Halfway through the class, she suddenly turned around.
“Hey, do you have an extra pen?”

For a moment, my brain stopped functioning. Elza. Talking. To me.

I checked my pouch. I had two pens — one working, one that had retired last week but was still living there rent-free.

“Yeah, yeah, I have one,” I said, trying to sound normal while my heart was jumping like it had just won a lottery.

I gave her the good one, obviously. When a girl like Elsa asks, even a leaking pen becomes a Montblanc.

“Thanks! You saved me,” she said, flashing that smile.
That smile. Man, that smile could convince anyone to switch majors.

“Anytime,” I replied, trying not to grin like an idiot. But inside, my heart had already applied for overtime.

She turned back, started writing, and I sat there pretending to pay attention to the lecture while secretly admiring the back of her head like it was a museum painting.

After class, she came back to return the pen.
“Here. Thanks again,” she said.
And smiled — the kind of smile that stays rent-free in your mind for days.

I swear, for the next week, every time I saw a pen, I smiled like an idiot.
My friends thought I’d finally lost it.
But no. I was just in love — the kind of love that begins with borrowed stationery and ends with sleepless nights.

Soon, we started talking more.
It began with small, safe topics — assignments, marks, the teacher’s accent that made “language” sound like “lung wage.” We’d laugh about it, and that laugh… that was it. That was the moment my day officially became good.

Then our talks moved to random stuff — movies, music, and how the college canteen samosas tasted like recycled engine oil. She said it so seriously once that I almost choked on mine.

Elza had this vibe, you know? The kind of person who could walk into a dull classroom and suddenly everyone starts smiling a little more. She was warm, easy to talk to, and had that mystery that made you want to know her a little better — like a book whose next page you can’t stop flipping.

Every cultural event, she was there — surrounded by her girl gang, laughing, dancing, taking selfies.
And me? I was that guy in the background, pretending to adjust the mic or carry some props, just to get one small glance at her.

But it wasn’t sad. It was… beautiful. Because whenever she looked up and waved, that tiny moment — that one-second wave — felt like Diwali in my chest.

The rest of the week could go to hell, but if Elsa waved at me on Monday, I’d survive till Sunday.

My friends obviously noticed.

“Bro, she smiled at you again,” Gautham said, nudging me like I’d just scored a century.

“Yeah, because I exist,” I said, pretending to sound calm while my heart was doing push-ups inside.

Gautham shook his head. “No, no. That was a different smile. Not the friendly one. This one had… vibes.”

“Vibes?” I asked. “You mean the smile she gives to everyone?”

He rolled his eyes. “Nirmal, stop being a scientist. This is love, not a lab experiment.”

And that’s how it began. My friends, who hadn’t passed a single semester without a backlog, suddenly became my unpaid relationship counselors.

Every canteen session turned into a group meeting about Operation Elza.

“Just tell her, yaar,” said Shrikant. “Confess it. Girls like confidence.”
“She’ll say no,” I said.
“So what? At least you’ll stop torturing us with your silent heartbreak playlist.”

They were right. I had turned into that guy.

The one who types a “Good morning 😊” message and then deletes it after staring at the screen for five minutes.
The one who checks her last seen on WhatsApp at 1 a.m. just to feel a fake connection.
The one who plays Arijit Singh songs and stares at the ceiling like it’s giving life advice.

I had become a full-time emotional researcher — analysing every emoji, every story view, every “Hey” she sent.

When she said, “You’re so funny,” I replayed that voice note fifteen times.
When she heart-reacted to my meme, I screenshoted it.
And when she left my message on “seen” for two hours, I googled, “Signs she’s losing interest in you.”

By the time we reached third year, my crush had evolved.
This wasn’t some small spark anymore — this was full-blown emotional chemistry.

Not the kind you study in books.
The kind that makes your brain misfire and your stomach feel like it’s storing butterflies on rent.

I’d walk into class, spot her laughing at something her friend said, and instantly lose all sense of logic.
My friends would look at me, smirk, and say, “Bro, we lost him again.”

And they were right.
Because somewhere between sharing notes and sharing smiles, I had already fallen — not into love exactly, but into that messy, beautiful, confusing space where your heart beats faster for someone who doesn’t even know it’s happening.

It was the last month of college.
Exams were around the corner, everyone was pretending to study, and I was pretending not to be in love.

But I couldn’t do it anymore — the what-ifs, the half-smiles, the “maybe she likes me too” thoughts. I was tired of overthinking every emoji she sent.

So I did what every emotionally unstable 21-year-old does before a disaster — I texted her.

"Hey, can we meet tomorrow at the cafe near the library? I want to talk to you

She replied in 10 seconds.

"Sure! 5 PM?"

My heart skipped a beat.
Ten seconds. She didn’t even think.
Was that a good thing? A bad thing? I didn’t know. I just knew I wasn’t sleeping that night.

The next day, I got ready like it was my wedding.

Ironed shirt. Borrowed perfume. A nervous smile that refused to look confident no matter how many times I practiced in the mirror.

I reached fifteen minutes early because apparently my anxiety runs faster than time.
I sat in the corner seat — our usual spot. I tried reading the café menu to calm myself down, but everything looked like heartbreak disguised as food.

She came five minutes late — as always — wearing a blue kurti and that usual careless charm that made every guy in college look up for a second.
Her hair was tied loosely, and she smelled like something expensive I couldn’t afford.

“Hey!” she said, sliding into the chair opposite me. “You look serious. What’s up?”
And she smiled — that smile I’d fallen for on the first day of our language class.

I took a deep breath.
“Elza…”
“Yeah?”
“I love you,” I said. “I’ve liked you for a long time. You’re amazing, and I just wanted you to know.”

There.
Done.
My heart was hammering like a faulty lab motor, and I swear I could hear my pulse in my ears.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then she smiled — softly. Not the excited kind of smile you dream of. The gentle, careful one.

“Nirmal,” she said, “you’re one of the nicest guys I know. I really like you too…”
For half a second, I thought I’d won the jackpot.
Then she added,
“…but not in that way.”

It took me a second to process that sentence. My brain was buffering like a slow Wi-Fi connection.

She looked at me, her voice calm.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “I’m bisexual. Actually… more on the lesbian side. I’ve been in a relationship with my friend, Neha. For the last three years.”

I blinked.
“Wait. Neha? The one who’s always with you?”
She nodded.
“Yeah. I thought you knew.”

“Uh… no,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded like it needed emotional CPR. “I mean… wow. Okay.”

“Nirmal,” she said, “I really value you. You’re special to me. But I can’t be with you the way you want. I’m sorry.”

And that was it.

The café suddenly felt too bright, like someone had turned on all the lights just to watch my heartbreak in HD.
People were laughing, the coffee machine was hissing, someone dropped a spoon — and there I was, trying to act normal while my heart drowned quietly in a cappuccino.

I wanted to say something — anything. But all I managed was a weak smile.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I get it.”

But I didn’t. Not then.

All I knew was that something inside me had cracked — not loud enough for the world to hear, but deep enough for me to feel it every time I looked at her.

She reached out, touched my hand lightly, and said,
“You’ll find someone amazing, Nirmal. You really will.”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

After she left, I just sat there, staring at her half-empty cold coffee.
It was still cold, still sweet — but for me, the taste had changed forever.

That night, I went back to my hostel, lay on my bed, and replayed everything — her smile, her words, her truth.
I wasn’t angry. Just… hollow.

Maybe this is what real love feels like — the kind that doesn’t end with hate, but with quiet understanding.

I didn’t lose her that day.
I just learned that love doesn’t always mean together.
Sometimes, it just means truth.

For the next few days, I walked around like a Wi-Fi signal — present, but completely useless.
Classes went on, people laughed, the world moved, and I… just existed.

The café where I’d confessed felt cursed. Every time I passed it, my brain replayed the entire conversation like some sad playlist on loop. 

The nights were worse. I’d scroll through Elsa’s Instagram like a detective who didn’t want to find clues. She hadn’t posted anything new, but I’d still check — again and again — just to torture myself.

But here’s the thing about heartbreak: it hits you like a storm, then slowly teaches you how to breathe again.

After a few days, the noise inside me started to quiet down.
And when it did, I began to think.

Elza never misled me. Not once.
She never flirted, never promised anything. She was just… Elza — kind, open, honest.
The story I’d been living was one I wrote myself.

I was the director, actor, and producer of a movie she never auditioned for.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized she wasn’t the villain. She was just truthful.
It was me who had built a dream castle out of “maybe.”

And that’s when it hit me — love isn’t always about two people being together.
Sometimes, it’s about seeing someone for who they are and still being glad they exist, even if they aren’t yours.

I wasn’t angry anymore.
I was… wiser.
And slightly proud of myself for not turning into one of those sad guys who spam “Love hurts 💔” on WhatsApp statuses.

A few weeks later, I was walking near the library when I heard a familiar voice.

“Nirmal! Hey!”

I turned. There she was — Elza, waving, smiling like nothing had ever gone wrong between us.

My first reaction? My stomach did a small somersault. But then, I smiled back.
“Hey, long time,” I said.
“How’s the chemistry king doing?” she teased.

“Trying not to fail. Both in exams and in life,” I said.

We laughed. It wasn’t awkward — just warm, easy, the way it used to be before feelings got in the way.

We sat on the steps near the library, watching people rush around with notes and caffeine addictions.
She told me about her plans after college — an MA in English, maybe journalism.
I told her about mine — probably MSc, maybe teaching.

It felt… normal. Not like lovers meeting again, but like two old friends reconnecting after a long pause.

At one point, she turned to me, her voice softer.
“You know, you’re one of my favourite people, Nirmal.”

That hit different. Not like a spark, but like a calm wave that touches the shore and quietly retreats.

I smiled, and said, “And you’ll always be mine.”

No drama. No tears. Just peace.

We sat there in silence, watching the sun melt behind the hostel buildings. The sky turned golden-orange, the kind of colour poets write about and engineers never notice.

For the first time, the silence between us didn’t ache. It felt… complete.

Maybe that’s what closure really is — not forgetting someone, but remembering them without pain.

That day, I realized something beautiful:
Some people aren’t meant to stay forever. They just come to teach you how to feel — deeply, foolishly, beautifully — and then move on.

Elza was that person for me.
And for the first time since she said “I’m sorry,” I actually meant it when I whispered,
“It’s okay.”

Years later, I became a Chemistry teacher.
Yeah, the same guy who once couldn’t balance a simple equation now stands in front of a bunch of teenagers explaining why sodium and water are a bad combo.

Sometimes when I see them mess up an experiment — acid splashing, beaker cracking, panic everywhere — I just smile and say,

“It’s okay. Not every reaction gives you the product you expect. Some just teach you what doesn’t work.”

They usually laugh, thinking it’s about science. But it’s not.
It’s about life.

Because that’s what Elza taught me.

You see, back in college, I thought love was like a perfect chemical equation — if you mix feelings and courage in the right proportion, you’ll get “happily ever after.”
Turns out, it’s not that simple.
Sometimes, no matter how balanced your formula looks, the reaction just doesn’t happen. And that’s okay.

Elza wasn’t my “happy ending.”
She was my beautiful beginning — the part that made me understand myself better.
She showed me that love isn’t always fireworks and violins.
Sometimes, it’s just two people sitting across a café table, realising they’re meant to stay in each other’s lives — just differently.

Even now, when I drink cold coffee, that same faint smell takes me back.
Back to that café near the library.
Back to that girl with the warm smile and honest eyes.
And I smile too — not with regret, but gratitude.

Because love, like chemistry, doesn’t always need to explode.
Sometimes, it just fades quietly…
leaving behind a trace of warmth, a few lessons,
and yes — the faint smell of cold coffee.