I never believed in fate. I believed in force. If you wanted something, you fought for it. If someone crossed you, you destroyed them. If you liked a boy six inches taller and five grades above you, you made the universe notice.
But now that I was in the same science mentorship as Shabd Heer?
Maybe fate did have a soft spot for tyrants like me.
Our sessions weren't romantic or dreamy—they were professional. Strict. Focused. Shabd treated me like a student, nothing more. He explained concepts clearly, tested my understanding, and never once smiled more than necessary.
But I didn't care.
Because every moment with him felt like I was standing on the starting line of a Grand Prix.
He'd say, "Vashti, explain the structure of the brainstem."
And I'd be like, Brainstem? What brain? Mine just melted because you said my name.
Still, I kept my act together. Hitler mode on. I corrected his diagrams when I found mistakes (he never made any, but I pretended he did). I argued over scientific theories just to get his attention. I made sarcastic comments that earned me exactly zero laughs from him.
But I wasn't just chasing love anymore.
I was also racing toward something bigger:
My dream. Formula 1.
Every afternoon, after our sessions, I'd ride my bicycle like it was a racecar, swerving through traffic, pretending the wind in my face was from an F1 circuit. I'd watch races at night, memorize every track, every curve, every moment of strategy.
I trained my legs to be stronger.
I trained my mind to be faster.
I trained my heart… to take heartbreak quietly.
Because as I fell harder for him, I knew something deep down:
He was rising.
Becoming someone I could never reach—no matter how fast I drove.
And in my secret scrapbook that night, I wrote:
"He's not mine. He may never be. But I'll race like he's watching."
Even if he never clapped.
Even if he never cared.
Even if I finished first—and he still walked away.
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