Chapter 10: Fairy Tales and Farewells

Priya gazed at the universe’s number one simp, her eyes wide and watery, hoping for the meanings behind the three fairy tales. The library felt as silent as a mandir at dawn, the Ganpati idol peeking from the librarian’s desk. If only he’d share “all the fairy tales we wrote together”—maybe she’d feel something for him.

She blushed, recalling Radha and Krishna’s stories. “Sorry, the red light is on.”

Arjun laughed and cried, her innocence as disarming as ever. His laughter echoed in the stacks. Priya adjusted her dupatta, steeling herself with lessons her mother had taught her.

Their eyes met—mirrors of each other. For Arjun, it had always been so, for tens of millions of years. Priya felt her fears reflected in his steady gaze, wondering what it might be to trust so completely.

“No more idle chatter. Let’s write fairy tales another time,” Priya said, looking away, her hand trembling. She forced a smile, the world suddenly too big and too empty.

She remembered discussing simps with AA: “If a woman treats a man as a tool, satisfying his desire to be a simp, then the woman is actually the man’s tool.” The truth stung. Priya straightened her spine, determined to hide her thoughts and live like an ordinary student. She vowed: no more confessions, no more fairy tales, until the war was won.

Yet she believed the man before her—who had fooled tens of billions of Trisolarans—would find a way to save them. She allowed herself a secret smile, hope flaring like a diya in the darkness.