The moment stretched,too long, too sharp,and Ishan Malik realized, with a distant sort of alarm, that he couldn’t look away. Aalam Zainab’s gaze held his like a hook in deep water, her dark eyes gleaming with something between amusement and challenge. The lecture hall around him blurred at the edges, the murmur of students fading into a dull hum, as if someone had turned down the volume on the world. His grip on the newspaper tightened, the paper crinkling under his fingers, but he didn’t feel it. For the first time in years, Ishan Malik forgot his own name.
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