Aarohi

I was born into a fairly comfortable life. My father, a successful stock market expert, provided us with everything we needed, while my mother, once a small-time model, gave me a glimpse into a world of glamour and beauty. Growing up, I was captivated by her stories and the allure of the fashion industry. I idolized her and, at first, dreamed of following in her footsteps. It seemed like the perfect path for me, the life I was meant to lead. I even enrolled in college with the goal of becoming a model, believing that it was the only way I could truly make something of myself.

I too wanted to be a model.

It wasn’t a dream born out of passion, but more of a fascination with the glamour and admiration that came with it. The glossy magazine covers, the runway lights, the allure of being noticed,and my Mum—it felt like a world where I could finally be seen, where my presence would matter.

My parents supported me wholeheartedly.My father was cautious at first, asking me to think about the challenges and competition, but they never discouraged me. Instead, he helped me find the right courses and supported my decision to pursue modeling. “If this is what you want to do, we’ll stand by you,” my mother had said, her voice calm but resolute.

Their encouragement gave me the confidence to chase my dream. When I graduated high school, I joined a college course dedicated to modeling and fashion. My parents weren’t thrilled by the distance—it was in a different city—but they trusted me enough to let me follow my path.

And for a while, everything seemed perfect.

The turning point came in my first year of college when I encountered someone who would change everything I thought I knew about effort, determination, and what it truly meant to have a goal.

He was a senior—a fourth-year student—and even before I saw him, his name echoed across the campus. He was the university’s pride—the one everyone talked about in awe. Top of his class academically, unbeatable on the sports field, and a relentless worker who seemed to operate on an entirely different plane from the rest of us.

At first, I didn’t understand the fuss. “What’s so special about him?” I’d think, rolling my eyes as my batchmates gushed about his latest achievement. “We’re all working hard to achieve our goals. Why is he treated like he’s something extraordinary?”

It wasn’t admiration; it was irritation. Hearing his name over and over—this senior did that, this senior achieved this—started to grate on me. I didn’t see what made him any different from the rest of us.

That changed the day I met him.

It was a campus event, a casual inter-departmental meet, and I found myself paired with him for a team activity. I remember being unimpressed at first, thinking he seemed like any other senior—polite but distant, confident but not overly so. He greeted me with a small nod, not saying much as we worked through the task.

But as the day progressed, I noticed things. Little things.

The way he approached problems—calm, methodical, like he’d already anticipated every possibility. The way he encouraged others without patronizing them, his words sharp yet supportive. And above all, the sheer intensity in his eyes, as if every second of his life was dedicated to a purpose far greater than the moment at hand.

For the first time, I saw what everyone had been talking about.

He wasn’t just hardworking; he was relentless. There was a fire in him that I’d never encountered before, an almost inhuman drive to push beyond his limits. It wasn’t arrogance or ambition—it was a profound sense of purpose that seemed to guide everything he did.

After that first meeting, I found myself drawn to him in ways I didn’t expect.

I tried to associate with him more, finding excuses to cross paths or join activities where he was involved. I started observing him at every opportunity, from the gymnasium to the library, even tracking him to his favorite hobby spots. It was subtle at first, just casual curiosity. But before I realized it, I had become his craziest devotee.

The more I watched him, the more impressed I became. He wasn’t just driven—he was extraordinary, and I couldn’t get enough of understanding what made him so different. Every detail I uncovered only fueled my obsession further. I wanted to know everything: what motivated him, what he thought about, how he stayed so focused.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

It became all-consuming.

I barely noticed as my grades began to slip. My first-year finals crept up on me, and when the results came out, I had barely passed. It should’ve been a wake-up call, but I didn’t care. I didn’t feel ashamed or disappointed in myself because I had found something far more important than academics.

For the first time in my life, I had a direction, a purpose.

Modeling, once my dream, now felt like a distant memory. It seemed shallow and meaningless compared to the fire I saw in him. I wanted to be like him—not in the sense of copying his achievements, but in embodying that same drive and commitment to something meaningful.

The decision to change paths wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t quick. It took months of introspection, arguments with my parents, and moments of doubt. Surprisingly, they supported me here too, though it wasn’t without some reluctance. My mother worried I was giving up my individuality, and my father was skeptical about my ability to keep up with such a demanding field. But in the end, they trusted my choice, just like they always had.

Now, as I stand on the deck of the battleship that’s been our home for the past two days, the cold ocean spray biting against my face, I feel a sense of pride I never thought I’d experience.

“How long till we reach our destination?” Major Varun’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.

Collecting myself, I quickly check my tablet for the ocean currents and weather data before replying. “Normally, we should have reached by now, sir. But due to unfavorable conditions, we’re almost a day behind. We can hope to reach the operation zone in 17 hours.”

I know he already has a good estimate of how much we’re lagging behind, but he’s still engaging with me. It’s his way of keeping us grounded, of showing that no one is beyond communication.

Major Varun—my commanding officer, the commander of this mission, and the senior I was once obsessed with in college, and still am.

A little secret I’ve never admitted out loud.

I know he is happily married and has a loving wife and beautiful daughter. He showed us the picture of his daughter when she was born three months ago, his pride practically radiating from the image he held in his hands. I remember the way his voice softened, a rare gentleness that stood out starkly against his usual commanding tone, as he told us about her tiny fingers and curious eyes.

Even now, he keeps that picture close, tucked neatly into the case of his tactical pad. Whenever he’s free—even if it’s just a fleeting moment—his eyes find their way to that image. There’s a quiet tenderness in those moments, a reminder that behind the soldier’s facade is a man who treasures his family more than anything else.

And yet, my admiration for him is different.

It’s not the romantic kind. At least, I don’t think it is. It’s more like the way you look up to someone who seems to embody everything you wish you could be. An idol. A guide. Someone who sets a standard so high that simply striving toward it feels like a victory in itself.

I’ve spent years trying to define what I feel for him, and this is the closest I’ve come. There’s no jealousy when I see the love he has for his wife or the joy he finds in his daughter. If anything, it deepens my respect for him. It shows that he’s not just an exceptional leader but also an exceptional human being.

Still, it’s complicated.

Admiration, inspiration, obsession—whatever this feeling is, it shaped the person I am today. And standing here, on this mission with him as my commanding officer, it’s almost surreal. The distance between us is greater than ever. He’s my superior, a decorated major in the Bharat Navy, entrusted with the kind of responsibilities that most people can’t even comprehend. And I’m... well, I’m still trying to prove that I deserve to be here.

I glance at him now, his sharp profile silhouetted against the steel-gray sky. The wind tousles his hair, but his stance remains steady, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if he can see the mission zone long before we ever reach it.

We’ve been sailing for two days since leaving SBF Kranti. The fleet—five battleships and two submarines—cuts through the choppy waters with precision, a testament to the discipline and skill of everyone on board. The aircraft remain stationed on the carrier, waiting for our signal once we approach the operation zone.

The sea is restless today, the waves surging against the hull with a force that mirrors the tension brewing in all of us. The air is damp, heavy with the salty tang of the ocean, and the sky is a dull shade of gray that seems to stretch endlessly in every direction. It’s the kind of weather that makes you feel small, insignificant against the vastness of nature.

And yet, even in this vastness, Major Varun stands unwavering.

“Keep an eye on the currents, Lieutenant,” he says, his voice calm but firm, breaking the silence.

“Yes, sir.”

I return to my tablet, scanning the data again. The unfavorable conditions we’ve been facing—strong headwinds, shifting currents—are still slowing us down. It’s frustrating, knowing how much every hour counts in a mission like this. But there’s nothing we can do except adapt and keep moving forward.

I sneak another glance at him, wondering if he ever feels the same frustration. If he does, he never shows it. That’s another thing I’ve learned from him—control. It’s not about suppressing emotions but about channeling them, using them to fuel action instead of hesitation.

I try to do the same, though I’m still far from mastering it.