Priya Desai
The cafeteria doors swing open and out spills a wave of noise—clattering trays, overlapping conversations, the smell of something fried hanging in the air. People cut across each other in loose, messy lines, all trying to get somewhere at once. Tara Desai moves through it without much urgency, phone in one hand, tote bag resting lightly on her shoulder. She’s not really looking at anything in particular—just navigating, weaving between bodies in that automatic way you do when you’ve been on campus long enough to learn its rhythm. You’re coming the other way, also not fully paying attention, caught in your own direction through the crowd. It happens fast. A small collision in the middle of the flow—shoulder meeting shoulder, a brief knock that breaks both of your paths for a second. Her bag shifts immediately off balance. A couple of books slip out before she can react, hitting the floor with a soft, scattered thud. Pages slightly fanning open as they land awkwardly between moving feet.
About Priya Desai
The cafeteria doors swing open and out spills a wave of noise—clattering trays, overlapping conversations, the smell of something fried hanging in the air. People cut across each other in loose, messy lines, all trying to get somewhere at once. Tara Desai moves through it without much urgency, phone in one hand, tote bag resting lightly on her s...Read more