The Secret Poet ~ A Rumya Three-Shot [Completed]

Author's Note: Based on the Prompt by @oh_nakhrewaali in Submit Writing Prompt Thread who requested for writing: A college romance where someone confesses about their crush for the girl on the confession page and she keeps thinking about it, searching for the guy until she finds out the dude and they have their happily ever after

Introduction:

In a world that celebrates perfection, a quiet college girl finds refuge in poetry. Through anonymous verses, she expresses what she cannot say aloud. Her words stir hearts, including one she never imagined reaching. A story about self-worth, hidden strength, and the silent power of being seen.

Chapter 1

Verses in the Dark

Soumya had always walked the college corridors with her head slightly bowed, her books clutched to her chest like armor. She wasn't invisible—not by a long shot. People noticed her. They just didn't always notice the right things.

Whispers followed her sometimes:
"She's sweet, but..."
"If only she lost a bit of weight..."
"She's cute—for a plus-sized girl."

People didn't see her as she was—
They saw numbers on a weighing scale.
They saw clothes that weren't tight enough, a walk that wasn't light enough.
They saw size before soul.

But Soumya didn't let it get to her. At least, not entirely. She poured herself into poetry—her private sanctuary. Words didn't judge. They embraced. They understood. Her journal was filled with poems—raw, aching, beautiful pieces of herself she never dared to speak aloud.

Finally, she found an unexpected outlet for her emotions—a confession page on Facebook. Hidden behind anonymity, she began expressing her long-held crush on Rudra, the college's most admired fitness freak, through poetry.

And then there was Rudra.

With muscles that looked like they had been carved by dedication itself and a smile that could light up the dimmest gym, Rudra was everything she wasn't. Confident. Energetic. Wildly popular.

He was the face of the college's fitness club—the guy everyone followed on Instagram for "Monday Motivation" and "Flex Friday." To most, he was just another handsome guy with a protein shake in hand. But to Soumya, he was poetry in motion.

She noticed things others didn't—the way he helped the janitor lift heavy chairs during fest prep, the way he encouraged newcomers at the gym instead of mocking them, the way he listened—really listened—during class discussions. The way he helped juniors without a hint of arrogance.
The way he adjusted his earbuds before every workout like it was a sacred moment. The way he always smiled at the cafeteria auntie like she was the most important person in the room.

And so, one rainy evening, heart thudding like a tribal drum in her chest, Soumya posted anonymously on the college confession page.

She didn't name him directly. But those who knew, would know.

To the Boy Who Lifts More Than Weights
—From A Girl Who Loves in Silence

They say we are opposites—
You, the sun-drenched trail runner;
Me, the soft-stitched moonlight.
You lift iron and cheers,
While I lift myself from stares and scales.

But I've watched you—not with a stalker's stare,
But with the awe of a poet studying stars.
You move like rhythm,
Speak like comfort,
And smile like you don't know the damage it does.

I won't fit into your world of dumbbells and diets.
But if hearts had muscle,
Mine would outlift them all—
Because loving you
Takes strength too.

—From,
A girl who believes
Even heavy hearts can fly.

The post exploded overnight.

Hundreds of comments poured in. Some guessed it was about Rudra. Others simply praised the poem's raw honesty. It was liked, shared, and talked about across campus. The next day, Soumya posted again. Then again.

And always, it was about the same person—Rudra.

Every day, without fail, she would submit a new poem. It became a quiet, sacred ritual—her way of loving from a distance. While others flocked to Rudra for workout tips or gym selfies, Soumya observed him with a poet's heart.

And so, every evening, she poured her feelings into another verse.

Day 4
You run like the wind, while I anchor myself in shadows.
You sweat gold; I hide behind black.
But my eyes find you, even when yours never find me.

Day 5
You lift dumbbells. I lift doubts.
You chase goals. I dodge glances.
But still, I watch—
As your kindness stretches farther than your muscles ever could.

Day 7
You chase sunlight with your sneakers,
While I hide from reflections in glass.
But in a world that lifts the perfect,
You're the only one who made me feel seen—
Even from afar.

Day 8
When you laugh, the gym echoes.
When I smile, the mirror sighs.
But between reps and rhymes,
I've stitched you into my every line.

Students began calling her "The Secret Poet." People guessed, speculated. Some said it must be a thin, artsy girl. Others assumed it was a gym admirer.

But Rudra?

He read every poem.

And slowly, something about the honesty in them began to tug at him.

Then one day, on Day 12, she posted:

Today I dared to imagine—
What if you knew?
What if I said, "It's me"?
Would you still smile the same?
Or would I become just another poem you forget?

That post hit different.

Rudra shared it. Then he left a comment—one that made Soumya drop her phone.

"To the girl who's been writing to me—
I don't know who you are.
But your words are powerful.
Let's meet.
I want to know the soul behind the stanzas."

The comments blew up.

Everyone was waiting for the poet to reply.

But Soumya... couldn't.

She stared at the screen, her heart thudding like it was trying to escape her chest.

Meet him?
Stand in front of him—exposed, real—her body no longer hidden behind metaphors?

She typed and deleted responses all night.

What if he recoiled?
What if he looked disappointed?
What if he was only kind because he didn't see her?

So instead, she posted one final poem.

Day 13
Some words are safer when unread aloud.
Some dreams quieter when they stay inside.
I wanted to meet you—
But fear arrived first.
Forgive me.
Let the poems be the meeting place.

Always,
—The Girl Who Loved You in Silence

Since then, she never posted again.

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To be continued.

Chapter 2

The Search Begins

But Rudra didn't stop looking for the secret poet who had touched his heart. A few days after his public comment, he even shared a heartfelt post of his own:

"Strength is also about showing up.
Even if you're scared. Even if you're unsure.
To the poet—if you ever feel ready, I'll still be waiting.
No weights. No expectations."

Soumya read it every day. Sometimes in the quiet of her room, curled up beside her sealed journal. Sometimes with silent tears sliding down her cheeks. Sometimes with a fragile flicker of hope blooming in her chest—only to be smothered again by fear.

Maybe one day, she would find the courage to reply. Maybe not with a poem.

But with her voice. With her truth. With all the beauty she had been hiding beneath layers of self-doubt and insecurity.

But Rudra wasn't one to wait in silence.

He became obsessed with finding the girl behind the poems. He lingered near the literature department during breaks. He subtly compared handwriting from assignments. He even started attending open mic nights, staying through every shaky voice and stumbling rhyme, hoping for a familiar ache to return.

Nothing.

So finally, Rudra did something bold—something that sent the entire campus into a frenzy.

He announced a college-wide poetry audition titled "Ink Meets Iron." The tagline was simple: "No judgment. Only curiosity. Only connection."

Rumors spread like wildfire. Everyone knew this was more than an event—it was Rudra's public search for the secret poet who had stirred his soul.

The auditorium overflowed.

Girls came in droves—some sincere, some drawn by the fantasy of being the girl Rudra wanted. One by one, they walked onto the stage. They performed. They flirted. Some even mimicked the poetic style from the confession page. Everyone wanted to be her.

But Rudra? He listened intently. And he knew. None of them were her.

Their words were beautiful—but they weren't lived. They lacked the raw honesty, the trembling courage, the vulnerability that had poured out of the original poems. These were performances. Rehearsed. Safe.

And just when he began to accept that she might never reveal herself—Bhavya walked in.

Bhavya, with her sculpted features and unapologetic confidence. She was everything people celebrated: poised, polished, admired. Her selfies ruled Instagram; her stories were gospel for many. She commanded attention the moment she entered any room.

And now, she stepped onto the stage like it belonged to her.

"I'm the poet you've been searching for," she said, voice confident, eyes locked onto Rudra.

Gasps. A few murmurs.
And in the shadows of the second row, Soumya's heart stopped cold.

Bhavya pulled out a folded sheet. And then, with flawless articulation, she recited Day 5—one of Soumya's most personal, trembling poems.

Rudra looked stunned. Moved.
And then... he smiled.

Soumya's vision blurred. Her throat closed.

He believed her.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe he just wanted to believe the search was over. Maybe Bhavya's charisma filled the gap where truth should have been.

That night, Rudra and Bhavya were seen walking out of the auditorium together.

A few days later, they were officially dating.

Soumya was shattered.

She didn't confront Bhavya. She didn't message Rudra. She didn't try to reclaim her words.
She simply stopped writing. The poems ended. The journal stayed shut. The silence wrapped around her like a second skin.

But the heartbreak didn't stay quiet. It simmered.

She watched Bhavya flaunt the relationship on social media—mirror selfies at the gym, café dates with matching shakes, playful boomerangs of Bhavya teasing Rudra with a kiss. Each post was a dagger disguised as a filter.

Soumya pretended it didn't matter. She smiled when people mentioned them.
She laughed when someone teased, "Guess Rudra found his poet, huh?" But inside, the jealousy burned. Quiet. Hot. Relentless.

Then came the college fest.

The evening pulsed with music and fairy lights. Laughter floated through the air. The dance floor shimmered with movement and sound.

Rudra and Bhavya were the center of attention. Bhavya, in a red dress that clung like flame. Rudra, in his element—grinning, confident, perfect.

They danced. Twirled. Kissed.

And Soumya?

She stood in the corner, drowning in heartbreak. The girl who had once written verses brave enough to reach hearts now stood silenced by her own pain.

She hadn't planned to drink. But someone handed her a cup. She drank. It burned. She drank again. And again. Until the room swayed and her fear loosened its grip.

The music thudded in her veins. The betrayal howled in her bones.

And then—it happened.

Soumya stepped onto the stage.

Her vision was blurry. Her steps unsteady. But the mic was warm in her hand, and something fierce had awoken in her chest.

"You want a poem?" she said, voice wobbling, heart hammering.
"Here's one."

And she began to speak.

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To be continued.

Chapter 3

The Real Poet Speaks

The crowd quieted as Soumya gripped the mic, her knuckles white, the world spinning slightly from the alcohol and emotion. Her voice cracked, but it rang clear enough.

"You want a poem?" she repeated, more to herself than to anyone else.
Her eyes scanned the crowd. They landed on Rudra, who froze mid-laugh beside Bhavya.

She took a breath and let the storm inside her speak.

"To the Boy Who Was Never Mine — Even When I Wrote Us Into Being"

I wrote of you, day after day,
From a seat you never noticed.
I watched you lift others with your smile,
While I lifted my heart with hope.

You became my rhythm,
The beat behind my silence.
But I was never more than background noise—
A soft whisper beneath your heavy metal playlists.

They say poetry is truth wrapped in metaphor.
But here's the naked truth:

I'm the girl whose words you shared.
The girl who made your world a little softer—
From behind a screen,
Because face to face,
You'd have never looked at me the same.

I didn't come wrapped in gym selfies or crop tops.
I came in oversized hoodies and quiet exits.
But every line I wrote?
It had my breath. My fear. My love.

So no, Bhavya didn't write about your laugh.
She doesn't know that you adjust your earbuds twice before every set.
She doesn't know that you always pick the broken chair in class
so others won't have to.
I do.

Because I loved you
Before it was cool to.

And if love was weight,
I've carried enough to bench-press the sun.

But maybe poetry isn't enough.
Maybe honesty isn't sexy.
Maybe the real me isn't worthy of the you I imagined.

Still, I'd rather be unseen and real
Than admired for a lie.

So here I am.
Your poet.
No filters.
No anonymity.
Just Soumya.

Take it or leave it.

The mic thudded as she dropped it and stumbled off stage.

There was silence.

Then murmurs.

And then gasps—because Rudra stood up and walked away from Bhavya without a word.

He made his way through the crowd, eyes fixed only on one person.

Soumya had reached the side door, shoulders hunched, tears streaking her cheeks.

"Soumya!"
His voice stopped her.
She turned, arms crossed over her chest like armor.

He came closer.
Gentler. Slower.

"I should've known," he said. "I did know. Somewhere deep down. I just... couldn't believe someone could love like that."

She looked at him through glassy eyes. "I didn't want pity."

He shook his head. "This isn't pity. This is awe."

He stepped forward again.

"I read every word. I felt every word. And no one's ever seen me like you have. Not through filters. Not through mirrors. But through soul."

She looked away. "And yet you walked away with her."

"I was looking for you. I just didn't think... I never imagined you'd be that brave."

She laughed bitterly. "Drunk courage. Don't count on an encore."

He reached out, gently cupping her hand.

"I don't want an encore," he said. "I want the full book."

Silence stretched between them like held breath.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, she whispered: "You're really not embarrassed?"

He smiled softly. "Soumya, you're the only one who ever saw the boy behind the biceps."

Soumya stared at him, disbelief flickering in her eyes like the last candle resisting the wind.

"You don't care?" she asked again, her voice barely a breath. "That I don't... look like her? Like them?"

Rudra stepped even closer now, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating off him—not from the gym, but from something far more real.

"I care that you loved me when no one was watching," he said. "That you saw more in me than muscles and mirrors." "I care that your words made me feel something I didn't know I was missing."

Soumya blinked back tears, heart thudding louder than the DJ inside the auditorium.

"You really mean that?"

He nodded.

"And I mean this too."

And then—slowly, so she had time to step away if she wanted—Rudra leaned in.

His hand brushed her cheek, thumb catching a tear before it could fall. She didn't flinch. Didn't run. Didn't doubt.

For the first time, she didn't feel too big, too shy, too hidden. She felt seen. Desired. Enough.

Their lips met—softly at first, like a question. Then deeper, like an answer neither of them had dared to write.

And in that moment, Soumya's poems didn't just live on a page.

They lived in the space between two people—where silence turned into a kiss,and fear melted into something stronger than muscle.

Love. In its rawest, bravest form.

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The End.

I like the premise of this one. How will she find the mystery guy?

chapter 1

Rudra is a classy guy based on her observations. He is down to earth, not affected by his popularity.

Courage left her when it came time to meet. Her insecurity did not let her go forward.

I thought it was the girl looking for the mystery guy. But its a guy looking for the mystery girl.

chapter 2

Bhavya stole the poem and claimed it as her own. Did he actually believe it came from her? How would a girl like her have any fear?