What happens when a college dare turns into a love story—and the perfect Instagram relationship starts revealing its not-so-perfect side? Days with My Red-Flag Girlfriend by Kajol Aikat dives into the messy, addictive world of modern college romance, where couple reels become relationship receipts and red flags are harder to ignore than ever.
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The first weekend of college felt like a house party with no curfew.
Fairy lights blinked across balconies, bass thudded through the walls and the hostel rooftop buzzed with laughter, smoke and the scent of instant noodles and cheap cologne. Freshers Week at Hansraj College was less about orientation and more about becoming someone new.
I leaned against the water tank, nursing a warm Coke and pretending to enjoy the music. My curly hair had that stubborn post-shower puff; my black T-shirt clung to my back in patches of nervous sweat. I didn’t know half the people here, and the ones I did were already performing for someone else’s Instagram story.
‘Vikrant bro, you’re the only one here not looking for content,’ said Karan, one of my newly adopted dorm-mates, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Chill. Loosen up.’
‘I’m chill,’ I muttered, eyeing the dancing crowd.
‘You look like you just got dumped by someone you’ve never dated.’
‘Thanks, Freud.’
The music changed to a desi-pop remix, and a louder whoop erupted from the group by the speaker. That’s when she walked in.
Tara Neer.
Crop top, cargo pants, hoop earrings and a messy bun that looked way too intentional to be an accident. Her smile wasn’t just charming—it had the weight of thousands of double-taps behind it. People parted for her like she was wearing a neon sign that said: Verified in Real Life.
‘Speak of the algorithm,’ Karan whispered. ‘Queen T. Two lakh followers and climbing.’
I glanced at her and quickly looked away. She was beautiful—and completely out of my orbit.
‘I dare you,’ Karan said suddenly. I raised an eyebrow. ‘To what?’
‘DM her. Right now, behenchod! Slide in, make her laugh. Let’s see those writer skills in action.’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh, come on. You write romantic poetry and quote Rupi Kaur when you’re drunk.’
‘That was once. And it was Nayyirah Waheed.’
Karan smirked. ‘Exactly. You have the soul of a simp.
Time to put it to use.’
Another guy in the group chimed in. ‘We’ll even pitch the first line for you: “Hey, are you a filter? Because you just made my day look better.”’
The group cracked up.
I rolled my eyes, pulling out my phone anyway. The screen lit up. I opened Instagram and searched: @taraneerx.
There she was. Her profile photo was a mirror selfie in natural light, #NoFilter vibes with a caption that read: Mood: Nobody’s type but still trending.
I hesitated. Then typed: ‘Your last reel had more personality than half the people at this party.’
I hovered over the send icon. My heart thumped. Karan nudged me. ‘Come on, Romeo. Slide.’
I hit send.
Nothing happened. Obviously.
By the time I returned to my room, the Coke had gone flat and so had my mood. The ceiling fan made a rhythmic thak-thak-thak noise that matched my overthinking. I opened my phone.
Seen.
No reply.
I groaned and tossed the phone across the bed. ‘Well, that was fun,’ I muttered.
Minutes passed. Then—
Ping.
My phone lit up.
‘That’s because I only spoke to half the people at that party.’
I blinked.
Is this . . . real? I wondered.
Before I could overthink it, another message appeared.
‘And I spoke only to the ones who send better pick-up lines than “Are you a filter?’
I sat up straight, adrenaline washing away my exhaustion.
Think of a fucking pick-up line, genius! It was hardest to come up with those lines when you needed them the most.
