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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: The Quiet Storm

The world hadn't ended, not exactly. But for Shubh, seventeen and sick of everything, it may as well have. Another morning, another alarm clock he didn't remember setting. He stared at the ceiling of his small room, listening to the birds outside sing their mindless songs. He used to love those sounds. Now they just reminded him that life went on, with or without him.

He rolled over, trying to escape the daylight, but the weight in his chest dragged with him. That old friend. That ache. Sometimes it was sharp and hot, like anger. Other times, like today, it was cold. A frost blooming quietly across his ribs. He didn't cry. He hadn't in years. It was as if the tears got scared of the dark and left him behind.

Downstairs, the clatter of dishes meant his mother was up. She'd call him for breakfast soon. She always did. And he'd go, like he always did, and pretend to eat. Pretend to smile. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

But today felt different. Not better. Just... heavier. Like the air had shifted. The sky outside his window looked normal, but something beneath his skin whispered, pay attention.

School was the same gray building, same faces, same muttered hellos and dead-eyed teachers. Shubh moved through the halls like a ghost, invisible to most, which suited him fine. He liked being overlooked. People couldn't disappoint you if they never noticed you.

But in second period, something happened.

He was doodling in his notebook, bored out of his mind, when a sharp pain hit him between the eyes. He gasped. For a second, it felt like his brain had split open—but then it passed. The world snapped back into focus.

And suddenly, he heard it.

"God, I hope he doesn't sit next to me again. He always smells like smoke."

Shubh looked up. The girl beside him wasn't speaking. But he heard her. Inside his head.

His heart jumped. He turned toward the boy across the aisle. "Man, I forgot to delete my search history last night. If Mom checks my laptop I'm screwed."

The boy wasn't talking either.

Shubh clutched the sides of his desk. His breath came shallow. The thoughts—they were everywhere. Floating above heads, buzzing through the air like radio signals. He could hear them. All of them.

He stood up too fast. The chair scraped behind him.

"Shubh?" the teacher asked. "Everything okay?"

He didn't answer. He left the room.

Outside, in the hallway, the noise was louder. Thoughts colliding. Echoing. Layered over each other like overlapping songs. He covered his ears, but that did nothing. The sound wasn't outside. It was inside.

He rushed to the bathroom, locked himself in a stall, and tried to breathe. Inhale, exhale. This wasn't real. Couldn't be.

But it was.

Because even with his hands over his ears, he could still hear the janitor thinking: "I hate this damn job."

And the girl crying in the hallway: "Why doesn't he love me back?"

And worst of all, his own voice, whispering back: "What the hell is happening to me?"

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