In college, news never traveled quietly—it spread like wildfire, twisting
and reshaping itself with every tongue it passed through. What had happened
between him and her was no exception. Within days, whispers became judgments,
and judgments became "truths."
He was well-known, not for being loud or flashy, but for his quiet presence,
his sincerity, the way people gravitated toward him. That's why the whispers
hit harder—because everyone loved gossip, and gossip rarely cared about
fairness.
"It's always what a girl says that people believe first," Rahul muttered
bitterly one evening, listening to the talk around campus. Even though many of
his close friends—especially his female friends—stood up for him, vouching for
his character, the tide of rumor was merciless.
For him, it was unbearable. He stopped explaining himself. At first, he
tried—"It's not true… it was a misunderstanding…"—but the more he spoke, the
less anyone seemed to care. The silence felt safer than pleading against an
echo chamber.
And so he shut down.
What had once been his lively routine—classes, chai with friends, late-night
conversations—was replaced by a locked door and silence. Days blurred into
nights. He stopped attending lectures. He stopped meeting anyone. He stopped being.
Two months passed in this state of exile.
Inside his room, the air was suffocating. The windows remained shut, the
curtains never drawn. The floor was littered with cigarette packs, ash, and
empty bottles that clinked when nudged. Once, he had smoked and drank in joy,
in celebration with friends. Now, he did it only to hurt himself, to dull the
ache that gnawed at him.
Food no longer mattered. His body shrank under the weight of neglect—65 kilos fading into a
frail 56. His cheekbones sharpened, his eyes sank deeper, his clothes hung
loose. The boy who once wrote shayaris about her eyes, who once smiled under
the rain, now looked like a shadow of himself.
One evening, Rahul and Riya, unable to bear the silence any longer, decided
to check on him. They hadn't heard from him in weeks. Their knocks on the door
went unanswered. Rahul, jaw set with determination, forced the door open.
The smell hit them first—a foul mix of stale smoke, spilled alcohol, and
unwashed clothes. Riya covered her mouth, eyes watering as they stepped inside.
The room was a battlefield of despair—cigarette butts on the table, half-burned
joints scattered near the bed, bottles rolling underfoot.
And there he was.
Sitting slouched on the bed, head hung low, eyes bloodshot. His once broad
shoulders seemed smaller now, caved in, defeated. His hair was unkempt, his
face hollow, and his hands trembled faintly from the mix of intoxication and
emptiness.
Rahul's heart clenched. "Bhai…"
No response. He just looked at them blankly, as if they were strangers
breaking into his cave.
Riya's voice cracked. "What have you done to yourself?" Her eyes welled up.
"This… this isn't you. You're hurting yourself."
He let out a bitter laugh, dry and broken. "That's the point, isn't it? To
hurt. To feel something other than… this."
Rahul sat down heavily on the chair, running a hand through his hair. He had
never seen his friend like this—not even in his worst days. "You've lost almost
ten kilos… bhai, you're disappearing."
Riya knelt near him, tears streaming down her face. "Please… don't do this.
Don't punish yourself for someone who doesn't even care. You don't deserve
this. We need you. I need you."
For the first time in weeks, his eyes flickered with something—pain, guilt,
maybe even recognition. But the weight of his broken heart pulled him back into
silence.
He looked around his messy room, then at his trembling hands. And with a
voice heavy and hollow, he whispered, "I've already given up."
That night, Rahul and Riya stayed with him, cleaning up the bottles and
cigarette packs, trying to make the room breathable again. But they knew this
wasn't about the mess in the room—it was about the wreckage inside him.
And as they watched him curl back into himself, both of them
realized—bringing him back would take more than friendship. It would take a
miracle.