sunrise just barely dragging itself above the campus skyline—Arjun's out there already, coaxing his battered bicycle along those old, cracked walkways. It's the sort of morning where the bedsheets feel magnetic, you know? But like, who's got the luxury? He's not exactly on the universe's VIP list. His backpack, predictably, is hanging on one shoulder, zipper hanging open like it's gasping for air, probably plotting to bail at the worst possible moment. Inside, he's got his lunch: aloo paratha, wrapped up tight in foil, his mom's signature move. It's not just food—more like edible armor. Every bite's got her love baked in, which, honestly, he needs just to get through the day.
But today feels off. Not in-your-face obvious, just this weird, heavy vibe clinging to everything. Like someone switched the world to grayscale and forgot to tell him. You don't really notice it till it's too late—till the universe smacks you upside the head and says, "Surprise!"
He rolls his bike to a stop outside his usual haunt—the café with the ceiling that leaks more often than some people change socks, where the espresso machine whines like it's auditioning for a soap opera. If you're a student, you probably just see a place to kill time or maybe flirt over overpriced lattes. For Arjun? It's been his lifeline. He's worked so many shifts here, he could find the sugar packets blindfolded. The staff's a ragtag bunch—nobody's exactly living the dream, but there's a kind of solidarity in being broke together.
Except, not today. Soon as he steps inside, it's clear—vibe's off. Mr. D'Souza is there, looking like he just sucked a lime. Not even a hint of that usual tired smile.
"Arjun, we need to talk."
That's all it takes. His stomach hits the floor so fast, it might as well have taken the express elevator. He zones out while D'Souza launches into the script—tried to fight for him, owner wants someone "quicker," can't afford "delays." Corporate speak for: "Get lost, kid, you're replaceable." You'd almost laugh if it didn't sting so much.
No big scene, no raised voices. Just this cold, abrupt ending. Arjun keeps his cool, but his jaw's clenched so hard it hurts. He scoops up his last pay—it's barely enough for five days' worth of groceries, let alone rent or his mom's pills. Still, he just walks out into the blinding sunlight, blinking away the sting.
Now, some people would rage. Maybe flip a table, throw a mug, curse the world. Arjun? He just absorbs it. Maybe he's too tired, or maybe life's already thrown enough at him that he's gone numb to the hits. He knows what's at stake—his family's counting on him. There's no time to sit around licking wounds. So, he climbs back on that rickety bike, wheels creaking, and pushes off toward college.
Campus is a whole other reality show. It's not warmer, just shinier. You see these rich kids parading around, shoes brighter than their futures, acting like the place exists just for their Instagram stories. Arjun? He's the background noise, the kid they don't even register unless it's to toss out a cheap shot.
He's barely through the gate before the comments start flying. The classics: "Nice jeans, man—did you fight a tiger?" or "That backpack's seen some wars, huh?" And then the jokes about his bike. It's all recycled, but it still burns. He just shrugs it off, slides into the back row, and gets to work. Pen moving fast, scribbling notes like he's on a game show with a countdown clock. For him, school isn't just about grades—it's his ticket out. Every insult, every shove? Just more fuel for the fire.
Classes wrap, but the day's only half over. He ditches the books, grabs his delivery bag, and morphs into Arjun 2.0: the invisible courier. Bike's threatening to fall apart with every pothole, but it's hanging in there. He weaves through traffic, dodging honking cars and people who treat red lights like suggestions.
And right on cue, because the universe has jokes, there they are again—the same pack of rich kids, hanging out of a shiny SUV, faces lit up with that "aren't we hilarious?" look.
"Hey delivery boy, don't drop those parcels!"
"Careful, man—your bike might just die on you!"
"Your mom must be crying her eyes out, huh?"
It's the kind of stuff that could break a person. But Arjun? Nah. He just keeps his eyes locked ahead, doesn't even twitch. He gets it—if he reacts, they win. So he pedals harder, lets their words bounce right off. He's fighting bigger battles than their playground taunts.
By the time he finally drags himself home, it feels like he's waded through quicksand all day. Their apartment's tiny, the paint's peeling, but it smells like cardamom and old stories. His mom is waiting at the door, worry lines etched deep on her face. She tries to hide it, but he knows. He always knows.
"Everything okay?" she asks, voice soft but heavy, like she already senses the answer.
He gives her the practiced smile—the one that's supposed to say, "Don't worry," even though it never really works. "I'll manage," he says, voice steady but tired. And that's the thing about Arjun: he always manages. Doesn't mean it gets easier. Doesn't mean the world cuts him a break. But even when the day's chewed him up and spit him out, he finds a way to keep moving. Because, honestly, what's the alternative? Giving up? Not in his vocabulary.
He sets his bag down and helps his mom with dinner. They eat together, not talking much, just sharing the silence. There's comfort in that too. Tomorrow will probably be another grind, maybe even tougher. But tonight, at least, there's warmth, and home, and the quiet strength that comes from surviving—one brutal day at a time.