The door creaked open, and a girl stepped inside hurriedly, her eyes searching, lips pressed in desperation. The supervisor's sharp voice cut through the stillness. "You're late! Take your seat — right there," he scolded, pointing to the empty chair beside me.
Her footsteps were quick as she slid into the seat next to me. I felt her arm brush sharply against mine — a small jolt raced through my chest, sudden and unexpected. My heart thumped hard enough that I wondered if anyone else could hear it.
Then she reached for her pen — and realized she had forgotten it. Her eyes flicked to mine hesitantly. I fumbled, then handed her mine wordlessly.
I glanced at her then, noticing the soft curve of her smile and the deep mystery in her eyes. She asked me for pen, i gave her my pen. A strange thought crossed my mind — was she real? Or just a figment of my weary, hopeful mind? Did anyone else see her? The question made no sense, but it raced through me anyway.
I kept my head down, pretending to write answers while my thoughts raced wildly around the presence of this mysterious girl beside me.
The morning sun poured gently through the classroom windows as the new day began. After the draining Sunday exam, the air inside Phoenix Classes felt lighter, as if the weight of the paper had lifted. I packed my books carefully, my fingers still tracing the faint ink marks from yesterday's test.
As I stepped out of the classroom, Kaustub fell into step beside me, his usual energetic presence a warm contrast to my quiet thoughts. He glanced around cautiously, then leaned closer with a mischievous grin.
"Hey, do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low like he was about to reveal a great secret.
I chuckled softly, the sound surprising even myself. "Trust you? Yeah, I guess. What's up?"
He hesitated for a moment, eyes flickering with something vulnerable. "Have you ever… done true love with anyone? Like, really felt for some girl?"
I laughed outright, shaking my head. "Come on, Kaustub. I haven't even had time to look at girls, let alone fall for one. My whole world's been about books and exams."
Kaustub's grin softened, and he looked away, cheeks reddened. "I… I do. There's this girl. I really love her. Her name's Sneha. And I… I think this time it's real."
For a moment, I just listened—feeling strange stirrings inside me, the unfamiliar ache of hearing about someone else's love.
The afternoon was hot and restless as I waited outside Phoenix Classes, watching the clock tick slowly toward 4:00. Usually, my routine was simple—show up for the 5–8 batch, sit quietly on my bench, disappear behind my books. But Kaustub was insistent: "Please, just come for the 4–7 batch today. Sneha is there. We'll sit together—maybe, just maybe, we'll have a chance to talk to her."
I agreed, feeling the thrill and nervousness knot in my stomach.
We slipped into the classroom early enough to snag a seat—the last bench of the girls' row, inconspicuous yet strategic. Kaustub pointed discreetly. "Middle bench. That's Sneha." She was absorbed in her notebook, oblivious to our anxious plotting.
"Okay… but how in the world do we talk to her?" I whispered.
Kaustub's eyes danced with mischief. "Her friend sits in front of us. If we can talk to her, maybe she'll help us."
My heart skipped. The girl Kaustub pointed out was the mysterious one from the Sunday exam—the same who'd borrowed my pen. The coincidence felt strange and significant.
Trying to appear calm, I leaned forward and whispered, "Hey—I have something important to say…"
Just then, our teacher cast a sharp glance over the room. Panic flashed between us. Kaustub gestured, "Write it on paper! Pass it to her!"
But my hands were clumsy, struggling to scribble fast.
Suddenly, the girl herself, sensing our hesitation,
There was a big bench where three girls were sitting together, sharing the space. One of the girls noticed me and softly whispered from down below, "Come down for a second—there's room here." She made a small space on the bench and motioned for me to squeeze in and sit between her and another girl. I carefully climbed up and settled into the spot she had saved for me.
I slid into place, feeling awkward but determined, trapped between two classmates. "Look, my friend Kaustub… he likes your friend Sneha. Doesn't know how to talk. Can you help us?" I muttered.
She listened, eyes sympathetic, as I stammered out the story. She nodded understanding, promising to help. But then I felt a presence—the teacher was approaching, scanning for trouble. Instinct took over. I ducked lower, pretending to search beneath the benches.
Teacher, "What are you doing?" the teacher inquired.
"My pen fell down," I replied, feigning a desperate search.
He paused, then nodded, moving on.
I slipped back to my own seat, heart pounding but relieved. The plan was underway.
After classes ended, everything changed. As Kaustub and I gathered our books, the girl from the bench—her expression sharp and serious—strode right up to us. Without warning, she started scolding us, her voice low and intense: "What do you both think you're doing? This is not the time for these distractions. Focus on your studies!"
At first, she zeroed in on me, misreading the whole situation. She thought I was the one interested in Sneha, her friend, and I fumbled to explain while Kaustub stood awkwardly by. The misunderstanding stung a little, especially as her glare became more personal than I'd expected. For a few heated moments, her words tumbled over one another, and we barely managed to get in a word of clarification.
Finally, after some sputtering explanations, the confusion unraveled. She paused, exhaled, and the lines of worry in her forehead softened. "So it's not you—it's Kaustub? Oh..." she said, glancing between us and, for the first time, truly understanding.
She drew a deep breath. "Listen, both of you," she continued, shaking her head, "don't get involved in all this. Friendship is okay, but you cannot let anything distract you now. All this—you can do later. Right now, studies come first, understood?"
Kaustub, however, was relentless. He promised her there was nothing wrong with making a new friend, just a simple friendship, and finally, she relented with a half-smile. "Fine, just don't do anything foolish."
That was the first time I heard her say her name—the name that, somehow, I would never forget: Gayatri.
As the days rolled on, Gayatri held true to her promise—helping Kaustub connect with Sneha, sometimes nudging, sometimes playfully scheming. Soon, the four of us—Gayatri, Sneha, Kaustub, and I—became an unlikely circle. I shifted fully to the 4–7 evening batch and also started attending morning lectures with Kaustub so we could coordinate plans (and so he could find excuses to walk with Sneha after).
Time at Phoenix Classes rushed forward, blending early mornings with late evenings, lectures and revisions, classroom laughs and anxieties. Kaustub and Sneha's bond grew fast—they would talk and walk together between breaks, whispering and smiling across classrooms while Gayatri and I often found ourselves quietly left behind.
Gradually, Gayatri became my anchor—a mature, quietly encouraging friend. She'd help with notes, explain doubts, and check up on me with a kind patience no one else offered. On the other side, Kaustub was increasingly wrapped up with Sneha, the pair quick to find common ground, their conversations blooming.
Beneath all this, my real battles never stopped. Every day was a struggle to keep up, knowing I no longer belonged to any school and that only coaching stood between me and failure. My parents pinned hopes on my shoulders and my reputation in family and friend circles felt fragile—one misstep and everything could slip. Yet, neither Kaustub nor I ever told anyone—not even Gayatri or Sneha—that we were both appearing as external students, not officially enrolled in PDEA (the reputed local school), just pretending for the sake of acceptance and normalcy.
Studying became my entire world, sandwiched between middle-class pressure and my own fear of disappointing those who loved me. Gayatri knew I worked hard, but not exactly why. Together, we made a habit out of survival.
As the weeks went by, Kaustub grew ever bolder—sharing dreams, rushing through homework just to spend a few more minutes talking to Sneha. One ordinary afternoon, Kaustub decided to tell her how he really felt.
In the corridor, he drew a shaky breath, looked right into Sneha's eyes, and confessed, "I really like you. More than just a friend. Will you…go out with me?" The words hung in the air, heavier than any exam result.
Sneha stood frozen in surprise, words lost. For a long moment, she was silent—turning over Kaustub's hopes in her mind with the uncertain calm of someone unprepared for the truth.
After Kaustub poured his heart out, Sneha was left stunned. The words seemed to hang in the air, too heavy to grasp all at once. She didn't answer him—not then, not in that moment. The next day, her seat in the coaching class was empty, and for several days after, she didn't return at all.
Rumors went around that Sneha had fallen ill. But those who saw her said it was no ordinary sickness—it was the kind that made you stare at the ceiling long into the night, heart pounding with questions. They called it "love fever," joking softly behind her back, but for Sneha, it was all confusion and overwhelming emotion.
As all this unfolded, my own challenges continued. Each day started before sunrise and ended late after the last revision. I studied relentlessly—preparing notes, memorizing formulas, reading and rewriting the same pages until my fingers cramped. The pressure from home—middle-class hopes, lost reputation, my own fear of being a failure—pressed down harder with every poor score I brought home.
Despite the marathon of effort, my results barely improved. I felt like I was sprinting underwater: always moving, always working, but never quite reaching the surface. I watched friendships form, hearts burst open, even as I quietly struggled in the background, determined to prove myself, no matter how far behind I seemed.
Time moved on steadily, the days folding into one another like the slow turning of a well-worn book. Sneha's return to coaching breathed life back into our little group. The four of us—Gayatri, Sneha, Kaustub, and I—soon found ourselves walking those familiar paths again, immersed in conversation and shared dreams.
One Saturday, when the usual rush of classes gave way to a rare holiday, we planned to meet in the local garden. I arrived early on my scooty, the handlebars steady beneath my hands—a small symbol of control amid the chaos of my life. Kaustub was restless, eager to use the chance to finally speak to Sneha, while Gayatri approached me with a question laced with quiet hope.
"Can you teach me to ride the scooty?" she asked, her voice soft but determined.
I nodded, hiding the flicker of nervousness I felt. Sitting behind her, I gripped the waist of a slightly trembling girl as she awkwardly turned the ignition. The engine sputtered, and she eased forward slowly. My heart hammered as we wobbled toward the garden gate—half clinging to life and half bracing for disaster.
Suddenly, a sharp screech rent the air. I squeezed my eyes shut tight as the scooty jolted violently to a stop.
When I dared to open my eyes again, we were parked safely near the garden, and Gayatri was laughing quietly.
"I think I almost gave you a heart attack," she teased, mischievous and proud.
Not long after, Kaustub took over, his energy filling the air as he tried patiently to guide Gayatri's hand on the throttle.
Meanwhile, Sneha and I drifted into the gentle shade of the garden's older trees. We walked slowly, voices mingling quietly with the rustle of leaves. We spoke of endless notes, upcoming exams, and quiet pressures—the kind only someone who studies every night understands.
Time passed too quickly, and soon Sneha glanced down at her watch. "I have to go," she said softly. "Can you drop me home?"
I agreed without hesitation, the gentle ride back in the twilight filling my chest with a calm I rarely felt.
But just as we turned down her street, a shadow crossed her cousin brother's path. He spotted the two of us from a distance—and without knowing the full story, he noticed his friend nearby, watching intently as Kaustub and Gayatri has now gone away at their homes
The pieces began to fall into place in the wrong way, setting the stage for a misunderstanding bound to ripple through fragile friendships.
The morning sun barely warmed the streets as I slipped into the coaching center, my heart thudding a warning beat. News had reached me like a cold gust—Sneha's brother was planning to bring some boys to rough me up, to teach me a lesson without words. The threat lingered in the air like smoke, thick and unsettling.
My mind raced. I couldn't afford to run or hide, not when pride and survival were on the line. Yet, fear was a shadow at my heels.
When evening came, I made a decision—I wouldn't show up for the 4–7 batch. The thought of facing those angry eyes, fists clenched, was unbearable.
But pressure pulled me back—from Kaustub, from duties, from the relentless need to keep moving forward. I steeled myself and went.
Back inside the crowded classroom, Kaustub pulled me aside, his eyes wary. "He's here," he whispered. Sneha's brother—a looming figure standing by the door, surrounded by a few big, silent boys.