Chapter 2: The Presentation of a Lifetime
February 2025 – Bangladesh University, English Department
The first few weeks of university were a blur of humid bus rides and the lingering numbness of January. Rimon had barely attended a single lecture. He was a ghost in Batch 66, a name on a digital roster that nobody could put a face to. While his classmates were busy making friends and taking selfies in the cafeteria, Rimon was usually at a tea stall in Keraniganj, staring at the muddy banks of the Buriganga, feeling the weight of the rain at Shia Mosjid still clinging to his soul.
Then came the First-Year, First-Semester presentation.
"Group 4: Shoaib Bashar Rimon, Mahima, Riyad, Nabila, and Mursalin," the professor announced, tapping the wooden podium. "Topic: The Romantic Poets and the Nature of Solitude."
Rimon finally showed up. He walked into the classroom wearing a plain black t-shirt, his 5'11" frame slouching slightly, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. He sat down with his group, his eyes meeting Mahima's for the first time.
She didn't give him a "welcome back" smile. She gave him a look of absolute, academic interrogation.
"So, the 'Lazy Genius' finally decides to grace us with his presence?" Mahima said, her voice sharp but strangely melodic. "We've done 70% of the research, Rimon. You better be good at talking."
Rimon looked at the notes Riyad and Mursalin were shuffling. He glanced at the slides Nabila had prepared. In ten seconds, his brain—the one that could calculate the flight of a ball through a crowded penalty box—dissected the entire presentation.
"Solitude isn't just about being alone," Rimon said quietly, his voice catching the group off guard. "It's about the space between who you are and who the world wants you to be. Wordsworth wasn't just looking at daffodils; he was looking for a way to breathe."
Mahima paused, her pen hovering over her notebook. She looked at him—really looked at him—and the frustration in her eyes softened into something like curiosity. "Okay... maybe you are the genius they say you are."
Over the next few weeks, the "Nature of Solitude" became the foundation of something else. They met in the library, in the empty hallways, and over shared plates of singara. Rimon didn't talk to girls—he didn't trust them after Sneha—but with Mahima, it was different. She was a storm, and he was the anchor. They became friends, then best friends, inseparable shadows in the English Department.
May 13, 2025 – The Transition
It happened in the early hours of the morning, at 2:00 AM.
Rimon was lying in his bed in Keraniganj, the ceiling fan humming above him. He was on the phone with Mahima. They had been talking for four hours.
"Rimon?" Mahima's voice came through the receiver, soft and vulnerable in the silence of the night. "Why do you always look at me like you're afraid I'll disappear if you blink?"
Rimon gripped his phone, the words hovering at the edge of his lips. The "I love you" was right there, a goal waiting to be scored, but his heart stuttered. He almost said it. He almost crossed the line. Instead, he whispered, "Because some things are too good to be real, Mahima. Let's talk more this afternoon. Bengal Boi, 4:00 PM?"
"I'll be there," she replied.
That afternoon, Dhanmondi was alive with the usual Dhaka chaos, but inside the serene, book-filled walls of Bengal Boi, the world felt quiet. They sat in the outdoor area, the greenery casting soft shadows over them.
Rimon looked at her—the girl who had stayed by his side while he was still healing from a betrayal she didn't even fully know about. He didn't use a script. He didn't use poetry.
"Mahima," he started, his voice steady. "Since February, the only goal I've cared about is making sure you're always in my line of sight. I don't just want to be your best friend. I love you. Truly."
Mahima didn't make him wait. A small, triumphant smile played on her lips—the look of a girl who had known the answer before he even asked the question.
"Finally," she whispered, leaning across the small table. "I've been waiting for my 'Lazy Genius' to catch up. I love you too, Rimon."
As they sat there, officially starting a relationship that would soon become deep, possessive, and beautifully obsessed, a strange sensation washed over Rimon. It wasn't the romantic thrill he expected. It was a cold, sharp clarity.
Suddenly, the air around him seemed to hum. A translucent blue screen flickered for a microsecond in his peripheral vision, so fast he thought he'd imagined it.
[Sync Rate: 0.1%... Emotional Anchor: COMPLETED.]
[The Last Kings' Legacy: Protocol 'Rebirth' is now dormant. Waiting for the Arena.]
Rimon blinked, rubbing his eyes. "You okay?" Mahima asked, her eyes searching his face with that trademark intensity.
"Yeah," Rimon smiled, taking her hand. "Never better."
He didn't know it yet, but by choosing Mahima, he had unconsciously chosen the path of the Kings. The boy who only talked to one girl was about to have the whole world talking about him.