₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

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₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Enjoy reading ✨️

The final bell had rung like a siren of liberation.

Exams were over. Pens were down. Brains were fried, but spirits soared.

The classroom looked like the aftermath of a small academic war zone. Crumpled papers littered the corners, half-eaten packets of chips were smuggled under desks, and water bottles rolled freely like they too were celebrating freedom. Some students had already vanished like ghosts once the bell rang, but a few remained, lingering in the afterglow of chaos — as if they didn’t want to let go just yet.

And among them sat four misfits, chaos wrapped in uniforms — Akshita, Vedika, Ishaan, and Siddharth.

Vedika had her head resting against the desk, a half-lazy smile playing on her lips. “I swear, if someone says ‘what’s your future plan,’ I will throw this chalk at their forehead,” she muttered, holding up the chalk like it was Thor’s hammer.

Siddharth leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs — the universal symbol of confidence and also “hospital emergency incoming.” He smirked, “What if I ask, ‘What’s our future plan?’” His voice dipped an octave lower, the flirt just as subtle as a hammer.

Vedika's brows raised. “Our?” she echoed, but her smile gave her away. She tried to roll her eyes, but they lingered too long on him.

Akshita, watching the two from the side bench, chuckled, “Kya scene hai yaar... Aaj kal flirt bhi syllabus ke jaise feel ho raha hai — padho bhi, samajh bhi na aaye.”

("What’s the scene these days, man... Even flirting feels like the syllabus now — you read it, but still don’t understand it.")

Ishaan, sitting with his legs dramatically spread across two benches and head resting on his bag like a throne, shot up and declared, “Bas! Tum log romantic film banate raho, main comedy club kholta hoon.”

("Enough! You guys keep making romantic films, I’ll go open a comedy club.")

He stood up, cleared his throat, and announced as if on stage, “Aur ab aapke samne, ek serious baat… Kal mujhe ek aunty ne bola ‘Beta, acche marks lao warna shaadi nahi hogi.’ Maine kaha, ‘Aunty, aapko toh shukar manani chahiye ki mujhe marks nahi aate… warna aapki beti ki shaadi mujhi se ho jaati!’ ”

("And now, a serious matter in front of you all… Yesterday, an aunty told me, ‘Beta, score good marks or you won’t get married.’ I said, ‘Aunty, you should actually be thankful that I don’t score well… otherwise your daughter would’ve ended up marrying me!’")

The classroom echoed with laughter.

Vedika clutched her stomach. “Ishaan! You’ll be the reason I fail laughing, not science!”

Siddharth pointed at Ishaan dramatically, “Shaadi se yaad aaya, bhaiya ke liye jo rishta aaya tha na last week? Woh ladki jo dentist hai... ya dimaag ki doctor thi?”

("Speaking of weddings, remember that proposal that came for big brother last week? The girl who’s a dentist… or was she a brain doctor?")

Ishaan puffed his chest, “She was a psychologist. Obviously attracted to a complex mind.”

“Complex mind?” Akshita raised a brow. “Beta tu toh woh maths ka question hai jisme number bhi confuse ho jaata hai.”

(“Kiddo, you’re like that math problem where even the numbers get all mixed up.”)

The banter flowed like summer breeze, pulling memories along with it.

Someone threw a paper ball at Ishaan. He caught it mid-air and opened it like it was a love letter.

Instead, it read: ‘Physics paper mein kya likha?’

("What did you write in the Physics paper?")

He sighed dramatically. “Main toh likhne gaya tha heartbreak aur poetry, par wahan log Newton aur Ohm ki baat kar rahe the.”

("I went there to write about heartbreak and poetry, but people were talking about Newton and Ohm.")

Akshita was bent over laughing, her eyes glistening with mischief. “Tu exam mein bhi stand-up karta hai kya?”

("Do you perform stand-up comedy even during exams?")

Vedika wiped her tears. “Yeh toh paper mein likh ke aaya hoga — ‘Zindagi ka real formula toh hasi hai, sir.’”

("He must've written in the paper — 'The real formula of life is laughter, sir.'")

Siddharth tilted his head, watching Vedika laugh, her hair falling gently over her face. He leaned closer, brushing a strand behind her ear — the movement barely noticeable.

Vedika froze for a second but didn’t move away.

Akshita saw it and blinked. "Aye haye… finally some drama between practical Vedika and poetic Siddharth. Humein toh laga yeh dono farewell mein sirf photos ke liye pose karenge."

("Oh wow... finally some drama between practical Vedika and poetic Siddharth. We thought these two would only pose for photos at farewell.")

Vedika blushed, murmuring, “Shut up.”

Siddharth smirked, “Main toh kehta hoon farewell ke baad honeymoon ki practice bhi kar lo... like group studies, but romantic.”

("I say you two should even start practicing for a honeymoon after farewell... like group studies, but romantic.")

Ishaan stood up, dramatically walking toward the window. “Waah. Kya dosti. Ek time tha jab Siddharth mujhe chips mein se bada tukda de deta tha. Aaj... strands adjust kar raha hai.”

("Wow. What a friendship. There was a time Siddharth used to give me the bigger chip piece. And today… he’s adjusting hair strands.")

Akshita giggled, looking out the same window, the afternoon light catching in her eyes. She sighed softly.

“Strange, isn’t it?” she said, her voice suddenly gentler. “How classrooms, which once smelled like panic and chalk, suddenly start feeling like nostalgia?”

Vedika turned to her. “Aaj tu philosophical zone mein hai?”
("You’re in a philosophical zone today?")

Akshita nodded slowly. “Think about it. We used to count minutes till the bell rang. Now we’re sitting here, wishing it never rings again.”

Ishaan plopped beside her, “Tu na TED Talk de, ‘From Boards to Broken Hearts — The Post Exam Philosophy.’”

("You should give a TED Talk — ‘From Boards to Broken Hearts — The Post Exam Philosophy.’")

Everyone laughed, even as a hush settled after that.

There was one bench, empty.

Siddharth noticed it and muttered, “Where’s your Avyansh?”

Akshita shook her head, lips twitching. “He’s not my anything.”

Vedika smirked. “Yet.”

Ishaan rubbed his hands like an evil scientist. “Library mein gaya hoga. Typical.”
("He must’ve gone to the library. Typical.")

“Of course,” Vedika said, “He probably said, ‘Main bheed se door rehta hoon.’”
("He probably said, ‘I stay away from crowds.’")

Akshita mimicked Avyansh’s voice, “Crowds are distractions. I prefer solitude.”

Ishaan stood up, dramatically acting like Avyansh. He squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, and deadpanned in a deep voice,
“I don’t laugh. I smirk. I don’t speak. I declare. I don’t study. I conquer knowledge.”

Vedika was wheezing.

Siddharth clapped. “Bas yaar! Avyansh ki shaktiyon ka tamasha ho gaya.”

("That’s it! We’ve had the grand exhibition of Avyansh’s powers.")

Akshita tried to maintain a straight face but gave in. “Poor guy. He just wanted peace.”

Ishaan crossed his arms. “Peace toh sabko chahiye, par exam ke baad doston ki roasting toh zaroori hai. Library jaakar bhi kya karega? Books ko good bye bol raha hoga?”

("Everyone wants peace, but post-exam roasting with friends is essential. What will he even do in the library? Say goodbye to his books?")

Vedika mimicked, “‘O beloved Physics book, you ignited the spark of electrons in my heart.’”

("‘O beloved Physics book, you ignited the spark of electrons in my heart.’")

Everyone roared.

Akshita shook her head. “He’s different, but honest. He doesn't fake interest to be cool.”

Siddharth added, “He’s a future CEO, that one. Quiet, dangerous types.”

“Dangerous?” Ishaan rolled his eyes. “Arre uska danger toh wohi hai ki agar has diya toh earthquake aa jaaye.”

("Dangerous? His only danger is that if he ever smiles, an earthquake might hit.")

Akshita chuckled but her gaze drifted to the empty bench again.

A pause.

Vedika noticed and gently bumped her shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” Akshita replied softly. “Just… it’s weird. We were all here. All year. Laughing, crying, living... And now, we’re heading towards this unknown... something feels off.”

Siddharth nodded slowly. “Like a calm before the storm?”

Ishaan suddenly shivered. “Mat bol yaar. Tu bolti hai tab kuch hota hai.”

("Don’t say that. Whenever you say such things, something really happens.")

Vedika tried to brush it off. “Come on guys, don’t ruin the mood.”

Ishaan agreed. “Haan, haan. Back to jokes. Okay, one last one before we graduate and get replaced by kids who think 'vibe' is a subject.”

("Yeah, yeah. Back to jokes. One last one before we graduate and get replaced by kids who think ‘vibe’ is a subject.")

He stood up, hands in the air. “Toh aakhri baar... Suno!”
("So for the last time… listen up!")

Everyone turned to him.

“Ek ladka exam mein fail ho gaya. Maa ne pucha — ‘Beta, tera result kaisa aaya?’

Ladka bola — ‘Maa, result aaya nahi… azaadi mili hai!’”

("A boy failed in his exam. His mother asked — ‘Son, how was your result?’

The boy replied — ‘Mom, no result came... I got freedom instead!’")

Even Akshita laughed through her thoughts. “You’re going to become a legend, Ishaan.”

He grinned. “Mujhe yaad rakhna, jab tum log boring office life jee rahe hoge... main reels bana raha hunga, ‘Exams vs Life’ type.”

("Remember me when you’re all living boring office lives... I’ll be making reels like ‘Exams vs Life’ type.")

As the sun dipped lower, golden light filtering through old rusting grills, laughter echoed in the walls — desperate, joyous, final.

And yet, beneath it all, there was something heavy in the air. The kind of silence that wasn’t silent… just hidden under chuckles. Like the last peaceful frame of a movie before everything changed.

Because none of them knew that this laughter would echo in their memories one day, like a photograph taken just before the storm hits. Before betrayals. Before truths shattered illusions. Before they realized that youth ends not when you grow up — but when the people you trust the most rewrite your story.

But for now... there was only laughter.

And an empty bench in the corner.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

The library was silent—too silent for a heart like his that beat with quiet storms. The golden dusk filtered through the tall windows of the palace-like school library, painting everything in a deceptive calm. He sat alone at the back, his science book lying open, untouched, while his pencil rolled lazily across the marble floor.

His fingers curled around the table’s edge. Something felt off. A silence inside him that wasn’t peace—but pause. A strange pause before chaos.

Ping.

The sound of his phone echoed in the void. A sharp, metallic sound against the soft rustle of turning pages somewhere far off.

He looked down.

Unknown number. One video. 15 seconds.

Brows furrowed. Suspicion flickered, but his thumb tapped almost reflexively.

The screen turned black for a split second. Then a familiar figure came into view.

Akshita.

Her farewell red saree shimmered in the sunlight. Her eyes sharp, voice low, confident. Something in her posture was unlike her. But then it came—the dialogue.

“Toh woh rahega bhi uske saath... lekin zinda nahi hoga.”

Silence.
He stared at the screen.

The video ended. He blinked.

Played it again.

Her lips moved again. Same words. Same tone. Same cruelty.

Then he may stay with her… but he won’t remain alive.

His breath caught in his throat. That voice—Akshita’s—but what she said… it wasn’t love. It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t care.

It was possession.

Like he was not a person. Like he was a thing—a trophy—something to claim and threaten others over. He, who had offered her quiet respect. Who had kept his distance, thinking she was… different. Who had defended her, against Kavya. Who had seen something fragile in her, something too raw to touch.

And this…

This was what lay beneath?

His hands trembled, not out of fear—but anger. Betrayal. Not because she loved him. No. But because if this video was true—if this was her—then she never saw him as him. She only saw something to control.

A thing.

"No."
He whispered, still staring at the frozen frame of her red saree.

He closed his eyes, but the words wouldn't fade. His jaw clenched. He opened the video once again.

Watched it again.

Again.

And every time, her words dug deeper. They weren’t violent on the surface. But to someone like him—someone raised with dignity, with the weight of legacy and restraint—it was worse than violence. It was insult. Humiliation.

“You said I was different…” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The chair scraped back violently. He stood.

His footsteps echoed as he strode out of the library, the old wooden door creaking behind him.

Corridors. Empty. Warm light. Laughs from distant classrooms.

But he didn’t see them. His hands were fists. His mind—fire.

He walked fast. Faster.

He needed answers.

He needed to see her.

He needed to ask—“Was it real?”

He paced forward, steps quickening, towards her classroom. He didn’t know what he’d say. He didn’t know if he wanted to scream, demand, or simply look her in the eyes and see if there was any answer.

His pulse raced.

His hands clenched.

He was halfway down the corridor when—

Ping.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

He paused.

Looked down.

The screen lit up.

KAVYA.

Her name. Bold. Blinking.

His throat dried.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

He just stared.

And in that single moment, something inside him snapped into place.

The fury didn’t fade.

It turned cold.

The fire turned into steel.

Because suddenly—he knew.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

Tucked away in the abandoned wing of the school building, the storeroom stood like a forgotten ghost of the past — untouched by renovation, unknown to joy. Its rusted iron door bore deep scratches and faded graffiti from a time when students dared to enter only for dares or mischief. But today, it would serve a much darker purpose.

The hinges groaned in protest as it creaked open, revealing a space drowned in shadows and decay.

The air inside was thick — unmoving — the kind that clung to your skin and sat heavy in your lungs. Every breath tasted like dust, rust, and old secrets.

Dim light filtered through a broken, cobwebbed window on the far wall, fractured into slanted beams that sliced through the gloom like broken glass. Dust danced in those rays — slow, floating — as if time itself refused to move here.

The floor was cracked concrete, lined with grime and fallen leaves that had somehow slipped in through forgotten cracks. Discarded exam answer sheets, old sports jerseys, and torn flags were crumpled in corners. The walls had paint peeling in curls — yellowed and water-stained, with fungal veins crawling along one side like dried blood vessels.

A towering metal shelf leaned precariously against the back wall, its edges corroded, stacked with rusted sports equipment: broken badminton racquets with snapped strings, deflated basketballs, abandoned cricket pads coated in mildew. Beneath it, wooden crates were piled like gravestones — chipped, some splintered, one with the school’s crest faded and barely legible.

A rotting wooden stool stood crookedly near the center, one leg shorter than the rest, its seat still bearing the cracked imprint of old gum and burn marks — the forgotten throne of some bygone mischief.

And in the corner, half-hidden in shadow, was a mirror. A narrow vertical rectangle, its surface fogged with age and fingerprints. The glass was fractured at one edge, reflecting reality in jagged fragments — much like the girl who would soon stand before it.

The ceiling fan above hung lifeless — rusted at the edges, dust-clogged, its blades unmoving even if the switch had been flicked. From its wires dangled a single cobweb thread, gently swaying, like a noose waiting to tighten.

Every sound — every shift, every breath — echoed louder than it should have. It wasn’t silence. It was a vacuum. Like the room was holding its breath, waiting for the act to begin.

There were no windows large enough to escape through. No CCTV. No eyes. No truth.

Only dust.
And lies.
And blood soon to follow.

This was not just a storeroom.

This was a stage.

A prison.

A battlefield of delusions and obsession.

Where Kavya would not just break the rules, but bend reality itself.

And once the door closed behind her — it wasn’t just locked.

It was sealed with madness.

Kavya stood by the window.

Dressed in her school uniform, a white shirt tucked into a navy skirt, red tie hanging loose, she looked like every other student celebrating the end of the year. But her eyes—they burned with something else.

Behind her, the three boys she’d manipulated before stood uneasily. Even they didn’t know why she had called them this time.

One of them cleared his throat.
“Kavya… kya kaam tha?”
("Kavya… what did you call us for?")

She didn’t answer.

Instead, slowly, deliberately, she walked to the broken windowsill. Her reflection barely shimmered in the fractured glass. The room was silent—unnaturally so.

Then—
BANG.

She slammed her forehead against the iron edge of the window frame.

Blood spurted instantly, flowing down the middle of her face, staining the collar of her white shirt.

The boys gasped. One took a panicked step forward.
“Kavya! Are you crazy?!”

She didn’t look at them. Her breathing grew rapid, her lips parted, eyes unblinking.

And then, with trembling fingers, she tore the sleeve of her shirt at the seam and held it out to one boy.

“Pakad. Zor se.”
("Hold it. Tight.")

He froze.
“Kya…?”
("What…?")

“Zor se pakad. Aisa lage ki kisi ne zabardasti ki.”
("Hold tight. So it looks like someone forced me.")

He flinched.
“Kavya, tu pagal ho gayi hai kya?”
("Kavya, have you gone mad?")

She gritted her teeth. Her voice cracked—not with pain, but with intent.

“Main sirf chahti hoon ke woh dekhe… aur soche… ke main tuta hua hoon. Ke kisi ne mujhe chhuna chaha. Bas utna hi.”
("I just want him to see… and think… that I’m broken. That someone tried to touch me. Just that much.")

Then she pulled her hair tie off, letting strands fall messily across her face. She dragged her own nails down her neck, just enough to leave thin red lines. Sweat mixed with blood. Her skirt had dust on one side, as if she had been shoved.

And finally, she looked at one boy.

"Do I appear as though I was abused or more like molested ?"

The boy’s hand shook as he nodded his head.

She struck her head once more, this time more forcefully. She lifted her hand toward her face and delivered a sharp SLAP, the sound reverberating in the quiet room. The boys stared at her, witnessing her madness.

Tears. Blood. Torn fabric. Bruises.

A carefully orchestrated scene.

Kavya took the phone. Her fingers smeared blood across the screen as she typed in a number—one no one could trace to her.

She sent the 15-second video.

The one which will destroy their world.

Which will destroy her.

To him.

The message was plain. No words. Just the video.

She watched it deliver.

Then, she reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out her own phone.

She wiped her tears, fixed her hair slightly, then stared at the screen.

The blood on her forehead had begun to crust. Her hands were still shaking—though from the thrill of control, not fear.

She dialed.

Avyansh.

As the phone rang, she whispered under her breath, a cruel smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Agar uske dil mein darr bithana hai… toh usse lagna chahiye ke sab kuch khatam ho gaya.”

("If I want fear to settle in his heart… he needs to believe everything is already destroyed.")

The call connected.

ᴛ ᴏ  ʙ ᴇ  ᴄ ᴏ ɴ ᴛ ɪ ɴ ᴜ ᴇ ᴅ

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