The campus felt alien now, every familiar path a foreign street leading him to a reckoning he desperately wanted to believe was a misunderstanding. The sun was a bruised orange, bleeding into the horizon, and the long shadows of the banyan trees twisted into grotesque, reaching fingers. He walked with a heavy, clumsy gait, his backpack a lead weight dragging him down. Each step toward the abandoned amphitheater was a clumsy prayer, a bargain with a god he didn't believe in. "Please let it be a prank," he whispered to the gathering dusk. "Please let her explain."
Rhea. Her name was a warmth and a wound all at once. He remembered her laughter, a delicate, tinkling sound that would erupt whenever he stumbled over a joke. He recalled the shy, self-conscious way he'd touch her hand, and the surprising firmness with which she'd squeeze back, a promise of a future that now seemed to be made of glass. He saw her smile—the one that reached her eyes, the one she'd give him when he'd feel acutely aware of his soft belly and the dark, acne scars on his cheeks. A smile that made him feel… worthy. For a fleeting moment, he was.
But the self-doubt was a persistent, burrowing worm in his mind. Why would someone as beautiful as her love someone like me? He wasn't the chiseled hero from the movies. He wasn't wealthy. He was just Harish, a boy from xxxxxxxxxxx with a family struggling to make ends meet, their hopes pinned on his engineering degree. The thought of her, with her light, graceful beauty, loving him, had always felt like a beautiful, fragile lie he was afraid to shatter.
As he rounded the last bend, the low hum of voices sharpened into a cruel chorus of laughter. He saw them first: Raunak, with his sneer and his expensive clothes, and his sycophantic friends. And then he saw her. Rhea.
His breath hitched. She was there, not tied up or in distress, but standing with them, a smirk playing on her lips. She wasn't just there; she was part of it, the center of the cruel circle. The world tilted. The bruised orange sun shattered into a thousand splinters.
"Look who it is," Raunak's voice sliced through the air like a rusty blade. "The big, sad elephant has arrived."
The laughter that followed was a physical blow. It wasn't the light, airy laughter Harish had cherished. It was ugly, derisive, a sound meant to humiliate. Harish's heart, a moment ago a desperate drum of hope, now shriveled into a painful knot. He saw Rhea look at him, her eyes devoid of any warmth, any regret. It was the same look she'd use to dismiss a beggar on the street. It was a look that said, "You are nothing."
Every kind word he'd ever spoken to her, every gift he'd carefully chosen, every dream he'd woven around her—they were all twisting into weapons, now wielded by them. He felt the blood rush from his face, leaving him cold and clammy. His hands clenched into fists, but it wasn't anger; it was a desperate, burning shame. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but his voice was a broken thing trapped in his throat.
"Did you really think she'd be with someone like you?" another voice chimed in. "Seriously? Look at you. You're a walking joke."
Harish instinctively shrank, hunching his shoulders, wishing the shadows would swallow him whole. He felt his own body, a source of innocent shame, become a target. He hated the way his stomach hung over his belt, the way his skin looked dark and oily in the dim light. He had been so blind, so foolish to believe someone like her could genuinely love him. He blamed himself. He blamed his desperate, pathetic hope. He deserved this.
He just stood there, a statue of humiliation, searching for a single flicker of humanity in Rhea's eyes. A look that said, "I'm sorry." It never came. The rain began to fall, a cold drizzle that mixed with the sweat on his brow. The laughter followed him as he turned and stumbled away, his feet clumsy and his mind adrift. He walked blindly, the sound of their cruelty a chisel, chipping away at the last fragments of his self-worth.
The world outside the hostel was a watercolor blur of muted streetlights and slick, dark asphalt. Harish was lost in his own head, replaying the night's events in a brutal, endless loop. He remembered the small, secret notes Rhea had left in his textbooks, the way she'd lean on his shoulder during a late-night study session. Every kindness, every soft word, now felt like a carefully laid trap. The warmth of those memories turned to a bitter poison, an acid that ate away at his insides.
And then, his thoughts turned to home. He saw his mother, her hands wrinkled from years of waking at the crack of dawn to make him fresh parathas, her face etched with a quiet dignity and tireless love. He saw his father, his back bent from years of hard labor, the callouses on his hands telling stories of sacrifice, but a proud smile always found its way to his face when he spoke of his son, his "Harish Babu." He recalled his little sister, her eyes wide with dreams and innocent hope, her belief in him absolute. They had sacrificed so much for him, pinning all their hopes and dreams on his success, their mantra a simple, powerful prayer: "Harish will make us proud."
The shame intensified, a hot, searing thing in his gut. What would my mother say if she saw me now? he wondered, the rain washing away the grime of the city but not the dirt on his soul. How disappointed would my father be if he knew I wasn't strong enough? The streetlights, hazy and haloed in the rain, bled into the soft, flickering glow of the old lamp on their study table back home. The sound of a car passing was his sister's excited shout during a monsoon downpour, her joy a sharp, painful contrast to his despair.
A voice, too close and too real, snapped him out of his reverie.
"One less mouth for his family to feed…" Raunak's cruel words, dripping with a cold, casual evil, cut through his pain. Harish turned, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Raunak and two of his friends stood there, their faces contorted into ugly masks of malice.
Harish looked around, a desperate, animalistic glance. The street was empty. The world felt enormous and indifferent. There was no one to help, no one to see. No one knew what was happening to him, not a single soul except his faraway family, who were sleeping soundly, dreaming of a son they didn't know was about to be broken.
He stumbled backward, the fear a coiling snake in his stomach. Raunak and his friends closed in, their shadows long and menacing in the dim light. The sound of a heavy engine grew louder, a roaring beast barreling down the road. Harish's mind, a battlefield of pain and humiliation, suddenly became clear, his focus narrowing to the headlights of an oncoming truck, blinding and massive.
It was in that moment, seconds before the impact, that his entire life began to flash before him. He wasn't just remembering; he was living it all over again, a torrent of love and pain and hope. He heard his mother's low, fervent prayers in the temple. He felt the roughness of his father's calloused hands on his head, a gesture of quiet pride. He saw his little sister's face, lit up with the simple wish for a new doll for Diwali. He wanted, with a desperation so fierce it was a physical ache, one more chance. Just one more chance to see them, to hold them, to prove he wasn't weak. He wanted to protect them, just as they had always protected him.
His heart was a frantic, terrified drum, his skin clammy with cold sweat and rain. Regret, a sharp, bitter taste, filled his mouth. He loathed himself for his naivety, for his weakness, but at the same time, a fierce, protective love for his family burned bright, a tiny, defiant flame in the gathering darkness.
The truck's horn blared, a final, deafening scream. In that instant of rupture, all the memories collided: Rhea's beautiful, deceitful smile, his family's loving laughter, his own innocent childhood hopes, all blending with the overwhelming terror and a deep, soul-shattering longing. And then, everything broke. The world tore open, not with the sound of a crash, but with a tearing, an unraveling of reality itself. All his memories, emotions, and regrets were sucked into a vortex of screaming colors and impossible shapes, pulling him into a place that was not meant to be.
He woke to a strange silence, a silence so profound it felt like a heavy blanket. His body ached, a deep, pervasive throb that felt both real and impossibly distant. The ground beneath him was not the cold, wet asphalt, but a smooth, strange stone. He opened his eyes, and a sky of shifting, impossibly bright stars greeted him.
His first instinct was a desperate, guttural cry for the familiar. "Amma..." he choked out, his voice a hoarse whisper. He wanted to hear his mother's voice, a soft, soothing comfort. He longed for the feel of his father's strong hand on his shoulder, a silent encouragement. He ached for his sister's bright, joyful laughter. But there was nothing. Only the strange silence of this new world.
He was alive, he realized, his mind a jumble of fractured memories and brutal reality. He had survived, but at a cost. The world he knew, the family he loved, the simple life he had, were all gone. All that remained were the burning embers of his memories, a raw, painful motivation. The betrayal, the humiliation, the love, and the sacrifice of his family—they all swirled within him, no longer just memories, but a new, terrible fuel.
As he slowly pushed himself up, a strange, burning sigil appeared on the back of his hand, pulsing with a faint, crimson light. It was a brand, a mark of his new existence. In that moment, a vow, cold and sharp as a newly forged blade, settled in his soul. If I ever see them again, he swore to the silent, alien stars, it will be as someone worthy. Not just of love, but of fear, of awe, and of respect.
He took his first step in this new world, a world of Nexus Tower and unknown rules. His determination, forged in the twin fires of love and betrayal, was a terrifying new strength. His soul, once a vessel of meek hope, was now branded both literally and metaphorically, broken and remade into something else entirely.