When the "Grade 8 United" chat eventually fell quiet after the raid, it wasn't an unblemished quiet. It was the sort that buzzed — like a wire still resonating after a bell is rung. Alerts ceased, but individuals continued to speak in classrooms, in canteens, in the corners where rumors took hold.
By morning, everyone had heard. And because everyone had heard, the question returned to the group like a demand: What do we do now?
They all stared at me. In a sense I'd become the focal point of the story, the hurt party whose truth needed to be avenged or repaired. I might have kept quiet, might have left it to the others, might have smushed it legally and ended the saga with stamped documents and a wagging finger. But I recalled how Nikita smiled standing in that doorway and how easily she shredded her sleeve and fashioned it into a weapon. I recalled the chill in her tone.
"So," I wrote in the group, and my message was brief, "she remains until the end of the year. We make her life here unbearable. Let her experience a fraction of what she made me experience."
A silence. A minute of silence in a thousand-line conversation seemed infinite.
Then a response: Done. She'll regret this.
Others poured in with the same cold, anxious assent. Schemes were hushed at first, then stapled like a blue print. Individuals offered to "ignore" her in school, to "lose" her books on purpose, to pretend to be shocked when she entered a room. It was mean, it was tedious, and it was relentless. The clique broke up after that — job well done — but the tide had started.
That is the way Nikita's hell started.
She didn't expect it. Why would she? She had persuaded a room full of grown-ups to believe in her tears. She had believed the recording was gone, believed the one she referred to as "weak" had no strength left. Her smugness made it worse — she went to class that morning with the same gentle smile she always wore as protection. But the protection wore off.
Ayushi, who had instructed her to "stay away from Krishanu," greeted her at the entrance and feigned a courteous surprise. "Oh, is this seat taken?" she inquired, and as Nikita attempted to sit down there, Ayushi remarked, "Actually, my friend's coming." It was a tiny pinprick but it was biting. One rejection. Two. The desk next to her filled with stony heads and turned faces.
Paper planes began to fly. Not jokes at first; little, aimed things — a crumpled piece of paper that sailed into the corner of her notebook, a tinkle of laughter when she folded it up. PK began to send them on purpose, that smirking expression on his face that was once amusing when he targeted teachers. She politely laughed once, twice, and then snapped when one hit with a soft whap against her cheek. "Stop it," she spat, voice breaking for the first time in front of anyone.
They ignored her.
During break, children huddled together to gossip. "Did you hear about her?" one would whisper. "She pretended everything," another voice would reply. The rumour spread like water spilled, unseen hands shoving it into every crevice. Teachers saw. They glared. They grumbled. But the school is an institution, and institutions are slow. Before an adult could restore order, the web of petty cruelties had spread.
She would arrive for class and the book she required would be "missing." The answer key would be pulled out from under her fingers with a thoughtless "Oh, sorry." Invitation notes for group studies would be ignored. She was even shoved roughly once in front of the lockers, the kind of push that might be brushed off as a busy hallway. The excuse was always the same: "Must be an accident." That grayness protected anyone who sought an excuse.
It succeeded. Gradually, the world she'd created at school crumbled.
I watched her for weeks from afar, an inexpensive spectator name among the throng. Somewhere in my heart, I felt a satisfaction — righteous, cold. She had used her tears as bait; now the blade would be slowly, systematically turned. But another part of me saw how her shoulders slumped that little bit more every day, how her eyes lost their sparkle. Her smile thinned; it no longer curved the lines around her mouth into warmth.
The grades followed. Her marks began to quake as soon as they were steady at 98%. Teachers assessed careless errors. What was supposed to be an easy test became mines. The same person who'd been second to me the previous month, tied with me by a single mark, plummeted to seventy-something percents. Seventy-nine, then seventy-three — the numbers dwindled like a living thing deprived of breath.
When the parent–teacher meeting for the term came, the embarrassment was in public. Her parents sat shrouded in shame. The same other parents who had complimented her politeness earlier looked sideways today. "We heard…" they whispered. Heads nodded in accord. Fingers tapped at phones. Some parents even leaned forward and posed pointed, private questions that were intended to hurt.
Her mother gripped her hand and whispered apologies to each teacher who turned with respectful distaste. Her father's jaw was set hard. I stood in the corner of the hallway and felt an old, familiar burden — the fact that being human sometimes brought everyone back to calculations about who would treat you well and remember your name and who would not.
I heard; her parents arrived at my home, shuddering in the doorway. They pleaded. "Please," the mother begged, her eyes bloodshot, "please do not charge anything. Please — we will retract her name. We will transfer her somewhere else." Their tones were tiny and fractured.
My parents listened. They hadn't heard about most of the specifics until that time. When they heard the tale — the accusation, the tape, the humiliation — they were not heartless. They were proud. "You took care of it yourself," my father whispered that evening. "You didn't lose your head. You stayed calm. Don't make this more than it has to be."
My mother's voice was gentler. "Stop what you are doing to her," she said. "Please. This hatred — it will not make you better." Her worry threaded through the sentence like a needle. I wanted to say I wasn't doing anything; I watched as others acted. I wanted to say I'd never wanted her life to fall apart. But the truth had the flavor of iron: once in motion, a current sweeps along even those who pull the first rope.
"I didn't report her," I said to them, studying their faces. "I won't press charges." Getting it out hurt my chest; it also seemed like the least callous thing to do left. "But she will remain here through next year. I won't prevent the school from allowing her to complete the school year. I don't want to completely ruin her future."
My father scowled. "Then stop this yourself. Don't let other people take your revenge too far."
"I don't control other people," I said. "I did try to keep it in. I told PK to resent her name back to me, to disseminate the truth, not the torture. But once a crowd has decided, it is its own momentum."
They nodded, but their eyes silently asked the question no one dared to voice: *Will you stop it?*
How do you end something that has already started? How do you recall whispers that have become an ocean?
And so I said what came easily and what was honest enough to sleep with: "I will not complain. I won't be the one who destroys her life. I am done with that." I meant it, in part, but I also knew that "done" was a gentle word.
The next morning when her parents had gone out, she trudged into class and the stillness was absolute. Nobody said a word, but the atmosphere pushed against her like a hand across her chest. Someone bumped against her and acted as if they hadn't seen her. PK flicked another paper airplane that crashed to the ground and fell beside her shoes. She stared down, then upwards, then away. Her mouth formed a whisper — perhaps a prayer, perhaps a request for courage.
I watched, and I tasted the clear, horrible line between justice and brutality. I had revealed the falsehood. I had unveiled the truth. That had been imperative. But the consequences of the truth were ugly. Individuals united and utilized the liberty the truth provided them to punish, and punishment can turn into cruelty instantly.
Months dragged on. The year would pass, and she'd be gone. That was my deal, my little leniency. She would have to endure those months, bearing every look, every whisper, every push aside. She would have to see the gradebook petrify her into smaller figures. She would know — in each test, each lunch, each hushed word — what one thing can accomplish.
When night fell, when the house was still and my phone rested in the darkness between my bed and the window, I felt the familiar emptiness creep back. I hadn't wanted this. I had wanted merely the balance of truth. But balance had a heaviness. It pressed upon my chest like a rock.
Others had used people before. I had vowed that I would no longer be used. The cost of keeping that vow was becoming greater than I'd imagined.