It was almost a week since I had given my results to Anjali.
She was still tutoring me in maths, and I was still acting as if I needed assistance.
But along the way between her answers and my questions, the act slipped. She was a serious teacher — pedantic, patient, nearly elegant in the process of her thinking. Observing her concentrate was like hearing music. I recalled her tempo, the slight hesitations as she considered, the manner in which she clicked pen against notebook when stuck.
And now, the positions were reversed.
She taught me maths; I taught her science.
I already knew all that she struggled with — half of me wanted to impress her, the other half wanted to see just how far I could push her into reliance on me.
But she wasn't like the others — she didn't copy. She questioned, argued, and spent late nights redoing her notes. I found that… impressive.
Her improvement was rapid — frighteningly rapid. The child who had hit seventy-two was now in the nineties. She smiled more frequently now, as well.
I convinced myself that was the kind of result I desired. That this was all according to plan.
But somewhere between equations and formulas, things changed.
The line she had established between us — the unspoken line of teacher and pupil, helper and helped — was beginning to blur.
It cost me something.
To align with her schedule, I reduced my sleep from eight to five hours. Three additional hours at night — not for me, but for her.
Three hours of rehearsing how to instruct her science the following day. Three hours reviewing her errors, taking notes in a pace that suited her, so she would grasp more. I was structuring my day on her, not my own.
It was draining.
Bus rides to school became my nap times. I'd lean against the window, half-conscious of the road. PK caught me once.
"Dude, you look like a zombie," he told me. "You learning or plotting world domination?"
I smiled weakly. "Both."
He dismissed it with a laugh, having no idea how close to reality that joke was.
Because by then, everything was going as planned.
She believed in me. She smiled freely now, without hesitation as before. She'd inquire about my day, even initiate a message sometimes. That little difference — her initiating a message — was enough to sustain me.
Four months went by like this.
Her marks in science hit ninety. Mine remained flawless, though I continued pretending to struggle with maths just enough to make the charade believable.
We'd study in the library, shoulder to shoulder, the distant whir of ceiling fans and the soft rustle of paper filling the silence. There were moments I caught her looking at me when she didn't think I'd notice.
Each of those looks — small, fleeting — made the sleepless nights worthwhile.
But was it worth it, truly?
Yes.
That was the reply I gave myself every time.
It was the only thing that would silence the voice in my head that whined that I was doing too much. That this wasn't revenge or control anymore. That perhaps — perhaps — I was growing to care.
My mom was the first to notice the difference.
She had been stressing about work, but one night she caught me sitting blank-faced over my notes, dark circles under my eyes.
"You've been working too hard," she said, sitting down beside me. "Are you sure everything's okay?"
I didn't glance up. "I'm okay, Ma."
"You're not getting enough sleep," she said, softer now. "You don't have to push yourself this way."
"I have to," I answered softly. "If I'm spending time elsewhere, I need to catch up. Losing a few hours of sleep is doable."
She sighed, pushing my hair back the way she used to when I was a kid. "You're growing up too fast," she said.
Perhaps I was. Or perhaps I was just becoming more skilled at faking being grown.
At school, everything was more subdued than ever.
No brawls, no skirmishes — just murmurs.
Whispers started going around that my time at the top was over, that I had finally slowed down, that someone new would ascend this time.
Let them talk.
They didn't get it.
I had already climbed to the top — not only in academics, not only in strength. But in something else. Something harder, something sharper.
Because while they were distracted trying to guess, I was constructing something no one else could see — a web of plans, deceptions, and facts so well-balanced that even I sometimes lost track of which was which.
But when I gazed at Anjali, beaming at me after finally solving a difficult problem, I assured myself that this — all this — was worth it.
It was my EGO to control everything.
Even if I had to sacrifice sleep.
Even if I had to lose myself.