The street was deserted, underlit with the gentle yellow glow of the streetlights as we made our way to Anjali's house. The evening breeze carried the fragrance of moist earth and something floral — perhaps jasmine from the park across the street. We opted to cut through it, as it was the shortest path.
We were chatting casually about school, about the café, about nothing, when I caught sight of something in front of me. Against one of the benches was a girl — our age, thin, pretty, wearing tight black jeans and a simple white top. She did not seem at ease. There were four boys around her — tall, broad-shouldered, the sort who seemed older, possibly eleventh graders.
Something in the way they stood — standing too close, laughing too hard — compressed the air.
I was processing even before I could react. Anjali yelled, "Sweta!"
Her voice was clipped, urgent.
I turned to her, shocked. "Who?"
"She's Sweta — I was telling you about her in the café!"
Anjali already had a faster pace heading toward her friend. I was behind her, my own heart beating faster.
Sweta's eyes opened wide in relief as she saw us. "Anjali!" she exclaimed, her voice shaking. "I don't know them — they were chasing me, telling strange things, and now they won't leave me in peace.
One of the men laughed — tall, unkempt hair, the sort of sneer that got your blood pumping. "Hey, hey, don't say it like that," he said in a mocking tone. "We were only attempting to be friendly. Now that your friend's arrived, maybe she can be friends as well." His eyes moved to Anjali. "And that kid there… perhaps he should run back home. This is not a suitable place for children."
Anjali's tone snapped like a whip. "Neither of us wants to be your friend — leave us alone."
The smile of the guy slipped. His friend — the largest of them, and half a step behind — folded his arms. A heaviness fell around him. I stood still. He was easily half a head taller than me, his arms thick with muscle. His gaze was cold, inscrutable — the kind that makes your gut go danger.
Until today, all the fights I had were with individuals my size, my age — settings where I could utilize desks, walls, or surprise on my side. But here? We were out in the open, no cover, no escape, only grass, pavement, and four bodies larger than mine.
And for the first time in a very long time, I felt it — fear.
It crawled up my spine, cold and uninvited. My fists closed, but my mind wavered. Can I possibly win this?
The guy in front of me grinned wider. "Relax, sweetheart," he said to Sweta, turning away from me. "We're just having fun."
Before I could act, he turned and placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Don't touch her!" Anjali screamed, stepping forward.
The other man — the one standing next to her — reached out and grabbed her arm hard, laughing. "You're feisty. I like that."
That sound — that laughter — broke something inside me.
My fear didn't disappear, but it incinerated under something bigger.
I heard my mom's voice ringing from somewhere deep in my memory:
"Never touch a girl without her saying yes. Not you, not anybody. And if somebody does — you make them stop."
My body reacted before my mind could catch up.
I stepped forward, smacked the guy's hand away from Anjali, and told him, voice firm but low,
"Don't ever touch a girl without her permission."
He blinked in surprise — then laughed like I'd made a joke. "Oh? Look at that. The little hero's got morals."
He leaned in, sneering. "What're you gonna do about it?"
I didn't respond.
He snapped his fist out suddenly — uncontrolled, quick, straight for my face. I dodged just in time; it whipped across my cheek, the blast of it burning.
My body responded instinctively — all those years of bottled rage and reflexes I hadn't realized I'd accumulated. I delivered a straight jab right into his ribcage — clean, crisp, uncomplicated. The sound it produced — thud — was louder than I anticipated. He took a step back, hacking, air escaping from his lungs in one wrenching gasp.
Before he had a chance to catch his breath, I struck him again — another jab, this time to the jaw.
But the punch didn't connect.
A hard hand closed around my wrist in mid-air — like a steel clamp.
I glared up — and there he was. The big one. The one who'd sat stock still until now. His hand clamped down hard enough to be sore.
"Easy, kid," he said, his voice smooth, mocking, nearly laughing. "Easy."
His eyes were piercing, dark — the type that sized you up, like a predator measuring prey.
"What's your name?" he said.
I didn't reply. I just looked back.
His smile grew wider. "Not talking? That's okay." He leaned in closer, his breath warm, his voice husky. "You've got nerve. I admire that. But nerve won't keep you out of trouble."
The pressure in his grip increased. Pain shot through my wrist, but I wouldn't blink.
Behind him, I heard Anjali's voice, distant and trembling, calling out my name.
Sweta as well — both of them frightened, powerless.
And perhaps that's what held me motionless — no longer fear, but understanding that this wasn't about me.
Not about winning and losing.
It was about standing where I had to stand.
The giant let go of my hand, moving back just a little, still regarding me.
The others closed in, cursing, cracking knuckles.
The park seemed to shrink — only five of us, a soft buzz of crickets, and the sort of quiet that precedes something shattering.
He grinned again. "Let's see what you've got, hero."
I didn't speak. I adjusted my stance, breathed slow, steady — fear still there, but buried beneath something keener now.
Because sometimes, when you have no choice at all, courage isn't pretending. It's simply the lack of running.".
And I wasn't going to run.
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To be continued…