Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

I fell in love early in high school. My girlfriend, Ananya, was the top student in our class.

Right from the beginning, everyone knew Ananya was different—her grades sparkled like gold medals, her handwriting neat as a new exercise book. The ceiling fan creaked overhead, stirring the faint smell of chalk and sweat. I couldn't help but feel proud, even though I was always standing in her long shadow. Sometimes, when Ananya answered a tough question, I’d catch my reflection in the window—half-proud, half-ashamed. Sometimes, I would catch teachers stealing glances at us, as if wondering how a backbencher like me had found a place beside her.

Because of this, I became the target of resentment from many classmates and all the subject teachers. Everyone said I was holding her back.

The whispers would start as soon as I entered the class—'Woh toh Ananya ke saath hi hai, isliye pass ho jata hai', they'd mutter, with sideways glances. Teachers, too, would sigh audibly, as if I was the reason her future was getting delayed. In the canteen, some even joked about me being the 'obstacle' in her path to IIT.

The class teacher, Mr. Sharma, spoke to me several times, even spending his own money to take me out for late-night samosas and chai, sharing his life experiences. His advice could be summed up in one sentence: 'Beta, if you really care for her, think of her future first. Abhi pyaar-vyaar sab theek hai, but this age is for studies. Breaking up will be better for her, samjha karo.'

Those nights outside the chaiwala, with the aroma of garam masala wafting in the air, Mr. Sharma would lower his voice and talk as if he was confiding a family secret. 'Beta, love is all good, but future comes first. Think about her, not just about yourself.' He meant well, I could see it in the way his fingers trembled around his steel glass of chai.

I could sense the genuine concern in his words.

His words hung over me, echoing even after I returned home. I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling fan, wondering if love at our age was really a crime.

When I got home to our 2BHK flat in Kaveripur, I suggested we break up. She refused.

She frowned, her anklets jingling as she paced the living room. 'Pagal ho gaye ho kya?' she said, almost in a whisper. She crossed her arms, determined. 'I don't care what people say. I'm not leaving you, samjhe?'

The following week, when I returned to school, Mr. Sharma rearranged the seating chart.

The new chart was written in red ink and pasted on the notice board, just below the dusty portrait of Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam. I wiped the red ink off my fingers, the paper crinkling as I traced my name at the bottom—like someone had erased me from the front rows of life. I scanned the rows, my name now at the bottom, like an afterthought.

I was moved to the last row, while Ananya was placed in the very first row.

The distance between us felt larger than just a few benches. It was like being sent from the front line to the back of a parade, invisible to all except the blackboard dust.

Worse still, her new bench partner was my well-known rival in love, Kabir.

As soon as I saw his name next to hers, my heart skipped a beat. Kabir—tall, fair, always with neatly ironed uniforms, and that irritating habit of correcting everyone's pronunciation in English period.

He had excellent grades—second only to Ananya in the class. In the eyes of many, they were a perfect match.

Even the school peon, Shyamlal bhaiya, would whisper to the teachers, 'Woh dono toh ekdum Ram-Sita jaisa lagta hai!' It stung more than I would admit.

As expected, he began openly pursuing her, with the tacit approval of our classmates and the secret encouragement of our teachers.

Kabir would 'accidentally' bring extra tiffin, offer her his favourite ladoos, and linger near her after class. The others cheered him on, nudging each other whenever he managed to make her laugh. Even the teachers, who once scolded us for talking, now smiled indulgently at them.

Now, Mr. Sharma had made his wish come true.

He would glance at me with a mixture of sympathy and triumph. As if to say, 'This is for your own good, beta.' The burden of his expectations pressed down on my chest.

All the subject teachers, as if they had discussed it beforehand, would assign the two of them to decorate the class notice board together or send them to inter-school competitions as a pair. Even at the New Year’s party, the music teacher gave them a special spot, letting them perform a duet of Arijit Singh’s "Raabta" as the finale. During rehearsals, they spent countless afternoons and evenings alone in the music room, working on their choreography.

I watched from afar as they laughed together, the room echoing with their voices and the faint sound of a harmonium being tuned. From the corridor, I could hear the tabla’s dull thump and the harmonium’s wheeze, mixing with their laughter. Whenever I passed the music room, I could see them, bathed in the yellow light, lost in their own world.

After the New Year, the two of them became the talk of the school, officially recognised as the school’s golden couple.

Even the junior classes gossiped about them. I heard a group of girls giggling by the staircase, calling them 'our school's DeepVeer.'

Ananya either genuinely didn’t notice, or pretended not to. She seemed oblivious to all these changes. Every day, I drifted through life like a walking corpse, a clown under a spotlight, shame burning through me every time I entered the classroom.

I'd try to keep my head down, but I could feel the stares, the barely-hidden smirks. My school bag felt heavier, my shoes dragged on the ground as if the whole city could sense my humiliation.