You stared at the paper in your hands like it was a death sentence.

Not even bad—people would kill for that score in law school. But for you, it meant bruises. Blood. Silence. It meant rage from the man who called himself your father but had long stopped acting like one. A man who only saw numbers, never you. He always said, “If you’re not perfect, you’re worthless.”

And today, you were 14 marks away from being “perfect.”

You could already hear the sound of his belt snapping. Smell the alcohol. Feel his cold, angry hands pulling you by your hair.

Your feet dragged themselves to the café where you worked after class. You had to be fast—your dad would want the money by 7 p.m. sharp. Otherwise…

You didn’t let yourself finish that thought.

Your only breath of air was Shaneel Gill. The kind of friend who didn’t just hear you—she listened. She was everything your home wasn’t: safe. Calm. Warm.

Her brother, Shubman, was a frequent passerby at her house, usually in a rush to practice or interviews. You’d exchange small nods, awkward “hi”s. He never looked at you like a fan. Just like a person. That made it worse, in a way.

Because you were falling.

Hard.

You told Shaneel one rainy evening while pretending to revise constitutional law.

“I think I like your brother…”

She blinked, then smiled. “You mean Shubman?”

You nodded, embarrassed.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease. She just said, “Then tell him. You deserve to tell someone what you want for once.”

You gathered the courage. You sent him a message:

Hey, I know this might sound strange… but I think I’ve started liking you. I’m sorry if this is awkward. Just wanted to be honest.

He took an hour to reply.

Hey. That’s really sweet of you to say. But I think it’s best we stay as we are. I’m sorry.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t mocking. But it shattered you anyway.

Since then, your mind was fogged. You’d stare at case studies and see his face. At lectures, his name echoed. And your grades… slipped.

Now, with that 86, you stood outside your house, the sky dimming. You clutched your bag tight, heart thudding.

You pushed open the gate.

You heard him before you saw him.

“The result came?” he yelled from inside.

You froze. “Yes.”

“What’s the score?”

“Eighty-six.”

The silence that followed was scarier than his voice.

Then came the crash—his glass bottle hitting the wall. You dropped your bag and took a step back.

“You worthless girl!” he roared. “Fourteen marks short? What the hell is this?”

“Please, I—”

Before you could finish, he was on you. The world blurred. You felt the first hit. Then the second.

Later that night, lying bruised on the floor, you stared at the ceiling.

You felt nothing.

Not the pain. Not the shame. Not even the heartbreak anymore.

Just... emptiness.

Meanwhile, at the Gill residence

Shubman sat in his room, scrolling through his messages. Your text still lingered in his chat.

He thought of your eyes. The way you spoke—like you were always holding something back. Shaneel had told him about your father. About everything.

“I hope I wasn’t too harsh,” he had told Shaneel the day he replied to you.

She looked at him. “You were kind. But she doesn’t hear kindness often. So even kindness can hurt.”

Now, he looked at his phone again.

He typed something.

Then deleted it.

He typed again.

Hey. I hope you're okay. I’ve been thinking… maybe we could talk sometime? If you’re up for it.