Monday came dressed in monsoon grey — skies swollen with clouds and air thick with the kind of stillness that comes before a storm. St. Helina's courtyard glistened with puddles, and students hopped over them with practiced ease. Vishakha arrived early, the class rep badge now a constant weight on her chest — small, metallic, but oddly grounding.
The initial wave of congratulations had passed. Now came the expectations.
In the morning briefing, Mrs. Renu Awasthi handed her a clipboard and said, "You'll be coordinating the class hygiene rotation and updating the monthly feedback log. Also, you'll be reporting to the Student Council on Thursday. Don't forget the assembly duty form."
Vishakha nodded, but the list kept growing.
Throughout the day, students began treating her differently. Friendly, yes — but also with the unspoken assumption that she'd solve things. Juhi asked her to talk to the teacher about extending the assignment deadline. Sana asked her to find a better corner in the classroom for the robotics kit. A girl from the back row she barely knew handed her a crumpled note that read:
"Can you talk to Ritika? She keeps cutting in line during lunch."
By afternoon, her shoulders ached not from her school bag, but from everything else.
She barely touched her lunch. Ananya noticed.
"You okay?"
Vishakha shrugged. "I thought winning would feel more like... winning. But it's just more pressure."
Ananya offered a soft laugh. "Welcome to leadership."
Wednesday – Midweek Hurdles
The chemistry quiz results were pinned to the class board. Vishakha's name was not at the top. Not even in the top five. She had scored 14 out of 25.
It wasn't a disaster. But for someone who had always been her school's best in science, it stung.
She stared at the paper quietly until Ritika walked by and murmured, "Maybe you've been spending more time campaigning than revising."
Vishakha clenched her jaw. But she didn't respond. Not then.
She went to the library instead. Her safe place.
There, surrounded by shelves and silence, she opened her diary.
Day Twelve:
I wanted a seat at the table.
But no one told me the chair would come with splinters.
I'm slipping. And everyone's watching.
I don't want to let them down.
But I don't want to lose me either.
Is that possible? To carry the torch without burning out?
She closed the diary and took out her chemistry notes.
That night, she didn't sing. She didn't scroll. She revised. Every formula. Every equation. Every mistake.
Thursday – Student Council Meeting
It was her first time sitting at the big round table in the Staff Resource Hall. The Student Council President, a calm, sharp-eyed senior named Prisha Sen, welcomed them.
Each Class Rep gave updates — some rattled off points, others complained. When it was Vishakha's turn, she stood up. Her voice was firm. Clear. Honest.
"Our class is adjusting well, but we're figuring out how to work as a team.
There's ambition — a lot of it. But also pressure. Competition.
I'd like to propose a peer support group. Weekly check-ins. Not for marks — for mental space."
Silence. Then murmurs.
Then Prisha smiled. "Let's discuss that further. Good initiative."
Friday – Redemption
Mrs. Awasthi returned the re-quiz papers. This time, Vishakha's score: 23/25.
She didn't cheer. She didn't gloat.
She just looked at it. Calm. Knowing. Balanced.
After class, Ritika approached her, lingering by the door. "Your speech… the one from last week. I didn't say this before, but... it stayed with me."
Vishakha raised an eyebrow. "Even though I beat you?"
Ritika smiled, the first real one. "Especially because you beat me."
That night, Vishakha walked up to the roof. The rain had come and gone, leaving behind a sky full of stars and wind that smelled like promise.
In her diary, she wrote:
Day Fifteen:
Today, I learned something.
It's not just about showing up.
It's about staying — even when it's heavy.
I slipped, yes. But I didn't fall.
I broke — but only open, not apart.
A torch burns.
But it also lights the way.
I think I'm learning how to carry it.
She placed the diary beside her pillow, the weight on her chest no longer burdensome.
It was becoming part of her.