Morning classes had just begun, but the noise in Class 9-B didn't quite match the seriousness of the hour.
Some students leaned in toward their friends, whispering last-minute gossip. A few were flipping through their old notebooks, pretending to revise. On the girls' side, one of them was excitedly talking about her grades from last year's finals.
"Can you believe I got 83 in Maths?" she said, adjusting the elastic on her wrist.
"That's because Sharma sir gave you grace marks for handwriting," another girl teased, and they both giggled.
A little behind them, near the window row, two other girls sat with their bags still zipped up.
"He's late today too..." one of them muttered, her voice soft, but just loud enough to spark attention.
"Or... is he absent?"
"I hope not," said the other girl quickly, brushing back her hair. "I wish he's not absent."
Just then—
The sound of footsteps approached.
And without a word, the boy they were talking about walked in.
There was nothing grand about his entrance.
No dramatic pause. No wind-blown hair or flash of light.
Just a quiet, confident stride that seemed to carry a hundred eyes with it.
He was dressed in the same white shirt and beige trousers as everyone else, yet something about the way he wore it made it look different. His tie, beige and regulation, hung loosely from his neck like he'd tied it mid-run. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled just slightly at the edge, more from habit than intent.
His black hair, dark like wet ink, curled softly around his forehead. His blue eyes, rare and still, didn't search for attention—yet they got it, every time.
As he walked through the center aisle between the boys' and girls' benches, the murmurs faded. The room shifted. Some girls straightened up. Some boys leaned back in mock-boredom. A few just watched, pretending not to.
He didn't look at any of them.
He simply made his way to the last bench of the boys' row, where a boy already sat—legs slightly spread, arms folded, waiting with a grin that said, "Finally."
As the two made eye contact, their hands rose.
CLAP.
A loud, sharp handshake echoed at the back of the room.
"You're quite late today, huh, Izhaan?" the boy said, smirking.
The boy who had just entered—Izhaan Ahmed—smiled faintly as he dropped his bag beside the bench and slid into his seat.
At fourteen years old, Izhaan was one of the most talked-about students in Magnus International School, Howrah. Not because he tried to be, but because people simply couldn't stop talking about him.
Brilliant in academics, unbeatable on the football ground, and a quiet storm during chess tournaments, he had become a name even juniors and seniors alike whispered during inter-house events.
He wasn't loud, never acted like a "topper," and definitely wasn't the kind to bow to teachers for extra marks.
But his presence—subtle, unshaken—was hard to miss.
He had joined Magnus in Class 5 and had met Akshat, the boy beside him, that very year.
Akshat had been around since Class 3, but it was only when they ended up on the same bench that their friendship clicked—quick, sarcastic, and unbreakable.
Though the pandemic separated them for two years, they'd reunited in Class 7 like nothing had changed.
Now, in Class 9, they still sat at the back of the room, always just the two of them.
Not because others weren't allowed—but because no one ever fit in.
Neither Izhaan nor Akshat were the kind to go around being friendly.
They weren't bullies.
But they weren't the "good boys" either.
They stayed in their lane—and owned it.
Izhaan's father, once a naval officer, now worked as Head TT at Howrah Station—a man who didn't talk much but whose discipline echoed in the house without words.
His mother was a homemaker, warm and efficient, who made the perfect parathas without asking twice.
And then there was Fatma Noor, his little sister in nursery—talkative, tiny, and the only one who could make him crack a full smile without trying.
As Izhaan settled into his seat, he noticed some of the girls still sneaking glances toward the back row.
Akshat leaned closer and muttered, "Seriously, you need to stop making these dramatic late entries. People think it's some planned stunt."
Izhaan didn't reply.
Just pulled out a pen from his bag, leaned back, and looked forward.
Outside, the sun had finally risen high enough to cut through the half-drawn curtains.
The sharp tap-tap of Miss Moumita's heels echoed across the room as she walked in, her pastel saree rustling faintly with each step. The class straightened up instantly—murmurs faded, chairs shuffled forward, and all that remained was the creak of the old fan overhead.
She walked straight to the teacher's desk, placed her register down, and flipped it open with practiced precision.
Without lifting her head, she began the ritual that every school morning knew too well.
"Roll number 1."
"Present, ma'am," came a crisp voice from the first row.
"Roll number 2."
"Present!"
"Roll number 3... " 4..." 5..."
One after another, students stood partially, raised a hand, answered, sat again. A rhythm built in the room—the kind that makes the first few minutes of school feel like a mechanical play.
Then—
"Roll number 6," Miss Moumita called, her tone unchanged.
A boy sitting at the front bench rose just a bit, straightened his spine, and said with a polite nod, "Present, ma'am."
She moved her finger down the page.
Paused.
Just for a second.
Her brow twitched almost imperceptibly, and then her voice rose again—calm, but carrying a note of something unsaid.
"Roll number... 7."
The 'seven' hung slightly in the air.
At the very back of the boys' row, a boy raised his hand—only slightly, barely moving. His posture relaxed, one arm draped over the backrest, his eyes half-lidded.
"Present, ma'am," he said, casually.
That was Izhaan.
He didn't stand. He didn't shift. He didn't need to.
He had been like this for years now—quiet, composed, unreadable.
Miss Moumita looked at him for a second longer than she did with others, then said nothing.
She moved on.
"Roll number 8."
"Present, ma'am," said Akshat, sitting beside Izhaan with the same effortless laziness. Their energy matched. Their rhythm matched. Even their tone was almost identical.
The teacher's voice went on, ticking through the list. More names. More call-outs. A mix of sleepy voices and awkward raises of hands.
Then, she reached—
"Roll number 14."
On the last bench of the girls' row, a figure rose.
A girl—seated alone—stood up with calm grace. Her uniform was tidy, her back straight. She lifted her hand and spoke in a soft but clear voice.
"Present, ma'am."
A few students turned their heads. Some even whispered.
She didn't blink.
Miss Moumita looked up from the register, adjusting her glasses slightly.
There was a flicker of curiosity in her voice.
"Oh... You're the new student?"
"Yes, ma'am," the girl replied with a slight nod—neither shy nor loud. Just… perfectly composed.
Her eyes met the teacher's, unwavering.
Some of the girls began whispering. On the boys' side, Akshat leaned just a little towards Izhaan.
But Izhaan didn't move.
He hadn't even looked at her.
Not yet.
The attendance ended.
Miss Moumita closed the register with a soft thump and looked up from behind her glasses. Her eyes scanned the class for a moment before settling on the girl who had answered as Roll No. 14.
"You," she said with a slight smile, "come to the front and introduce yourself. Also tell the class a little about your hobbies."
The girl stood up without hesitation.
Her hands were joined in front, fingers gently holding each other. She walked up the aisle with quiet poise, every step composed, unfaltering.
When she turned to face the class—
—the room paused, just a little.
She had soft chestnut-brown hair, neatly pleated and tied with a simple band, resting gently over her shoulder. Her grey eyes, calm yet deep, scanned the faces before her without fear or shyness. Her uniform sat perfectly on her — skirt pressed, shirt smooth — like she had ironed it herself that morning. There was something about her presence that made her stand out—not because she was trying to, but because she wasn't.
She clasped her hands behind her back.
"Hello everyone," she began, voice even and clear, "my name is Darakhsha Khan, and I'm fourteen years old."
A few students blinked up from their desks, some whispering already.
Akshat's eyes narrowed as he nudged Izhaan softly, only to see Izhaan already watching—quietly, intently, elbow on desk, chin on palm.
Darakhsha continued, "If you ask about my hobbies… I like playing chess."
Whispers sparked immediately.
"Chess?"
"That's rare for a girl…"
"Cool…"
Akshat glanced at Izhaan again.
Izhaan didn't move. But his eyes hadn't left her once.
Darakhsha took a light breath and spoke again.
"My previous school was Ignite High School in Asansol, and I did quite well in academics back there."
She paused, and for the briefest second, her eyes drifted to the back row—toward the boy who hadn't blinked since she started.
Izhaan.
He didn't shift.
He didn't smile.
But he listened. Not to her voice, but to her tone.
Darakhsha looked away quickly and added, "I came here with my family because of my father's transfer."
A few more faces turned toward her—boys, girls—some curious, some disinterested.
But for Izhaan… it was a strange stillness in his stare. Not fascination. Not interest. Just… recognition, as if some quiet part of him already knew her.
Darakhsha finished, "I look forward to spending the rest of my school life with you. And I hope I will make great friends."
She smiled gently—no forced charm, no nervous giggle. Just a calm, complete sentence with a soft curve of the lips.
Then she walked back, heels clicking softly, and sat down on the last bench of the girls' row—alone.
She turned her head to the left, stealing a small glance toward the boys' side.
And at that very moment—
Izhaan also turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Only for a second.
Then Darakhsha quickly looked away, pretending to fix her pleated hair.
Akshat leaned in immediately, whispering like a brat.
"Ooo… Izhaaaan~"
Izhaan said nothing. Not even a twitch of a smirk.
Instead, he calmly raised his fingers—
FLICK!
"OW! That hurts!" Akshat hissed, rubbing his forehead.
Izhaan didn't even look at him.
His eyes were already facing forward again.
The rustle of bags, chairs creaking, and the occasional sound of chalk striking the blackboard filled the air as the class settled in for their first period.
Just before the teacher began writing on the board, a girl from the front bench stood up with her bag. She turned, walked down the aisle toward the last bench of the girls' row, and stopped beside Darakhsha.
"Hey… can I sit with you?" she asked, her voice kind and casual.
She had a neatly trimmed bob cut, her jet-black hair bouncing lightly as she tilted her head.
Darakhsha looked up, a little surprised—but smiled immediately.
"Yeah… why not?"
She stood slightly, letting the girl slide in under the desk.
As the girl settled in beside her, she extended her hand with a small grin.
"I'm Kashish Kaur. Nice to meet you."
Darakhsha shook her hand politely, her tone soft but warm.
"Nice to meet you too."
The teacher began the lesson at last, writing the word 'Drama' in cursive on the blackboard.
At the back, Akshat leaned in slightly, spinning his pen on the desk while tapping his foot.
That's when Izhaan finally moved.
He turned slightly toward Akshat and whispered under his breath—
"Ayee, Akshat… Did you watch the last episode of Draconic Dominion yesterday?"
Akshat's eyes lit up, his body straightening in excitement.
"Yesss bruhhh…" he said in a low, intense whisper. "Armaan's finally going to the Draconic Realm! But… the season's ended. Now we have to wait like a whole damn year for the next one…"
He slumped forward a bit, visible sadness etched into his face.
Izhaan smirked.
"Heh… I've already finished the entire manga. So I'm not suffering like you are."
Akshat turned to him with betrayal in his eyes.
"Bro… you just spoil your own fun, you know that?"
Izhaan only grinned in return.
"Well, after Varkash sliced Tara's body in half… and Armaan's blade was launched like that... I couldn't take it anymore. I just had to know what happened next."
Before Akshat could respond—
"Izhaan! Akshat! Stop talking right now!" Miss Moumita snapped.
The entire class turned. Izhaan didn't flinch. Akshat flinched for both of them.
"Where are your drama books?"
Akshat quickly blurted, "Ma'am… we forgot…"
Miss Moumita narrowed her eyes.
Izhaan simply leaned back, unfazed.
"I forgot mine too," he added calmly.
The teacher sighed sharply and gave them a brief scolding about responsibility and class discipline. Akshat scratched the back of his head, eyes down, looking almost sorry.
Izhaan didn't change posture once.
Eventually, they were told to sit down and keep quiet.
As the murmurs faded and attention returned to the board, Kashish leaned over and whispered to Darakhsha, eyes flicking toward the back row—
"He never changes…"
Darakhsha blinked. "Is he a… bad boy?" she asked softly, genuinely curious. "He doesn't seem like one though…"
Kashish smiled, a knowing sort of smile.
"I wouldn't say he's bad by heart. He's just… not very well-behaved. He talks back sometimes, breaks little rules, skips things he finds boring. But when it comes to his friend…" she glanced at Akshat, "he'd do anything. No hesitation."
Darakhsha peeked toward the last bench.
Izhaan sat with his usual posture — face resting on hand, eyes forward, uninterested in anything else.
Kashish went on, voice softer now.
"He may seem like a good-for-nothing guy with just a nice face… but he's the topper of our class. No joke."
Darakhsha's eyes widened slightly.
"Good in academics. Captain of the football team. Fastest runner in our school's inter-house sports. And—" Kashish smirked, "—just like you, he loves playing chess. A lot. He's unbeatable."
She paused, tapping her pen against the table.
"I think you both would make great friends."
Darakhsha looked again.
This time, Izhaan's gaze flicked in her direction.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
She turned away immediately with a small huff and whispered under her breath—
"I… don't think so."
Kashish covered her mouth with a little giggle.
From the back bench, Izhaan continued staring forward.
The lunch bell rang with a shrill echo that seemed to cut through even the thickest of notebooks. Students burst into chatter, opening tiffin boxes, exchanging snacks, some rushing out toward the corridor.
From the last bench of the boys' row, Izhaan and Akshat stood up together without a word and casually strolled out of the classroom.
No bags, no hurry—just that effortless rhythm the two of them always shared.
A few minutes later, they returned, each holding a pack of chips, a cold drink bottle tucked under Akshat's arm.
Izhaan slumped back into his seat, opened his chips with a crisp crackle, and then—
He pulled out his phone.
With a few swipes, he unlocked it and began casually scrolling—thumb flicking through reels like the rest of the world didn't exist.
From the girls' row, Darakhsha blinked twice.
Her grey eyes widened slightly as she whispered to Kashish, "Isn't… isn't it disallowed to use mobile phones in school?"
Kashish, mid-slurp with her lunchbox of noodles, paused.
She slowly lowered her fork.
"Wait, that's what shocked you?" she asked with a small laugh. Her gaze shifted lazily to the two boys at the back, both now scrolling in perfect sync, heads bowed like silent monks lost in screen-world.
Then she smiled and replied, "Well, yeah, technically it is. But no one really checks. Especially during lunch, inside the classroom."
Darakhsha's brows furrowed slightly.
"But… in my previous school," she whispered, "the class monitor would report it to the teacher. Phones would be confiscated."
Kashish smirked, resting her elbow on the table.
Then she leaned in a little and asked teasingly, "And who do you think our class monitor is?"
Darakhsha's fork stopped mid-air.
She turned slowly toward Kashish, reading her eyes—realizing it wasn't just a casual question.
"…Don't tell me…" she whispered, stunned. "Don't say one of those two are—"
Kashish nodded with mischievous calm.
"Yep," she said, pointing her thumb casually to the back row.
"Izhaan Ahmed is our class monitor."
Darakhsha's eyes widened like dinner plates.
She blinked.
Raised her hand.
And half-whispered, half-exclaimed—
"Whaaaaat?!"
A few students turned in curiosity, but Darakhsha had already buried her face into her palm, trying not to laugh in disbelief.
Kashish chuckled, returning to her noodles.
Izhaan, oblivious to the mini-revelation storm he'd just caused, flicked to the next reel with perfect peace, a chip in his mouth, and Akshat beside him bobbing his head to the faint beat of a meme song.
The chalk clicked rhythmically against the greenboard as Mr. Sharma, their Maths teacher, scribbled down another row of exponent laws. His voice was dry but clear:
"Now, students… when the bases are the same and you multiply—what do you do with the powers?"
"Add them," a few mumbled in half-sync.
Mr. Sharma didn't care much for energy. As long as you weren't failing, he'd let the silence stay.
Darakhsha, seated neatly with her notebook aligned perfectly, was writing diligently when—
clink… clink-clink…
Her pen slipped from her fingers and rolled off the bench—first onto the floor, then across the aisle.
It didn't stop there.
It bounced and rolled gently… until it stopped right beside Izhaan's foot.
She moved to get up.
But before she could even leave her seat, Izhaan had already picked it up.
He stood up quietly and walked over to her row.
His movement was unhurried, casual—but confident. Like he didn't need permission to move in the classroom.
He stopped beside her desk and extended the pen toward her.
"Insert the cap at the back of the pen," he said, his voice soft but steady, "so it doesn't roll unnecessarily."
He wore a fine smile—neither cocky nor charming. Just… real.
Darakhsha blinked up at him, caught slightly off guard.
"T-Thank you…" she replied, her tone floating between formal and casual, unsure how to properly respond to him.
He nodded once and returned to his seat without saying another word.
She looked down at her pen.
The cap was off.
She clicked it back on the tail and resumed writing… but something about that interaction lingered in her chest.
At the back, Akshat leaned in, whispering low so only the two of them could hear:
"Ohhh, look at Mr. Gentleman over here…"
Izhaan didn't even blink.
"It was just a pen, idiot," he murmured back, flicking his pen against Akshat's shoulder without turning his head.
Akshat held back a snort and tried to focus on the board again.
But back at her seat, Darakhsha had stopped writing.
Her eyes weren't on the blackboard anymore.
They weren't on her pen either.
She stared at the page… and in her mind, a sentence from earlier in the day echoed sharply:
> "He can do anything for his friend but does not even look at anyone he is not interested in…" <
Her expression shifted.
Her hand froze mid-sentence.
The realization struck like a sudden gust of cold wind—
He picked up the pen… He walked over… He spoke… He smiled…
Darakhsha's eyes widened slowly.
And then—
"Eeeeehhhhh—?!"
She let out a low groan, slapping both hands onto her cheeks in shock, trying to suppress the sound.
A few nearby students turned to look at her.
"Is everything okay?" whispered Kashish beside her, mid-sum.
Darakhsha nodded frantically, face flushed, shaking her head and scribbling wildly just to look occupied.
The final bell rang.
A flood of students poured into the corridor—bags slung over shoulders, half-finished zippers flapping, loud laughter bouncing off the walls. It was the usual end-of-day chaos at Magnus International School.
Amid the crowd, Darakhsha walked beside Kashish, their footsteps slow as they made their way toward the school's main gate.
They were mid-conversation, something about lunchboxes and Kashish's "very suspicious" curd that day, when the flow of their chat broke.
Up ahead, near the school garden's iron fence, a small group of girls had gathered—laughing, nudging, brushing back their hair more than necessary.
In the middle of them—
Izhaan and Akshat.
Both stood with that same usual calm: Akshat with his classic tilted grin, and Izhaan… simply there, hands in his pockets, not even looking directly at them.
Darakhsha and Kashish slowed a bit, watching quietly from a distance as they continued walking toward the gate.
"C'mon, why not?" one of the girls said with a playful tone.
Izhaan's voice followed, smooth and detached.
"I've got coaching… Akshat does too."
He didn't even glance at them properly—his gaze focused somewhere distant, his tone polite but final.
Akshat nodded in agreement, already turning.
The girls exchanged awkward laughs and 'okay… maybe next time' types of responses.
And then, the boys walked off.
Just like that.
Darakhsha's eyes stayed on Izhaan's back as he laughed lightly at something Akshat said. The way his body language relaxed only when he was away from the group… it lingered in her mind longer than she liked.
Kashish, arms folded, glanced at the retreating duo and shook her head.
"They always get hit on by girls. Honestly, I think they're sick of it at this point."
Darakhsha replied without looking away.
"Hmm… he is quite popular…"
Her tone was soft—less of a statement, more like a trailing thought.
Kashish turned her head slightly toward her.
There was something quiet in Darakhsha's voice. Not admiration. Not jealousy. Just… observation.
Or maybe curiosity.
Kashish blinked once, trying to decode her friend's expression.
But Darakhsha was already back in her own head, walking slowly as the crowd thinned around them.
Izhaan and Akshat disappeared around the school gate, still talking, still laughing.
Kashish let out a faint breath, deciding not to ask anything just yet.
"Hmm…" she muttered under her breath. "Interesting…
And with that, the first school day ended—
But something had started.
Even if neither of them could name it yet.The streets outside Magnus International School buzzed with life—horns, rickshaws, the chatter of students spilling out of the gates like waves.
Some rushed toward bus stops. Others walked in groups. A few lingered back, laughing over the day's events.
And somewhere among them—
A boy with void black hair and blue eyes walked ahead with his best friend, unaware of the thoughts he had left behind in someone's mind.
A girl with grey eyes and chestnut-brown hair stood at the gate beside her new friend, watching quietly as the last sunlight brushed against the iron fence.
She didn't say much.
But her silence wasn't empty.
Something had shifted. A ripple. A spark. Or maybe just a name, etched quietly in her memory—
Roll No. 7
She didn't understand it fully yet.
But something told her… this wasn't the last time her thoughts would get caught up in him.
Not even close.