The Badminton King
He was the guy every girl whispered about in the hallways. Grade 12. Tall, sharp jaw, that half-cocked smirk that said he knew exactly what he did to people. Hair always just messy enough to look effortless, sleeves rolled on his white shirt, tie loose like rules were suggestions.
He was the badminton court king—served like trash when he was bored, smashed like he hated the shuttlecock when he wasn’t. Everyone wanted a piece. He gave none.
Then there was her. Shreya. Grade 11. A quiet storm. Creamy skin that flushed crimson the second his eyes flicked her way in the corridor. Black wavy hair she’d tuck behind her ear when nervous—which was always around him. Brown eyes huge behind those long lashes, like they held secrets she was terrified he’d read. She never said hi. She never had to. Her stare did all the talking—soft, burning, and gone the instant he looked back.
One day, her guy friend slid into his DMs.
“Bro, she’s gone bad for you. Like properly messed up over you. Wrote this poem and everything…”
Mrudul opened it.
Lines about how his laugh felt like summer rain on cracked earth... how his name tasted like forbidden sugar on her tongue... how she’d trade every poem she’d ever write just to hear him say her name once without laughing it off.
He stared at the screen. His heart did a weird flip—then he crushed it. He typed back, cold as ice:
“Not into poems. Not into relationships.”
Sent. He blocked the secret account that had dared say “hi” the week before. He moved on. Or so he told himself.
She threw the poem away that same night. She didn’t want her mother—the school teacher—finding any trace. She didn’t want the humiliation of being caught loving someone who didn’t even glance twice.
