SEVENTEEN MISSING MINUTES

Ananya's pov

Block C’s terrace was never meant for us.

There’s this iron door, rusted and sticky. The lock? Broken for months, the metal warped from too many attempts to force it shut. Everyone pretended it worked, a kind of silent agreement, but we all knew better. Sometimes, late at night, the wind would catch it and make it groan, a warning no one really listened to. The glass railing barely reached our waists, catching the city lights in these sharp, fractured patterns—like looking into a cracked mirror that refused to show you the whole truth. The edges glinted, almost dangerous, and sometimes I wondered if the glass would shatter with just a touch.

From up there, Kota glowed below us, a city burning with ambition and sleeplessness. All those coaching institutes, their signboards screaming AIR 1, AIR 7, AIR 23, flashing neon assurances of success. The billboards were everywhere—salvation, if you could just get a rank. If you could just be enough.

After every mock test, we found ourselves up there, as if drawn by some magnetic pull.

Me.

Kavya.

Aarav.

Three toppers

, three kids who couldn’t sleep, three people tangled up in the idea that love and success were the same thing. We wore our exhaustion like a badge, comparing scores, comparing shadows under our eyes, comparing how close we were to falling apart.

The night Aarav fell, the air felt thin. I remember that. Or at least, I think I do. Sometimes I swear I can still taste it—dry, metallic, heavy with things unsaid.

He stood too close to the edge. Kavya? She looked like she was crying, but the city lights smeared the tears, made it hard to tell. No, not crying—angry. Wait. That’s not right. She was just… calm. Too calm, like all her feelings had emptied out, leaving her hollow and weightless.

And that’s the thing. My memory keeps shifting, like someone keeps editing the reel behind my eyes.

“You don’t understand,” Aarav said. His voice—steady, almost like he was glad. “You both built something that isn’t real.” He sounded relieved, or maybe resigned, like he’d finally found the answer to a question we couldn’t even ask.

Below us, the city buzzed with late-night study lamps, parents whispering hopes into the dark, thousands of futures being bargained for in the hush of hostel rooms and rented flats.

I remember grabbing his sleeve. Or maybe he grabbed mine. The fabric was damp from sweat, or maybe rain, or maybe fear. Our hands tangled, desperate, unsure of whether to hold on or let go.

And there, in the glass, a reflection—a fourth shape. I was sure. Someone else, standing behind us. Watching. The outline was blurred, but I felt its gaze, cold and unblinking, pressing against my back.

But when the police checked the footage, they played it over and over.

Three figures. Only three.

Seventeen minutes, gone. CCTV cuts out at 2:11 a.m., comes back at 2:28. By then, Aarav’s already on the ground, sprawled on the concrete like a broken equation no one could solve.

They say he leaned back. Lost his balance. They say when a body hits concrete, the sound stays with you forever—a dull, final thud that echoes long after the sirens fade.

They’re not wrong.

I remember screaming. Then nothing but silence. The kind of silence that fills your ears and settles in your bones, making it impossible to breathe.

Kavya’s hand crushing mine, my nails digging into her skin. But later, when they photographed her palms, there were no marks. Only mine bled. The blood dried rust-brown on my cuticles, a secret only I carried.

Weeks passed. Some video surfaced online—my voice, cold as ice: “If he fails, I survive.” The words cut sharper than the glass railing ever could. Experts called it fake. AI, edited, whatever. But at 3 a.m., when the hostel is dead quiet and the rankings flicker behind my eyelids like ghostly numbers, I wonder—did I say it? Did I mean it? Could I be so cruel, even to survive?

Therapist calls it shared delusion. Lawyer says stress-induced parasomnia. The media? Jealousy. Kavya shrugs and calls it fate, as if fate is just another subject to master or fail.

Me? I call it the third memory.

Because every time I close my eyes, the scene changes. Sometimes I’m dragging him back from the edge, hands burning with effort. Sometimes I’m pushing him away, the weight of guilt already settling on my shoulders. And sometimes—sometimes there really is a fourth shadow, hovering behind us. Waiting. Silent. Patient. As if it knows something I don’t.

They say Aarav jumped. They say I’m innocent. They say the footage doesn’t lie.

But in my dreams, the terrace is different. The iron door slams shut before we even reach the top. Before we get near the railing. Before anyone falls. Sometimes, in that dream, we laugh and go back to our rooms, the night uneventful. Sometimes, we never even try the door at all.

Which leaves me with just one question.

If we were never supposed to be there, who opened the door? And, maybe more importantly, who—or what—was waiting for us on the other side? Because in the end, it’s not just about who fell. It’s about who watched, who remembered, and who will never forget.