Chapter One
Results day
Mihira Rao knew she had disappointed her parents before she even reached home.
It was in the way her mother stopped texting after the third missed call.
In the way her father had only sent one message.
Come home safely.
No lecture.
No questions.
Which somehow felt worse.
The bus rattled over another pothole as Mihira stared at the glowing marks on her phone screen for what felt like the hundredth time.
78.
The number sat there coldly, almost mocking her.
Around her, people talked normally.
A little boy cried because his mother wouldn’t buy him chips.
Two college students laughed loudly over some Instagram reel.
Someone’s ringtone kept playing the same irritating song every thirty seconds.
The world moved on so easily while Mihira felt like hers had quietly collapsed.
She locked her phone and leaned her head against the bus window.
Outside, Hyderabad blurred into rain-streaked lights and crowded roads.
She remembered staying awake till 3 AM for Economics
Remembered making color-coded notes.
Remembered promising herself this year would be different.
Pathetic.
Her phone vibrated again.
Akshu🩷
HOW MUCH DID YOU GET??
Mihira turned the phone face down immediately.
She didn’t have the energy to lie yet.
By the time she reached her stop, it had started raining harder.
Perfect.
She stepped into the apartment building slowly, her shoes squeaking against the wet floor tiles.
The front door was already unlocked.
That meant her father was home early.
Another bad sign.
Mihira quietly slipped off her shoes near the entrance.
The television was on low volume.
A news channel.
Her father sat on the sofa scrolling through his phone while her mother folded clothes beside him.
Neither looked up immediately.
That silence almost made her turn around and leave.
Then her mother finally spoke.
“You ate anything?”
Not:
How much did you get?
Not:
Why are your marks low?
Just that.
Mihira swallowed.
“Yeah.”
A lie.
Her father nodded once without looking away from his phone.
“We saw the results.”
There it was.
Mihira forced herself to stand still.
“I’ll do better next time.”
The words sounded rehearsed. Empty.
Her mother folded another shirt carefully.
“You said that last time too.”
Not angry.
Not shouting.
Just tired.
And somehow that hurt more.
Mihira looked down at her damp sleeves, blinking quickly.
“I’m trying.”
Her father finally looked at her then.
“We know,” he said quietly. “But trying and improving are different things.”
The room went silent again.
A pressure settled heavily in her chest.
For one terrifying second, she thought she might cry right there in the living room.
So she nodded instead.
“Can I go to my room?”
Neither stopped her.
That hurt too.
—
Her room felt smaller than usual.
The unfinished notes scattered across her desk suddenly looked embarrassing.
Sticky notes.
Timetables.
Highlighters.
Dreams pretending to be discipline.
Mihira dropped her bag onto the chair and sat on the floor beside her bed instead.
Rain tapped softly against the window.
Her phone buzzed nonstop now.
Friends.
Class group.
Relatives.
She ignored all of it.
At 11:46 PM, she opened an anonymous study discussion app she downloaded weeks ago during one of her “reinvent myself” phases.
Nobody there knew her marks.
Her face.
Her failures.
That was comforting.
Without thinking too much, she typed:
Do toppers ever feel like frauds or is it just me?
She almost deleted it.
Instead, she hit post.
Two minutes later, a notification appeared.
anonymous_17 replied:
Only the honest ones do.
Mihira stared at the screen.
Then, for the first time that entire day—
she smiled.
