UNIVERSITY ARC
The moment I stepped into the classroom, I saw her—Kusuma—seated in the corner. Her arms were crossed tightly, her brows drawn like thunderclouds. The girl who once smiled when I entered a room now looked like she wanted me gone.
I forced myself to walk toward her, heartbeat like a drum in my ears.
She noticed me but didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared.
The room fell into a strange silence, as if everyone was waiting for something. And then, without a single word, she stood up and slapped me across the face.
A gasp rolled through the class. My face stung, but the shock was worse.
"Stop it!" she yelled, her voice sharp enough to slice through the air. "Don't try to say a word, Manoj! Do you even remember what you promised me? You said you'd get the job. You said your project was perfect. That this interview would be a turning point. What happened?!"
My mouth opened, but no words came out.
Why couldn't I speak?
She stepped closer, her fury mounting. "You failed! After all that talk, you failed!"
Every word echoed through me, like punches to the gut. I wanted to scream, I didn't mess up! But I stood frozen, trapped between shame and heartbreak.
A voice from the crowd jumped in, mocking.
"Guess the golden boy's luck ran out!"
Another one snorted.
"His girlfriend sure hyped him up. What now, huh? Must be awkward."
Their laughter poured gasoline on the fire. Kusuma's eyes blazed as she turned back to me.
"And you still have the guts to show your face? My trust—it's dead, Manoj. Dead. I gave you everything. I believed in you more than anyone. But this? This is pathetic."
Why won't she let me speak? Just one sentence. One truth.
"Kusuma, wait. I—"
"No!" she cut in. "Don't even try. I don't want to hear your excuses. You've humiliated me in front of everyone. They're laughing at me because of you!"
I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to scream that something had gone wrong—terribly wrong. But saying it now would sound like a lie.
And even worse... I wasn't sure she'd believe me.
The voices around us got louder.
.
.
.
.
"Manoj, you're not cut out for this world."
"Stay in your place, poor kid. You reached too far."
"You'll always be a nobody."
Each voice chipped away at me.
And Kusuma—she delivered the final blow. Her voice was calm now. Too calm.
"You know what hurts the most? I don't even think you tried. Maybe you just got lazy. Or maybe... maybe this is who you really are. A failure."
She looked me dead in the eyes, and for a second I saw something else—pain, maybe. Or was it regret?
"But me? I'm done wasting my life on someone going nowhere. It's over, Manoj. Don't ever talk to me again."
And then she turned away.
Just like that.
I stood there, in the middle of the classroom, surrounded by laughter, judgment, and a silence inside me so loud it drowned everything out.
If only she knew the truth. If only I could've told her what really happened in that interview room...
But now?
It was too late.
I stared at her back, memorizing the way she walked away—like I was just some chapter she couldn't wait to end.
My hand curled into a fist, not out of anger—but to stop the trembling. My mouth was dry. My throat, tighter than a knot.
And then I walked out.
I didn't run. I didn't cry. I didn't yell.
I just... left.
....
I walked through the streets like a shadow, retracing the same steps that once led me to dreams. Now they just circled back to pain.
Everything is slipping away. My love. My career. My voice. Myself.
I don't remember when I reached my room. The world blurred into a quiet numbness. The corridor to my room was empty, just like I needed it to be. I dragged my feet, each step heavier than the last, like the floor was pulling me down with it.
I unlocked the door to my room, stepped inside, and shut it behind me like I was locking myself out of the world.
The moment I shut the door behind me, the silence hit. No noise. No laughter. No insults. No Kusuma.
Just... silence.
I didn't switch on the light. I didn't want to see the posters on the wall—the ones she helped me put up. I didn't want to see my desk, still cluttered with printouts of the project I never got to present.
I dropped my bag on the floor and then I just sat on the bed.
For minutes. Maybe hours.
My phone buzzed.
Group chats flooded with jokes. Memes. Screenshots.
"Breakup scene of the year!"
"Even the great Manoj got humbled."
"What a downfall, bro."
I stared at the screen until the light blurred. Then I threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud and fell face down.
Still glowing.
I leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan spinning slowly—mocking me with its lazy circles.
What did I do wrong?
The interview kept replaying in my head. The confused faces of the panel. The way they flipped through my file like it was some stranger's. That awkward pause before they told me they couldn't find anything original in my submission.
I'd stood there, stunned. I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream. But I just stood.
Like now.
Motionless.
I closed my eyes, and her voice came rushing back again.
"You've humiliated me."
"This is who you really are."
"Don't ever talk to me again."
I clenched my jaw.
Why didn't I fight back?
Why didn't I explain?
Because even if I had... no one would've listened.
Not them. Not her.
A breeze slipped through the cracked window, brushing against my skin like a ghost. I felt cold. Not the kind sweaters fix. The kind that seeps in when you've lost something you can't name.
My throat tightened.
My arm over my eyes, wishing the fan would stop spinning. Wishing time would stop spinning.
I didn't lie. I didn't cheat.
But what's the use of truth when the world's already written your ending?
I turned to the side, eyes half-closed, when my eyes fixed on something on the table.
A pen. Kusuma's pen.
It still sat on the corner of my table, exactly where she had left it the last time we spoke. I didn't even remember keeping it. But there it was.
That clumsy, oversized one with a tiny blue tassel on the cap. She used to twirl it around while thinking, sometimes accidentally flicking ink on herself.
She'd left it here once after a late-night study session. I'd meant to return it a hundred times.
Now it just stared back at me like a ghost frozen in plastic.
And then it happened—like a crack in the darkness.
A memory.
It was the night before this project presentation.
I was panicking. Everything looked wrong. My slides, my diagrams, my voice.
But she just sat there beside me, calm, confident.
"You're overthinking it again," she'd said, nudging me with that same pen. "You know this stuff, Manoj. You've built it from scratch. Just go in there and own it."
I laughed nervously. "Easy for you to say. You're always good at this."
She'd tilted her head, that little smile playing on her lips. "No. I'm just not afraid of the stage. You're the one with the real ideas."
Her voice echoed now—strangely louder than everything else.
Back then, her belief in me felt like fuel. Today, it felt like a lie.
Or maybe... something I lost.
I stared at the pen for a long time.
A tiny, ordinary thing.
And yet, it held more truth than anything I had left. More weight than all the promises she made.
I reached for it with trembling fingers.
And that's when I broke.
My knees gave in. I fell to the ground, clutching the pen to my chest like it could hold me together. The tears came fast, unstoppable. Everything I'd buried under silence—the loss, the anger, the humiliation, the loneliness—flooded out of me like a storm.
Some things aren't mine to hold anymore.
– – – –
The air around me felt heavier than usual. My palms were cold, but my skin was sweating. This wasn't just any interview. This was the one that could pull me out of the dark, the one that could rewrite everything.
A job with a national-level tech firm. Only three candidates would be selected, and I'd worked for months with that number echoing in my mind like a warning. Top three. Nothing else counted.
I reached the venue early, hoping to calm my nerves. But the long line of other hopefuls outside the seminar hall only made things worse. Everyone looked confident, sharp, well-prepared. I forced myself to stay focused.
Finally, it was my turn. I walked into the room slowly, trying to breathe, trying not to look too shaken. Three interviewers sat behind a table. Their expressions were unreadable—professional, cold.
"Your name?" one of them asked, already flipping through the stack of reports.
"Manoj," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He found a file and opened it, projecting its contents onto the large screen behind him. I turned to look, but as soon as I saw what was on the screen—my heart sank.
This wasn't mine.
This wasn't the report I spent weeks crafting. It had my name, my batch number, but the contents—some were random, others were outdated elements I had purposely avoided.
I swallowed hard and tried to speak.
"Sir… this isn't my project report. Something's wrong."
The room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop.
"What do you mean?" the officer asked, narrowing his eyes.
"This isn't what I submitted," I said, gently but firmly. "I didn't include these components. I worked on an adaptive optimization system using machine learning with real-time feedback. This... this isn't even close."
Another officer leaned forward, irritated. "This is the report we received under your name. Please don't waste our time."
I tried not to panic. I wanted to believe this was a mistake, just a file mix-up. It had to be.
"If you'll allow me," I said, "I can show you the original from my device or even explain it here, right now. I just need a chance."
But they weren't listening. Their faces were already closing off.
"We don't accept live explanations. This is not an open presentation round," the lead interviewer said. "The evaluation is strictly based on what was submitted."
"I understand," I said quickly. "But I truly didn't submit this. Please—"
"That's enough," he cut in. "You're wasting our time. Present this report or leave."
I stood frozen, torn between shouting and staying quiet. If I walked away, everything ended here. But if I stayed silent, it ended too.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "But this is not mine. I swear."
That was it.
The security guard was signaled. Before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and gestured for me to leave.
I didn't resist. What was the point?
I walked out.
One step. Two steps. Out of the room. Out of the chance I had fought so hard for.
I stood outside the seminar hall like a ghost—forgotten, unseen, unheard. People passed by me, their voices muffled and distant. I couldn't move. My legs were numb. My mind was louder than anything around me, screaming questions I had no answers to.
Why did this happen?
Why now?
Why me?
– – – –
I'd poured everything into that project. Sleepless nights, endless tweaking, endless hope… all gone. All stolen. Like it never mattered. Like I never mattered.
But what hurt the most wasn't just that I lost the opportunity. It was that nobody believed me. Not even for a second.
And maybe… that's what I'd gotten used to.
No one believed me when Kusuma left either.
She never gave me a chance to explain. No questions. No doubts. Just a goodbye, like I had already been proven guilty. Her words still echo in my chest, louder than the interview panel's indifference.
"You're not the person I thought you were."
"I can't do this anymore."
I didn't?
Yes, may be I still don't.
Back then, I thought it was just heartbreak. That it would pass. That maybe time would patch the holes she left behind.
But time doesn't heal anything. It just adds more weight.
And somewhere, in the middle of that darkness, I finally admitted it to myself:
I didn't know how to go on.