Year: 2003
Kandirpar, Cumilla Vitoria College — Class 11, Business Studies Section.
The ceiling fans spun lazily, their dull whirr-whirr echoing through the warm afternoon air. Chalk scraped softly against the board.
"Now, class," the teacher's voice—firm, worn with years—cut through the murmuring. "Accounting is the language of business. If you don't understand this, you won't understand anything else."
Rows of students sat behind wooden desks, the faint rustle of paper and ballpoint clicks filling the room.
And there I was—seventeen years old, wearing a pair of cheap glasses that always slipped down my nose. I wasn't special. Just another face among dozens.
I watched the teacher's hand move across the board, writing 'Assets = Liabilities + Owner's Equity.'
The sound of chalk again—scritch... scritch...
My notebook was half-filled, my handwriting neat, mechanical.
And behind me—
***
Thap!
A sharp smack landed on the back of my head. My pen slipped, leaving a crooked line across the page.
"You bastard, finish it quickly," a voice growled behind me.
I turned slightly. A tall boy stood there, sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging loose. His grin wasn't friendly—it was the kind that made your stomach twist.
He slapped the back of my head again. Pak!
"You also need to do my notes. Or did you forget?"
"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, lowering my head. My glasses almost slipped off.
Yeah…That's the bully of our class.
Rehaad Savreen.
Rehaad placed his hand on my head, pressing it down slightly.
"Hey—" his voice low, almost playful.
"Y-Yes?" I replied, barely lifting my eyes.
He leaned closer; I could smell the faint trace of cheap cologne mixed with sweat.
"Meet me after the end of college," he said with a smirk.
"O-Ok."
He patted my head twice—tap, tap—before walking back to his seat, laughing under his breath.
The bell had already rung.
A few students who hadn't left yet glanced at me—some whispering, some pretending not to see anything.
Their silence was louder than the noise outside.
***
In a quiet corner of Victoria College—
Thud!
Rehaad's fist slammed into my stomach.
"Ghuk—!"
The air burst out of my lungs as I dropped to the ground, clutching my abdomen.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The sound of shoes scraping against the dirt followed.
The four boys behind him were laughing—low, mocking chuckles that echoed through the empty corridor.
"Heh, look at him."
"Couldn't even take one punch.
"Their laughter wasn't loud, but sharp—like knives cutting into my ears.
Rehaad crouched slightly, voice dripping with disdain.
"I told you to give me the same notes as yours, didn't I? Then why the hell am I second again?"
I wanted to scream that I did give him the same notes. That it wasn't my fault he didn't study.
But I knew what would happen if I said that.
So, I stayed silent—like I always did.
Their kicks landed one after another.
Thud!
Bam!
The sound of shoes striking flesh echoed faintly through the empty corner.
"Ah—!" I gasped, curling up, trying to protect my ribs.
Yeah… it's always like this.
"You bastard," Rehaad growled, his voice shaking with anger—or maybe pride. "You always do this to me."
Wham!
Another kick landed.
"How many times do I have to tell you to give me the notes properly?"
The reason they always beat me—it wasn't really about the notes.
"Tell me," Rehaad barked. "Will you give me the notes properly from now on?"
"I-I'm sorry," I muttered, barely breathing. "I'll give you the notes properly."
And there's no big reason behind it.
It's just that—I don't belong to a rich family.
And for that reason…there's nothing I can do but endure.
Some people walked past the corner—their chatter fading as soon as they saw us.
A few glanced this way… then quickly turned around.
Some didn't even bother to look.
Yeah… it's always like this.
Thud!
Rehaad's last kick slammed into my ribs.
My back hit the wall behind me with a dull crack."Ghk—!"My breath caught in my throat.
Then—silence.
The laughter stopped.
Rehaad crouched down, his shadow covering my face.
He smiled, that same forced grin he always wore.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, almost like a whisper, "you're gonna bring lunch for me. Okay?"
I could barely speak. My lips trembled.
"O-Ok…"
He stood up, dusting off his hands.
As he turned, I glanced past him—and there he was again.
That boy.
Probably from Class 12.Leaning against the far wall, a lollipop between his lips.
He wasn't laughing. He wasn't moving.
Just watching.
Like he always did.
Every time I got beaten up—he was there.
Silent. Expressionless.
Just… watching.
Rehaad and the others finally walked off, their footsteps fading down the corridor.
But that boy—he stayed right where he was.
***
The afternoon faded quietly into evening.
The sun hung low, bleeding orange across the sky.
Caw... caw...A few crows perched on the power lines, their cries echoing over the rooftops.
The sound of rickshaw bells drifted faintly from the main road.
At a quiet area of Cumilla—Racecourse—I walked alone, my head lowered, my school bag hanging loosely over my shoulder.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
After a while, I stopped in front of our house.
A narrow, aging structure tucked between two larger buildings.
I pushed open the iron gate—creak...—and stepped inside.
Our house was small.
A single bedroom.
A kitchen barely large enough for one person.
A washroom with a door that didn't quite close properly.
Though it was tiny… it was ours.
And about how a family like ours could even own a place like this—...Forget it.
If I start explaining that, it'll take a whole day.
When I entered the room, it was quiet.
Empty.
Dad wasn't home yet—probably still at work.
I placed my bag on the chair, took a quick bath, and changed into clean clothes before he came back.
Then I washed my uniform carefully, scrubbing away the dirt before the bruises on my arms started to ache.
If Dad saw it, he'd worry.
And I didn't want that.
He already had too many things to worry about.
***
It was late when Dad came home.
The clock on the wall ticked softly—tick... tick... tick...11:40 p.m.
He looked exhausted, his shirt clinging to him with sweat and dust from the day's work.
After a short bath, he joined me at the table.
We sat under the dim yellow light of the single bulb above.
Our meal was simple—rice, lentils, and a little fried egg on the side.
The kind of dinner we'd gotten used to.
Clink... clink...The quiet sound of metal spoons against the plates filled the silence.
"So—" Dad said between bites, his voice rough but gentle. "How was school today?"
"It was fine. Just like every day," I replied, eyes fixed on my plate.
"Is that so?" he said with a faint smile. "That's good then."
A small silence followed—only the soft rhythm of chewing and the hum of the ceiling fan overhead.
Then I spoke again, my voice low.
"Dad—"
He looked up. "Yeah? What is it?"
"I... don't want to go to college anymore."
His hand froze mid-air.
The spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.
"Why?" he asked quietly. "What's the problem? Did something happen? Is there anything wrong with the college?"
I kept my eyes down. "No, Dad. I just... don't want to go."
"Hey..." He forced a little laugh. "That's not like you, Afraan. You're good at your studies. If it's about money, I'll figure something out."
"Stop, Dad," I muttered. "I just don't want to go. There's no other reason."
"But—"
"I said stop!"
My voice cracked as I shouted. "I just don't want to go! Why can't you understand that?"
The words echoed in the small room.
Then—Silence.
Dad didn't say anything after that.
He just lowered his eyes and kept eating quietly.
And somehow...
that silence hurt more than anything else.
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