November had a way of making everything feel slightly theatrical.

  The rain did not pour; it performed. Thin, slanted lines stitched the grey sky to the earth, tapping gently against the classroom windows as if asking to be let in. The clouds were swollen and heavy, turning the afternoon into something that resembled early evening. The light outside was dim and blurred. Inside, however, the fluorescent tubes burned a harsh white.

  Dust floated visibly in that brightness.

  Desks looked more scratched than usual. Faces looked more tired.

  And Karma looked perfectly ordinary.

  He wasn’t asleep today.

  He sat on the last bench, upright, pen spinning lightly between his fingers. His glasses were straight. His sweater sleeves were rolled evenly to his wrists. If someone glanced at him, they would see a neat, composed student listening to the lecture.

  The teacher’s chalk moved across the board, writing chemical equations in careful strokes. The scratching sound blended with the rain.

  Karma leaned back slightly and looked to his right.

  Arya was there — thin as ever, shoulders narrow, wrists almost fragile-looking beneath his cuff. His hair was combed neatly, parted with precision. He always looked organized, like he belonged in the front row even when he wasn’t.

  A voice cut through the noise.

  “Hey, alien.” it was arya one of his freind

  Karma tilted his head.

  “Stick,” he whispered.

  Arya blinked. “What?”

  “You’re getting thinner,” Karma said, smiling faintly. “If the wind gets stronger, we’ll have to tie you to the bench.”

  Rey, sitting ahead of them, turned around immediately. “He’s right. Arya, you’re one skipped meal away from disappearing.”

  Arya rolled his eyes. “At least I don’t look like I haven’t slept since 2002.”

  Karma placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Madman,” he said softly, shaking his head at Rey. “You’re the one who plays games till 3 a.m.”

  Rey grinned. “Worth it.”

  They chuckled.

  Karma laughed too — not too loud, not too soft. Just enough. The timing was perfect. The expression on his face relaxed naturally, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

  To anyone watching, it was easy.

  Three boys teasing each other. Normal. Comfortable.

  The teacher called out a question.

  “Karma.”

  He straightened instantly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gestured toward the board. “Balance this equation.”

  He stood, walked forward, and solved it without hesitation. The chalk did not tremble in his hand. His steps were steady. He returned to his seat as a few students murmured in approval.

  “Topper,” Rey muttered with mock annoyance.

  “Teacher’s favorite,” Arya added.

  Karma leaned back and smirked lightly. “Jealousy is not healthy.”

  They laughed again.

  Outside, the rain thickened for a moment, then softened.

  The bell rang sharply, slicing through the air.

  Class dissolved into noise. Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Conversations overlapped. Someone shouted about homework. Someone else argued about football practice.

  Karma packed his books carefully, aligning the edges before sliding them into his bag.

  Rey slung his backpack over one shoulder. “I’m telling you, ranked match today. If I lose, I’m blaming both of you.”

  “You always lose,” Arya replied.

  Karma adjusted his glasses. “Madman behavior.”

  Rey gasped dramatically. “You both are against me.”

  They stepped into the corridor together.

  The hallway smelled faintly of damp clothes and wet concrete. Students moved in clusters, their laughter echoing off the tiled walls.

  Hem appeared near the staircase — tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a stack of slightly crumpled printouts.

  “Karma,” he called.

  Karma turned immediately. “Yeah?”

  “Give these to the PT sir. I’ve got practice.”

  He took the papers without complaint. “Okay.”

  Hem nodded and left without another word.

  Rey nudged him. “Promotion.”

  Arya smirked. “Assistant manager.”

  Karma held the stack against his chest and grinned. “Every empire needs structure.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  They exited the building.

  The November air wrapped around them, cool and slightly damp. The rain had slowed into a thin mist that clung to hair and sleeves. The sky was still layered in grey.

  At the gate, Rey stretched. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t overthink life tonight,” Arya added casually.

  Karma gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

  They parted ways.

  He walked toward the sports building, delivered the printouts, exchanged a brief nod with the PT teacher, and stepped back outside.

  By the time he began walking home, the rain had almost stopped.

  The road reflected the sky in shallow puddles. Cars passed occasionally, their tires hissing softly on wet asphalt.

  Karma walked at an even pace. Not hurried. Not slow.

  His house appeared at the end of the lane — gate slightly rusted, balcony railing painted white.

  He pushed the gate open.

  “I’m home,” he called.

  His mother’s voice came from the kitchen. “Karma? Did you get your result?”

  He slipped off his shoes and walked inside.

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  He unzipped his bag and handed her the report card.

  She wiped her hands quickly and scanned the page.

  Her eyebrows lifted.

  “First position?”

  He smiled.

  It was bright this time. Wider than the one at school. Controlled but warm.

  “Yes.”

  Her expression shifted into pride instantly. “That’s my son.”

  She placed her hand lightly on his head. “We’ll have a treat tonight. Tell your father when he comes.”

  Karma nodded. “Yes. Let’s have something good.”

  She laughed. “You’re the one asking?”

  He shrugged lightly. “Topper privilege.”

  From the living room, his little sister ran in. “Bhaiya got first?”

  He crouched slightly and tapped her forehead. “Of course.”

  His brother appeared behind her, arms crossed. “As expected.”

  Karma stood straight. “Competition is open.”

  His brother scoffed, but he was smiling too.

  The house felt warm. Lively.

  His mother returned to the kitchen, already talking about what to cook.

  Karma picked up his towel and fresh clothes. “I’ll bathe.”

  “Don’t take too long,” she called.

  He entered the bathroom and locked the door.

  The sound of the latch clicking into place was small. Final.

  He stood in front of the mirror.

  Steam from earlier cooking lingered faintly in the air. The yellow light above the mirror cast soft shadows across his face.

  He removed his sweater first.

  Then his shirt.

  The air touched his skin.

  The smile faded.

  Not abruptly. Not dramatically. It simply dissolved, like something that had completed its purpose.

  His shoulders lowered slightly.

  He looked at himself properly now.

  His face was still the same — sharp lines, defined features, eyes large behind glasses.

  Below his neck, his body changed the story.

  Small dark pouches scattered across his skin. Uneven. Sensitive. When the air cooled, they tightened faintly.

  He turned slightly sideways.

  The curve of his upper back became visible in the mirror. Mild, but present.

  He straightened instinctively.

  Held it.

  The effort showed in the tension of his neck.

  He let it drop again.

  He stepped into the shower and turned the knob.

  Warm water fell over him.

  It traced every contour, every uneven surface. It blurred his outline.

  He closed his eyes.

  Outside this door, he was the topper. The teasing friend. The son asking for a treat. The boy who joked about madmen and sticks.

  Inside this small tiled room, there was no audience.

  Water struck the floor steadily.

  His breathing slowed.

  After a while, he stepped out and dried himself.

  He dressed in loose clothes and walked to his room.

  Closed the door.

  The latch clicked.

  The room was tidy. Study books aligned. Exam guides stacked. Pens arranged.

  On the shelf, novels rested quietly.

  He sat on the edge of the bed.

  The house noise filtered faintly through the walls — utensils clinking, television murmuring, his sister laughing.

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  His hands hung loosely between them.

  For a long moment, he stared at the floor.

  The silence in the room felt different from the silence outside in November rain.

  This one pressed closer.

  He lay back slowly and looked at the ceiling.

  No smile now.

  No smirk.

  No teasing.

  His face was neutral.

  His chest rose and fell steadily.

  He whispered, barely audible,

  “What is this…”

  The words felt heavier here.

  “I am confused.”

  He turned his head toward the shelf of exam books.

  He was good at studying.

  Disciplined.

  First position.

  But when he searched for excitement — for something that belonged only to him — there was only blankness.

  “What should I do…”

  The house outside continued normally.

  His mother probably planning dinner.

  His father unaware yet of the result.

  His siblings talking.

  The world functioning.

  He raised his hand and pressed his palm lightly against his own chest, as if checking something.

  The beat was steady.

  Alive.

  But distant.

  He stared at the ceiling again.

  “Where are my desires…”

  No answer came.

  The rain outside had completely stopped now.

  The sky would clear by evening.

  Inside the room, nothing moved.

  And for the first time that day, there was no one watching him.

  No one to smile for.

  The fan kept turning.

  He reached for his phone from the bedside table.

  The screen lit up his face in pale blue light. He hesitated for a moment, then opened the browser and switched to incognito mode.

  The small icon appeared at the top of the screen — private, hidden, temporary.

  Like most of his feelings.

  He stared at the screen for a few seconds before typing.

  His breathing grew slightly uneven, though not rushed.

  Just mechanical.

  He adjusted himself under the blanket, the room dim except for the glow of his phone. Outside, the sky was still cloudy, pressing a grey shadow against his window.

  His movements were slow, quiet.

  Not urgent.

  Not desperate.

  Just habitual.

  The world narrowed to sensation and light and the faint sound of the fan above him. For a brief stretch of time, his thoughts stopped spiraling. No questions about the future. No comparisons. No expectations.

  Only physical awareness.

  And then it ended.

  In his hand, white liquid rested — evidence of something that felt more biological than emotional.

  He turned off the screen.

  The room returned to darkness.

  The fan still hummed.

  His breathing slowed back to normal.

  But instead of relief, something heavier settled inside his chest.

  He lay still, staring at the ceiling now.

  The temporary silence in his mind was gone. Thoughts seeped back in, quiet but persistent.

  This is the only peace.

  He swallowed.

  And nothing else.

  There was no pride. No satisfaction. Not even guilt.

  Just emptiness.

  He reached for a tissue from the table without looking, cleaned his hand, and lay back again.

  The books on the shelf seemed to watch him.

  Stories of people who also felt detached. Disconnected. Searching for meaning in places that didn’t always provide it.

  He wondered if they had felt this same hollowness after moments like this.

  A brief escape followed by deeper quiet.

  He turned onto his side again, pulling the blanket slightly higher even though it wasn’t that cold.

  His phone lay face down now.

  Incognito tabs closed.

  History erased.

  But the feeling remained.

  He stared at the wall, tracing a faint crack in the paint with his eyes.

  He had topped his class.

  His mother was proud.

  Teachers probably admired him.

  Friends joked with him.

  From the outside, everything aligned perfectly.

  Inside, something felt missing — like a room in a house that no one had built yet.

  He tried to imagine his future.

  A doctor?

  A researcher?

  A version of himself standing confidently somewhere bright?

  The image wouldn’t form clearly.

  It blurred, like his vision without glasses.

  His chest felt tight — not painfully, just noticeably.

  He pressed his palm lightly against it, as if checking whether something was physically wrong.

  Nothing was.

  That was the strange part.

  Nothing was wrong.

  Yet everything felt incomplete.

  The fan continued its steady rotation.

  Outside, a crow cawed somewhere on a rooftop.

  Karma closed his eyes.

  Not to sleep.

  Just to avoid seeing.

  In the darkness behind his eyelids, there were no expectations. No books. No report cards.

  Just space.

  But even that space felt empty.

  And he lay there quietly, caught between achievement and absence, wondering how someone could have everything lined up in front of them—

  And still not know what they wanted