episode 10

"The Day the Game Turned"

Date: [The day it all got too loud in my head]

They still think I'm just a guy with a phone in one hand and trouble in the other.

They don't know that even trouble gets tired.

It's funny how a corridor can echo your name louder when people whisper it. Today, it wasn't Khangari they whispered. It was villain. Snake. Problem. The guy who makes the puppets dance, even when the strings are cutting into his own skin.

But nobody asks who taught me how to pull strings in the first place.

Morning

I woke up earlier than usual. Couldn't sleep. Had that feeling you get right before something breaks — not a bone, but something softer. Something that doesn't heal clean.

Prottoy Giringi didn't text last night. That boy, he's fire and gasoline in human skin. Always ready to explode. But today he was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that tells you something isn't right.

Sweety Mam walked past me in the hallway, didn't even look. She used to. She used to ask how I was, like she didn't already know the answer was "strategizing." That's what I do. I survive. I build fences in a place where even hope jumps ship.

Midday

And then came the classroom buzz.

The leak. The paper. The principal.

Mokbul Sir's office had more eyes than a surveillance room. And in the middle of it all? Prottoy. My general. My headache. My boy.

When he opened his mouth and said, "Yes, I did it. I took the paper," I didn't blink. You can't blink when you're calculating survival. You can't blink when your reputation sits like a glass on a ledge, and one gust of wind turns you into nothing but shards.

And then the real burn came — Mokbul Sir was involved.

I had known. Maybe not directly, but I'd felt it. This system, this building — it's full of cracks. And when the cracks widen, someone's bound to fall through. I just didn't think it'd be one of us.

Afternoon

Raju Chumma and Montu Biri made jokes, like they always do, but even their laughter had teeth today. It wasn't real. It was scared laughter. The kind you make when your house is on fire but you're still trying to look cool holding a water bottle.

And then Naznin. Always floating in like a question no one can answer.

She looked at Prottoy like she wanted to erase the whole week with a blink. But I saw the way Prottoy looked away. I saw the guilt swim through his eyes like a fish caught in plastic. She deserves someone who won't let the fire inside him burn down everything she touches.

But maybe I'm just projecting.

Evening

Jony.

God, Jony.

He's not loud. He's not slick. He doesn't have the lines or the laughs. But the way people treat him? It's like they see his silence as a blank wall to write insults on.

I didn't mean for him to be pulled into this.

He sat at the back, eyes like dark water, taking everything in. And no one even noticed. That's what kills me. Not the chaos, not the exposure — but the invisibility. The way the softest ones get stepped over in our race to be seen.

Late Night

So, what am I?

Am I the villain?

Am I the mastermind?

Or am I just another boy who figured out that playing the game is the only way to stop being played?

Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I didn't learn how to lead. If I didn't learn how to use fear like a currency.

Maybe I'd be Jony.

Maybe I'd be nothing.

But I can't afford that.

Not here. Not now.

Footnote (scribbled quickly)

They say I manipulate. That I sit at the center, spinning the wheel. But what they don't see is that the wheel spins me too. Faster than I can hold on.

And someday, when it throws me off, I wonder who'll even notice I'm gone.

Maybe Naznin will.

But probably not.

Even queens get tired of shadows.Bodmaish Polapain — Episode 10: A College Divided Chapter 1: Morning Shadows

The first light of dawn clawed through cracked windows, painting long stripes across dusty classroom floors. Inside, the air was thick with the residue of last night's tension—ghosts in every empty chair, unfinished whispers lingering in the corners.

Prottoy Giringi sat near the window, knee bouncing with restless energy. The leak. His utterance of guilt still echoed in his ears, a relentless reminder that the dam had broken—and he'd been the one to shatter it.

Across the courtyard, Khangari leaned against the weathered wall, his silhouette carved in calculated calm. But beneath the surface, his mind spiraled: the scandal was spreading, and with it, cracks in his empire.

Naznin hovered at the edge of the lawn, her face pale under the soft morning light. She'd promised herself silence—but silence came with a price, and every heartbeat reminded her of what she hadn't said.

And rearranged at the back row, Jony sat vacant, a ghost in his own body. The relentless bullying had dulled him, but today something shifted—an ember of something unspoken.

Chapter 2: Confessions and Consequences

Mokbul Sir lowered his head as he sank into his chair in the staff room. The leak was true—and worse, his involvement undeniable. He'd always preached integrity, but when the pressure rose, he'd faltered—and taken Prottoy with him.

Sweety Mam watched him quietly. Her heart wrenched for the students, for Prottoy and Naznin, for Jony and the world they'd created here. Authority demanded discipline, but her instincts whispered mercy—and it wasn't always clear which she owed more.

Meanwhile, word reached every corner: the question paper had been leaked.

In the exam hall, students looked at each other accusingly, suspicion simmering like an unwelcome guest. The sanctity of education had snapped when the page had been stolen—and now, everyone felt the strain.

Chapter 3: Tides of Power

In the shadowed recesses of the sports ground, Khangari gathered his loyal few. Whispered plans fell over taut shoulders and clenched fists. He didn't want to crush Prottoy—yet—but he needed control. The fragile illusion of power could't crumble.

Prottoy stood on the periphery, heart all jumbled. He'd broken the rules—and yet, he couldn't turn back. Khangari's gaze landed on him, and Prottoy swallowed. Between pride and fear, he didn't know which consumed him more.

And somewhere in the distance, Naznin trudged past—too quick to meet protest, too slow to escape guilt.

Chapter 4: Collision in the Courtyard

As the lunch bell rang, students converged, whispers ricocheting off walls.

A low hum grew until it broke:

"Prottoy did it—he admitted it."

"Are we supposed to believe Mokbul Sir?"

"You heard him—Naznin saw it herself."

"I can't even stay silent!"

Jony's voice cut through the din, small but raw: "I just want everyone to stop hurting each other."

It echoed strangely in the charged space. No one answered; the silence rang louder than accusations.

Naznin blinked, stunned into movement, sliding into the empty seat beside Jony. Prottoy felt a dull ache — he was the center of a storm he'd unleashed.

Chapter 5: Hearts Exposed

That evening, Prottoy stood in his room, the burden of guilt crashing into him like waves. He replayed the faces: Naznin's disappointment, Khangari's unreadable calm, Mokbul Sir's regret. He scribbled frantically:

I didn't think about the cost… the ripple.

Naznin's candle burned on her desk—unseen but felt—her own page of thoughts untouched by pen, but etched in every heartbeat.

And somewhere else, Jony lay awake, a tear tracing a silent crack down his cheek. His voice lingered: Stop hurting. Simple. Bracing. True.

Chapter 6: Dusk's Reckoning

Moonlight slipped across corridors as Sweety Mam closed her classroom door, breathing deep. She had decisions to make—discipline, forgiveness, healing—and the weight pressed her chest flat. She'd tell the principal… but also speak to Prottoy, Naznin, Jony. Repair—maybe possible, but not easy.

On the rooftop, Khangari stared skyward, a lone chess king contemplating his next move. Power carried cost, he knew—a price now being paid, but not by his hands alone. Loyalties teetered. He could hear the walls crumbling.

Prottoy stood on the same rooftop later, staring into the void. His confession had freed him—and damned him.

Naznin met him there, silent but fierce, emotions raw in her eyes. Words burned on his tongue, but silence roared louder.

He had confessed. The paper had been stolen. Mokbul Sir had been involved.

But guilt was not a clean thing. It didn't purify you. It simply stayed, like ink on fingertips, marking everything you touched.

Across the field, Montu Biri and Shekhor Ghaura sat shoulder to shoulder on the low wall, their backs to the main building. They had switched masks in the chaos—Montu's usual bravado subdued, Shekhor's loudmouth nature even louder, as if shouting could drown the truth.

"Tui boro hero hoye geli, Giringi," Shekhor muttered to himself, staring at Prottoy from afar. There was envy in his voice, and fear. Power slipped fast in this place, and Prottoy had suddenly become more than just a friend or rival.

Naznin walked past them, her eyes low, steps deliberate. She didn't look at any of them.

Chapter 2: The Teachers' Silence

Sweety Mam sat quietly in the staffroom, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Mokbul Sir sat opposite her, the files on his lap untouched. There had been no disciplinary hearing yet, no official fallout, but something irreversible had occurred.

"You didn't just fail the system, Mokbul," she said softly. "You failed him."

He said nothing. There was nothing to say. His actions had been a betrayal not just of rules but of trust.

Chapter 3: Khangari's Game

Khangari moved through the hallways like a shadow, unnoticed yet always present. He had built something in these walls—a small empire of fear and favor. Prottoy had been useful, but his confession had shifted the balance. Still, there was opportunity in chaos.

He found Jony in the library, head down, fingers clutching a book too tightly.

"Tired of being everyone's punching bag?" Khangari asked casually.

Jony didn't respond, but his knuckles whitened. That was enough.

Chapter 4: The Weight of Truth

That evening, Prottoy sat on the empty rooftop. The wind whispered secrets through the broken railing. He looked out over the campus, seeing not buildings but moments:

Naznin's glance, full of hurt. Jony's silence. Shekhor's mocking grin. Khangari's calculating gaze.

He hadn't meant to burn it all down. But maybe, somewhere deep, he had.

Behind him, footsteps.

"Why did you do it?" Naznin's voice was soft, but not fragile.

He turned, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The rooftop held its breath.

"Because I thought it would fix things."

"And now?"

He didn't answer.

Chapter 5: Collision

The next day, the courtyard buzzed like a hornet's nest. Rumors were wildfire. Some said Mokbul Sir had resigned. Others that Prottoy was suspended. No one knew for sure, but the truth was secondary now.

Khangari's boys loitered near the benches. Montu Biri walked past them, head held high but fists clenched. Shekhor Ghaura was uncharacteristically quiet.

Jony stood by the notice board, reading something no longer pinned there.

Naznin moved through the crowd like a ghost, untouched.

And Prottoy Giringi, once the storm himself, watched from the classroom door, already feeling like

history.📓 Prottoy Giringi's Diary

"The Cost of Fire"

Date: [Same night. After everything. After too much.]

There's a moment when a lie feels warmer than the truth.

When the paper was in my hand—crumpled, smudged with my own sweat—I didn't think about right or wrong. I thought about silence. I thought about finally quieting the noise in my head, the expectations, the pressure to stay hard, to stay in control.

Khangari said nothing when I admitted it.

That silence? That silence cut deeper than the principal's stare. Deeper than Mokbul Sir's nervous shifting behind me. Deeper than all the times my name was said with a smirk instead of pride.

Let me tell you something about fire.

It doesn't ask if you're ready.

It doesn't knock.

It consumes.

And I've been burning from the inside for months. Maybe years. But I learned to make the flame look pretty. Charisma, they call it. But it's just heat. Heat I don't know how to cool.

Naznin.

She didn't speak. She just looked. Like she'd seen it coming but hoped it wasn't true. Like she wanted to believe the version of me that doesn't steal papers, doesn't lie, doesn't break.

But the truth is, she never got to meet that version. Because I buried him years ago. Right after I figured out that being a good boy gets you ignored, but being dangerous? That gets you attention.

And love?

Love doesn't come free. Not to guys like me. It costs reputation. It costs vulnerability. And I'm too poor for both.

Khangari...

I read his face today like a script I helped write.

Disappointment? No.

Regret? Maybe.

But what I saw most was exhaustion. The kind that comes when the general realizes he can't control the soldiers he trained to be wild.

He created me. Not with words—but with silence. With nods. With a shared look that said, "We know how the system works. Now let's break it."

But somewhere along the way, I think I broke more than the system.

I broke myself.

Jony didn't deserve it.

None of it.

He's been the ghost in our opera—floating through, getting caught in the wires, never asking for a solo, yet always getting hit by the falling set.

And we laughed. Not because it was funny, but because if we stopped laughing, we'd have to admit that we're the real clowns.

Tonight, the college is quiet.

The lights are off in most rooms, but my head is still flickering with scenes from today. A thousand what-ifs and not-enoughs.

I can't undo the leak. I can't undo the silence.

But maybe, just maybe, I can start by writing it down.

Because if I don't, the fire wins.