Scars Behind the Score

Recap:-

Krish's quiet dreams were brutally interrupted at the auto stand where fate collided with truth. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl who had unknowingly taken his heart, he instead witnessed a painful twist — Maira laughing and speaking closely with Raghav. Confused and broken, Krish confronted her, only to be humiliated as Maira dismissed his feelings in front of Raghav. When Krish's emotions surged beyond control, a confrontation turned physical, and before he could even raise his voice, Maira's slap fell heavier than any insult. With dignity shattered and love crushed, Krish walked away — not just from them, but from a version of himself that believed in miracles.

Now, the wounds of that day echo into every step of his journey forward…

Let us enter into the present....

The days after the slap at the auto stand moved with torturous slowness. Krish's world, once measured in the steady beats of hope and routine, now felt like a wound that refused to heal. Every sunrise brought fresh pain, every sunset deepened his exhaustion. Maira's rejection echoed in his head like the last refrain of a forgotten song.

Krish's mornings began before dawn. The first light would find him sitting at his desk, wrists raw from restless pacing, textbooks opened but unread. His mother would slip in tea and fruit, whispering encouragements that fell like hollow echoes. He picked at his toast, mind elsewhere — on memories of laughter in the auto stand, on the warmth of her smile that now felt distant.

A Battle to Learn

Classes resumed, but Krish moved through them in a fog. Teachers questions drifted past his awareness, peers scribbles on their notes, their casual study groups — none of it registered. In the library, where once he found solace, he could only bring himself to open a single page before closing the book in frustration. He watched classmates highlight paragraphs and practice equations, feeling as though he stood behind a thick glass wall.

He tried writing a study plan — block schedules, timed revisions, nightly targets. But the plan sat crumpled on the floor within hours. Instead, Krish would stare at the blank walls of his room, tracing invisible patterns, replaying that moment when her hand struck his cheek. His pen hovered over paper, but all it produced were shaky lines.

Even simple tasks became monumental. His textbooks felt heavier, as if weighted by his regrets. The pain seeped into his fingers when he wrote, into his eyes when he tried to read. Sometimes he caught himself whispering her name while solving math problems — an echo of what used to be.

He stopped talking to most people. His friends noticed but couldn't reach him. Even in the bustling corridors of the college, Krish moved like a ghost. Once, a professor called his name thrice before he registered it. When he finally responded, it was with a blank stare.

The Exam Looms

As exam season advanced, the atmosphere grew tense around him. The corridors resonated with worried whispers. Students traded question banks. Group studies lasted till midnight. Krish, however found himself trapped in endless loops of self-doubt. Each time he attempted to memorize a formula, he heard her voice dismiss him:

"Stop acting like a victim."

Under the neem tree where he once found comfort, he sat alone. The tree's leaves whispered in the breeze, as though mocking his silence. A few classmates offered help; he smiled faintly but refused. He did not want pity. He wanted clarity.

His mother noticed the shift. She tried to help in her quiet ways — slipping him almonds soaked overnight, leaving encouraging notes on his table. His father, on the other hand, watched with narrowed eyes, the silence between them thick with expectation.

Night Before the Storm

On the eve of his first exam, Krish's routine shattered. His parents spoke in the dining room. His father's voice trembled with worry more than with anger; his mother fought back tears, biting her lip. They feared this heartbreak would cost him everything.

Krish packed his bag meticulously — only textbooks, stationery, and the little silver pendant she once wore, left behind by accident. He clutched it in his palm as he lay in bed, the pendant's cool metal the only thing connecting him to reality. He ran through formulas in his mind, but each cycle led back to Maira's eyes.

The First Clash

Exam day arrived. Krish walked into the exam hall, his posture rigid. He sat at a corner desk, hands sweaty. The invigilator passed out papers. He flipped the sheet. Blank.

His pencil hovered over the first question, simple to anyone prepared, but impossible for him. His mind splintered between the need to write something and the overwhelming urge to quit. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered Fahad's words: "Fight with truth." He wrote honestly — partial answers, bullet points under headers, rough sketches for diagrams. It was not his best, but it was authentic.

Paper by paper, Krish pressed on. Though his answers faltered, his spirit awakened slightly at each finished section. When the final bell rang, he exhaled, feeling both relief and dread.

Shattering the Silence

Result day dawned grey and heavy. Krish lined up with his batchmates before the board. His heart hammered as he located his name. 296 flashed beside it. His breath caught. He sank to his knees discreetly, the number searing into him.

Back home, the news exploded. His father's face, a storm of disappointment. His mother's silent grief. Family friends called to inquire, some to console, many to condemn.

"How could you?"

seemed to echo in every room. Krish stood motionless as voices collided around him. No one saw the tears he blinked away.

Arguments broke out in the living room. His uncle questioned his upbringing. His aunt murmured that heartbreak was a poor excuse. Krish heard every word. He wanted to scream, but instead, he walked up to his room and shut the door.

Crossroads of Despair

That night, Krish retreated to the rooftop. The sky was blanketed with stars, indifferent and distant. He unfolded the result sheet and stared at the numbers. Each digit felt like a betrayal of his potential. His mind spun with guilt — toward his family, toward himself.

He knew the betterment option existed, but doubt gnawed at him. Could he conquer this? Could he rise again? His fingers traced the cool sheet under the moonlight. He recalled his mother's sacrifices, his father's silent support, his own dreams of freedom. A spark ignited.

Forging a New Resolve

The next morning, Krish surprised everyone: he announced he would retake the exams. His voice was steady, though his heart raced. His father nodded, a flicker of pride in his eyes. His mother hugged him, murmuring prayers.

Krish transformed his day into a battlefield. He woke an hour earlier. He mapped out study cycles: morning reviews, afternoon problem sets, evening video lectures, midnight mock tests. His mother prepared his meals; his father checked in with nods, not scolding. Fahad returned, offering notes and sharing study tips. This time, Krish accepted help, channeling pain into progress.

Walls of charts, mind maps, and sticky notes sprouted in his room. He spoke formulas aloud in empty corridors. He simulated exam conditions on weekends. When sleep overtook him, he left lights on, pen in hand, ready to get dreams that might become insights.

Even his physical habits changed — he started jogging at dawn to clear his mind. Music replaced silence in his room. He practiced affirmations in the mirror. Every action became a step toward redemption.

The Betterment Battle

Exam day arrived again. Krish walked into the hall with shoulders squared, eyes focused. He recognized the familiar desk near the window. But this time, the sunlight felt like a spotlight on his comeback.

He read the questions methodically. Each answer flowed, practiced and precise. When he wasn't sure, he wrote multiple approaches — knowing partial credit would reward effort. He paused only to steady his breath, to remind himself that he was reclaiming more than marks: he was reclaiming his self-worth.

He completed every paper with a newfound determination. And when he walked out of the hall on the last day, he didn't just feel relief — he felt pride.

Rise of the Silent Roar

Weeks later, results posted: 415/470. Krish stared at the board, his heart thrumming with triumph. He closed his eyes and allowed a single tear to slide down.

At home, his mother wept openly; his father's proud nod spoke volumes. Relatives offered grudging congratulations. Krish felt the weight lift — not because of societal approval, but because he had proven his resilience to himself.

That night, he returned to the rooftop, the same spot where doubt had once reigned. He held the sheet with trembling hands and whispered into the night, "I am still here. I am still fighting."

And somewhere, in the quiet of the stars, he heard his own silent roar.

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Guys,

"Have you ever faced a moment where one heartbreak shattered not just your heart,

but your whole focus, your future, your everything?

If you were in Krish's place…

would you rise again or remain broken?"

Let me know in the comment section....

To be continued...