Aryan's mind, fueled by the singular goal of making the world "smaller," had become devastatingly efficient. He didn't just study; he optimized. He didn't just compete; he dominated. He quickly realized that to be the one on the 100-foot pillar, he couldn't just pass—he had to be a sensation.
In the ensuing months, his name became a recurring headline. State topper. District topper. School celebrity. . His fame transcended the borders of his institution, echoing across other branch campuses. He was everywhere: winning excellence awards in academics, delivering rousing speeches at cultural events, and showcasing remarkable clarity in examinations. He was exactly where he wanted to be: on a visible, elevated track, becoming someone impossible to ignore.
But success, as he had learned, was isolating.
The Cream-Colored House
The opportunity arrived disguised as a mandatory school assignment: a group project requiring a public interview on local community issues. Aryan, naturally, was appointed the group leader and assigned a specific neighborhood to survey.
On the sixth house call, everything stopped.
He approached a cream-colored two-story house, eerily familiar. He lifted his hand to knock, and the door swung inward. Standing on the threshold was a woman with a gentle face, her hair tied back, and a familiar scent—jasmine—wafting from the hallway. It was Ayra's mother.
Aryan froze. The shock was physical; the air left his lungs, and for a terrifying second, he was seventeen again, holding an ice candy on the back of a bus. He had rehearsed this potential moment in his head for years, but the sudden reality shattered his composure.
He swallowed hard, fighting to regain the professional mask of the school celebrity. Fortunately, Ayra's mother did not recognize him. Seven years had passed, and he was no longer the awkward boy who sat two desks away from her daughter.
"Good evening, ma'am," he managed, his voice sounding commendably steady. "I'm Aryan, a student from Global Academy. We're conducting a community opinion survey for a school project. Would you mind sparing a few minutes?"
Ayra's mother smiled, welcoming him in. The interview was a blur. Aryan, normally so articulate, had to fight to keep his questions focused on local sanitation and taxes, all while his eyes darted nervously, searching for any sign of Ayra. He felt like an intruder, a thief stealing time under false pretenses.
As the interview concluded, he executed the final, crucial step.
"Thank you so much, ma'am. To ensure we can follow up on any long-term issues, could I please take a contact number? It's for the project database."
She readily provided her mobile number. Aryan left the house feeling lightheaded, clutching the precious piece of paper. He hadn't seen Ayra, but he had done the impossible: He had bridged the seven-year gap. He had a direct line to her life.
The Old Friend and New Doubts
A few weeks later, confident in his success, Aryan decided to seek out old connections. He tracked down Ina, a former classmate he vaguely remembered, who he knew was close to Ayra. He arranged a casual meeting.
His reputation preceded him. Ina was immediately impressed by the famous, eloquent student Aryan had become. This fame, the very pillar he built, served as his passport.
"Ayra and I were best friends," Ina confirmed, her eyes wide with curiosity about Aryan's recent triumphs.
He kept his questions casual at first, but soon, the floodgates opened. He learned that Ayra was living in a city hours away, studying at a university, and doing well. Ina shared anecdotes, filling in the black holes of the last seven years. The information was a torrent of bittersweet joy.
Yet, that night, Aryan couldn't sleep. He was a motivational speaker, a topper, a leader, but a new wave of sadness washed over him. Seven years. Seven years of silence, of deliberate separation.
What if she's changed? What if she doesn't remember me? What if she's with someone else?
His success had brought him the key, but the possibility of disappointment, of finding a final, unpassable barrier, was paralyzing.
The Price of Altitude
Meanwhile, his academic dominance began to breed resentment among his peers.
"He's not even one of us," one friend muttered, expressing a sentiment shared by many in his original friend circle who were struggling to keep up.
Their teachers, praising Aryan's work ethic and simultaneously scolding the others by comparison, only widened the rift. Unable to defeat him academically, his friends began to attack him psychologically. They criticized his dedication, suggesting he was aloof and had forgotten their shared past. They even brought up Ayra, using her absence to highlight his persistent loneliness despite his fame.
"All this winning, Aryan? And you still go home alone."
The comments stung. Aryan, desperate for camaraderie, momentarily demoted himself, telling them, "I'm still with you guys," hoping to dissolve the antagonism. But it was useless. As long as he was the undisputed topper, he was perceived as an enemy.
He realized then the painful trade-off of the pillar: Altitude meant isolation. But his resolve remained unbroken. He had the number now. No amount of jealousy could stop him. He had achieved the pinnacle of his competitive school environment, and now, it was time to use that fame to achieve the one thing money or merit couldn't buy: a connection to Ayra.