Chinmay woke up stiff. His arms ached, legs sore from yesterday's mad sprint. His pillow was still damp with dried sweat, and the fan above him cut through the air with a dull whir.
He didn't feel heroic. He didn't feel healed.
But he felt something.
He rolled off the bed, palms flat on the floor.
> "Just five."
His arms trembled as he lowered himself down.
> One. Two.
Three…
Four—
He collapsed before five, his cheek against the cold floor. He laughed — breathless, bitter.
> "Weak."
But he smiled too.
> "Still showed up."
He sat up, rubbed his face, and looked around.
The breeze from the open window had died sometime during the night. The air now felt thick again, as if reality had returned to collect its dues.
He checked the time.
> "Shit."
9:42 AM. His coaching class had already started.
For weeks, he had avoided going. Excuses ranged from stomach aches to existential ones. But today, something inside him refused to play the same record.
He stood up.
No shower. Just water on his face. Ruffled hair. Worn jeans. A faded T-shirt with a cracked print that read "Retry. Retry. Retry."
---
By the time he reached class, the lecture was well underway.
The sir gave him a glance — half-recognition, half-pity — and continued writing on the board.
'Ray Optics'
Inside the classroom, the whiteboard was already crowded with diagrams. Rays bouncing off curved mirrors. Angles. Equations. Sir's voice slicing through the room with practiced precision.
Chinmay sat in the back, slipping into an old seat. The plastic creaked. The air smelled of ink, marker fumes, and unspoken despair.
His notebook was mostly blank. The last entry was from months ago.
> " Angle of incidence=angle of reflection "
Followed by a drawing of a sword.
And a half-written anime quote.
He stared at the board.
Nothing made sense. Not yet. Not without the missing chapters. Not without the weeks — no, months — of missed lessons.
He gripped his pen like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
Then it happened.
Sir drew a diagram. A question — nothing flashy. Ray hits a mirror at an angle, reflects, hits another surface, some distance and heights given.
The twist? It wasn't about plugging formulas.
> "Let's see who can get this," Sir said. "Bit of out-of-box thinking. Shouldn't take long."
The class scribbled.
Chinmay's pen didn't move. But his mind did.
Flash.
10th grade. Math class. A trig question with a triangle inscribed in a square. The idea clicked. Reflection… similar triangles… sin θ…
He didn't think of the answer.
He saw it.
Almost involuntarily, he said aloud,
> "Is the answer root two by two?"
The class went still.
Sir blinked. Looked up.
> "Who said that?"
Chinmay raised his hand, unsure.
A beat of silence. Sir looked at the board again. Then back at Chinmay.
> "That's… correct."
The surprise in his voice wasn't cruel. It was genuine.
Murmurs floated across the classroom.
He didn't look around. Didn't smile. Didn't feel proud.
He just looked down.
---
The walk back home felt different. The world looked the same, but something was off. Off in the way old wounds sting after healing. Off in the way a broken machine hums quietly when it flickers back to life.
He wasn't back. He wasn't caught up.
Hell, he was
1.5 years behind.
But maybe…
> Maybe he wasn't done.
---(To be continued)---