9:58 in the morning.
Chinmay sat hunched on the floor, back resting against his bed, a dim light cutting through the half-drawn curtains. His phone, propped against a thick book, finally hit the last seconds of the video.
A six-hour marathon lecture on Ray Optics.
The kind of video that looked harmless on a screen. But when you sat through it — when you really sat through it, with a notebook in hand, pausing, replaying, scribbling, solving — it stretched and twisted time like rubber.
He blinked. Eyes sore, spine tight. The voice from the video still rang in his head — a deep baritone, energetic, booming like a gym coach who could also explain refraction.
> "Done," Chinmay muttered.
It wasn't triumph. It wasn't a movie ending.
It was just the truth.
He clicked the back button, closed YouTube, and set the phone down. Beside him was his notebook — chaotic but full. Arrows, rays, diagrams, tiny scribbled notes like "real and inverted", "mirror formula = always signed", "don't forget Cartesian!"
He stared at the book, then slowly reached for HCV — Volume I.
This was the real battlefield now. No video guidance. No pause button. Just questions. And him.
---
10:15 in the morning.
The book lay open in front of him. The fan above clicked as it rotated. His pen hovered above the page.
First question — about a convex mirror.
He drew. Calculated. Got it wrong.
Erased. Tried again.
Correct this time.
He didn't nod or smile. Just flipped the page and kept going.
---
11:40 in the morning.
Four questions done. Each one slower than it should've been. But done.
His shoulders hurt. His eyes itched. But he stayed still.
The fifth question involved two mirrors at an angle.
He messed up the ray path twice before it clicked.
He underlined the answer.
Outside, the street buzzed faintly. He didn't hear it.
---
1:50 in the afternoon.
Eight questions done.
His mother's voice called faintly from the other room.
> "Food is ready!"
But he was in the middle of a sign convention error. Virtual vs real image. It had to be done now or it would slip away.
He didn't answer.
---
2:30 in the afternoon.
He finally stood, splashed water on his face, ate in silence, and came back to his spot.
Then — with a small sigh — he unlocked his phone again.
Not YouTube. Just his photo gallery — where he'd taken screenshots of ray diagrams and special cases.
---
3:30 in the afternoon.
Twelve questions done.
A tough one involving a lens and a mirror together almost broke his flow. But the coach-voice echoed in his head: "Breathe. Sketch. Think in rays, not numbers."
He did.
Got it.
Moved on.
---
5:20 in the evening.
Fourteen questions.
The light in the room had shifted. Shadows now pooled around his feet. He hadn't noticed. The phone's battery was low. He plugged it in and kept working.
---
7:45 in the evening.
Sixteen questions.
He finally paused when his mom walked in with food.
He nodded. Ate quietly.
No phone. No books. Just the taste of dal, rice, and a tired satisfaction.
---
9:00 in the night.
He faced the final question — a reflection puzzle.
Multiple mirrors. A point object. Predict the image.
It took three tries. The third one clicked.
He underlined the answer.
Put down the pen.
Closed the book.
---
9:48 in the night.
The phone was at 17%.
The notebook was filled. His back ached. But the silence in his mind was different now.
Not the silence of failure.
The silence of focus.
He hadn't caught up. Not even close.
But he had, finally, started.
And he was still here.
Still trying.
Still showing up.
> To be continued…
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