Euclid, eighteen, stepped into his first year of college carrying the weight of past shadows, yet unaware of the storms that awaited him.
The loss of his father in 2017 had left a mark so deep it was impossible to ignore. That absence shaped every step, every thought, every expectation he had of himself. He wanted to succeed, to honor the memory of the man who had been his guide, his strength, and his everything. But life, as it often does, had its own plans.
The first year began with promise but quickly unraveled. Numbers and concepts that once seemed manageable now twisted in confusing patterns. Euclid found himself lost in lectures, frustrated and silent.
He carried the weight of failure quietly, unwilling to show weakness, and as the days passed, the pressure mounted. But even as academics slipped through his fingers, another force pulled him deeper—a pull he could not resist.
It was her. His childhood love. A connection that had started years ago, silently growing in the quiet corners of his memory, came alive when he found her account on Instagram.
Euclid did not know much about talking to girls; he had no strategy, no guidebook, nothing but the deep, unwavering love he had carried since he was eleven.
Every day became a mix of anticipation and distraction. He spent hours waiting, scrolling, imagining, and hoping for a single message or word from her. It was innocent, yes, but consuming—days and nights blurred together as he waited for her to appear, to respond, to acknowledge the boy who had loved her for so long.
He tried to study, but his focus fractured. The world shrank into the small screen of her social media, the anticipation of her words, the hope of her attention. Grades slipped. Assignments were delayed.
Classes were attended but often without thought, for Euclid's mind was elsewhere, replaying conversations in his head, analyzing every word, every pause, every emoji. He told himself he could manage both love and study, but the truth was merciless: he could not.
The first-year exams approached, and Euclid realized the consequences of being a boy consumed by infatuation.
Through all of this, Bakhtiyar was a constant presence. More than a friend, more than anyone else in Euclid's life, Bakhtiyar became a brother.
He watched quietly, noticed the exhaustion in Euclid's eyes, the distraction in his behavior, and the frustration with himself. He did not scold harshly, but he did not let him fall unchecked.
"You're wasting yourself," Bakhtiyar said one evening after noticing Euclid staring blankly at his notes instead of studying. "This isn't about her. This is about you. Don't let your life slip away because of someone else."
Bakhtiyar guided him through heartbreak before it fully consumed him. He reminded Euclid that true feelings are valuable, but they cannot replace responsibility.
He helped him process the moments when the girl said things that cut deep—how she eventually rejected him after six months, how she called him a liar, questioning why he had never confessed sooner.
The pain was sharp, a physical ache that weighed on Euclid's chest. But Bakhtiyar's words and patience gave him the tools to endure. He reminded Euclid that love from the heart was never wasted, even if the outcome was not as hoped.
Euclid remembered nights where he lay awake, replaying every conversation, every moment, every imagined future with her. He felt the ache of longing, the frustration of his own mistakes, the sting of seeing the girl he loved walk away as if he had never existed in her world.
It was not bitterness that he felt, but a profound sadness and regret. And yet, even in those moments, Bakhtiyar was there—calling, messaging, sitting beside him in silence, reminding him to breathe, to focus, to hold onto his own worth.
Despite all distractions, despite heartbreak, Euclid began to notice small victories. Though his first-year grades were lower than he wanted, he had faltered in exams, and he realized the mistake had been his own.
He acknowledged that he had allowed his infatuation to overshadow responsibility.
The realization hurt, but it also sparked a quiet determination. Euclid began to understand the delicate balance between the heart and the mind, between longing and duty.
Abneer, meanwhile, became the presence that smoothed the edges of everyday life. He laughed with Euclid, shared moments of calm and lightness, and offered quiet understanding without ever demanding explanation.
He was there for the small things—walking together between classes, sharing jokes, and just being a reliable presence. It was not the intensity of Bakhtiyar's brotherhood, but it was meaningful in its own way, a reminder that connection could come in many forms.
Through these relationships, Euclid learned lessons that textbooks could never teach. He learned patience, the necessity of focus, the value of careful choices, and the difference between fleeting distraction and enduring support.
He learned that grief and heartbreak were not just burdens—they were also teachers. And in Bakhtiyar, he saw the embodiment of loyalty and guidance, the kind of presence that could steady someone on the brink of despair.
Euclid also found poetry in these moments, lines he once heard in Urdu flowing through his mind in English:"A true friend holds your hand in the storm, not just in sunlight. A brother chosen in life carries your sorrows as if they were his own."
These words became more than lines—they became truths he felt in his bones, reflecting the care of Bakhtiyar and the quiet presence of Abneer.
By the end of the first year, Euclid had learned the hard way that choices had consequences. His grades suffered because he had prioritized longing over study, distraction over focus. But he also realized that growth came from recognizing mistakes and learning from them.
The heartbreak with his childhood love, though painful, was a lesson in patience, in timing, in understanding the depth of feelings that could not always be returned. And Bakhtiyar's constant guidance had transformed pain into insight, making the burden of first-year mistakes lighter, even if the regret remained.
As the summer ended and Euclid prepared to return for his second year, he felt a cautious optimism. He had survived heartbreak. He had faced academic challenges. He had learned that friends could become brothers, that care could manifest in both subtle and profound ways, and that mistakes were opportunities to grow.
And though he still carried memories of the girl who had left him heartbroken, he also carried hope—hope that life could bring someone equally meaningful into his world. Someone whose presence could inspire him to balance heart and mind, study and love, growth and care.
Euclid thought of the next year with a mixture of excitement and quiet resolve. He had plans to study harder, to focus on what mattered, and to navigate relationships with care and awareness.
He also looked forward to meeting someone new—"my charm," as he would call her—someone whose presence could bring joy without distraction, whose support could nurture growth without consuming it.
The lessons of the first year, of heartbreak, of friendship, of brotherhood, would guide him into this new chapter.
The first year had been painful, exhausting, and humbling, yet it had also been formative. Euclid had faced the consequences of his choices, experienced the depths of longing, and found unwavering support in Bakhtiyar.
He had learned about himself, about the people who mattered, and about the fragile yet enduring nature of human connection.
The first year had shaped him, and now, with the horizon of the second year stretching ahead, Euclid felt ready. Ready to study, ready to grow, ready to embrace the possibilities that awaited him in college, in friendships, and in love.
The chapter closed on Euclid standing at the threshold of change, aware of the mistakes he had made but empowered by the lessons he had learned.
Ahead lay a second year filled with opportunity, growth, and the quiet promise of someone new—someone who could become as meaningful to him as the bonds he had built, as the lessons he had learned, and as the love he had carried in his heart since childhood.
The journey was far from over, and the story of Euclid, eighteen, heartbroken but growing, was only just beginning.