The crowd outside the gate looked like two armies frozen in time.
On one side stood Roshan, his older brother, and eight of their friends.
On the other, Krishanu—hands in pockets, expression calm—with a quiet wall of seniors behind him: two from 11-B, three from 12-A, and a couple of tough-looking tenth graders.
I could feel the air thicken. The chatter from nearby students died as soon as the seniors stepped forward.
Roshan's brother's smirk faltered. His friends shifted uneasily.
"Eight graders," one of Krishanu's seniors said, his tone lazy but sharp. "You've got guts picking a fight with someone two years younger… But now that your seniors are here, where did those guts go?"
No reply. Not even a whisper.
The 8th-grade gang stood stiff, glancing at each other, then at the seniors towering over them.
The senior took a step closer, lowering his voice, deadly calm.
"If any of you even touch him again, it won't be a fight between boys—it'll be a war between grades. You really want that?"
Roshan's brother swallowed hard. "N-No…"
"Good." The senior's grin returned. "Then walk away."
And they did. Just like that. Ten self-proclaimed tough guys backing away from the gate, heads down.
The onlookers murmured, disbelief spreading like wildfire.
Krishanu exhaled slowly, bowing his head slightly.
"Thank you, bhaiya," he said.
One of the seniors ruffled his hair. "Just don't start more trouble, okay? We're not your bodyguards."
Krishanu smiled faintly. "Promise."
As the seniors left, I ran to him.
"You okay?"
He nodded, the light returning to his eyes. "Yeah. Guess that's done."
I wanted to believe him—but something told me this was only the beginning.
Next Morning — Principal's Cabin
The atmosphere felt heavier than any classroom test.
All five of them sat in a row—Krishanu, Roshan, and the other three—each with their parents beside them.
The principal adjusted his glasses. "Let's begin."
Before he could say more, the room erupted.
Roshan's mother slammed her hand on the table. "How can your school let a child beat my son like this! Look at his face!"
Another parent chimed in, "My boy hasn't slept since that day!"
Accusations piled up—"violence," "bad influence," "negligence."
Through it all, Krishanu stayed silent. His father looked worried but composed.
I watched from outside the glass door, fists clenched. This is my fault.
Then the principal's voice rose. "Quiet! Everyone calm down!"
For a moment, only the ticking clock answered.
And then—knock knock.
"Come in," the principal said.
The door opened. I stepped inside with my parents.
All eyes turned to me.
"Sir," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, "I… I think I should be here. It all started because of me."
The room froze again. Roshan's father frowned. "Who are you?"
"Mayank," I said. "The one they were bullying."
I explained everything—the pushing, the teasing, the silence I kept when I should've spoken.
The teachers looked uneasy. The principal gestured for the class teacher to bring witnesses.
Moments later, two of our classmates entered, nervous but determined.
They told the truth point-by-point—how Roshan's group had bullied me for weeks, how no one had stepped in before, and how Krishanu finally did.
Their voices shook, but every word landed like a stone.
The parents who'd been shouting now looked away.
The principal folded his hands. "So, Mr. Roshan," he said evenly, "your son wasn't entirely innocent after all."
Roshan's father muttered something under his breath.
The principal continued, "Still… Mr. Krishanu, your reaction was excessive. Self-defense doesn't justify such injury."
Krishanu stood and bowed slightly. "Yes, sir. I accept that."
The decision came a few minutes later:
➡️ The four bullies—suspended for one month.
➡️ Krishanu—suspended for one week.
➡️ The entire class—punished for staying silent and hiding the truth earlier.
When it was over, everyone filed out quietly. The hallway buzzed with whispers again, but this time, they weren't mocking.
They were in awe.
Outside the office, I caught up to Krishanu.
"I'm sorry," I said again, guilt twisting in my stomach.
He looked at me, tired but smiling. "Told you before, Mayank. Friends don't need to say sorry."
Then he glanced toward the corridor, where sunlight spilled through the window.
"Besides," he added softly, "I didn't fight because I had to. I fought because I wanted to."
For the first time since that day, I saw it—the spark in his eyes.
Not anger. Not pride. Something deeper.
And right then, I realized—
This wasn't the end of the story.
It was the start of something far bigger.
To be continued…