When he heard about Jaanvi having a new boyfriend, Krishanu didn't go up in flames with anger.
He didn't scream, didn't even look jealous.
He simply stood there — stunned, as if the world around him had come to a standstill.
Inside, it wasn't fury.
It was regret.
Where did it all go wrong?
---
He took a slow step ahead.
"Jaanvi," he whispered, "you could've… at least spoken to me. You could've explained to me what went wrong."
He took a step forward, voice shaking but steady.
Before he could reach her, Ravi intervened, pushing him aside with his arm.
"What sort of garbage are you talking?" he snarled. "Didn't you get that? It's over."
Krishanu ignored him.
He was no longer listening — he had eyes only for Jaanvi, looking for any sign of the girl he once knew.
He made another tentative step.
"Please… just let me know why."
Ravi's temper broke.
With a scowl, he delivered a punch directly to Krishanu's face.
---
The blow reverberated down the deserted corridor.
Krishanu fell back, stunned, blood dripping from his lip.
But he didn't strike back.
Not once.
He remained standing, immobile — not out of fear, but control.
He promised to his mother he wouldn't fight again.
So he took it.
Each punch. Each kick.
He didn't block, didn't dodge because he was broken inside?. He just took everything, eyes open, heart closed.
---
"Pathetic."
Her voice was as cold as the winter wind.
Jaanvi gazed down at him, her face inscrutable.
"You can't even protect yourself," she told him. "You're weak, Krishanu. You let everyone tread all over you. You're a fool — people just use others like tools. Don't you understand that?"
Her words were sharper than any cut.
She folded up her scarf and added, quite sarcastically,
"It was fine while it lasted. My grades improved, so thanks for that. But it's over. Never come near me again."
She then turned and went away, leaving him on the hard pavement.
---
Ravi shoved him one last time before following her.
Krishanu didn't budge.
He just sat there, bleeding, shaking hands, ragged breaths.
And then, at last, the tears began.
Not great wails — just small drops falling into the wasteland below.
He put his palm on his chest.
The ache in his body did not matter.
It was nothing at all against the ache in his heart.
He muttered to himself, voice raw and fractured:
"People use others as tools…"
He said it again, this time louder, as if etching it into his soul.
"People… use others."
Those were the words that seared into him — a wound that would never heal.
---
When he finally got up, his face ran with tears and blood.
He didn't yell, didn't turn around.
He walked home, by himself, through the dark winter streets — the ringing of her words in his ears like a curse.
That evening, a part of him died silently, and another part — colder and harder — took its place.
---
To be continued…
---