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Chapter 27 – The First Flame

The school festival was just a week away. Banners were already being painted, rehearsals echoing through empty halls, and the dull schoolyard had suddenly bloomed with energy. But for Don, it was just noise. Another distraction from the ache he’d learned to carry.

Still, he couldn’t avoid it.

His class had been assigned a dramatic play. And somehow—thanks to Gor’s gentle push and Jake’s relentless encouragement—Don was dragged into the scriptwriting team. Not as a lead, not even on stage, but the one scribbling dialogues from behind the curtain. The one working late, alone in an empty classroom with a thermos of tea and fingers stained with ink.

That suited Don just fine.

---

As he wrote lines for other characters to express, he felt himself pouring the unsaid grief from his own heart into the paper.

> “Even when the sun sets, its warmth stays behind…

But I? I disappear, even in daylight.”

Gor had read that line aloud during rehearsal and gone quiet. Then he turned to Don with searching eyes.

“You wrote this?”

Don only nodded.

“Who’s it about?”

Don didn’t answer. But Gor knew.

---

Meanwhile, a storm was brewing elsewhere.

Mark, now in a different school, had started showing up near the school grounds again. He wasn’t alone. He had been expelled months ago for violent behavior, but he hadn’t let go of his grudges.

One day, Jake spotted Mark across the fence, cigarette between his lips, smirking like a ghost from the past.

“He’s watching,” Jake whispered to Don after class. “I don’t like it.”

Don didn’t flinch. “He’s always been a watcher. Never brave enough to act without a crowd.”

But Jake looked anxious. “He might try something. He’s not the same Mark anymore.”

---

That week, something inside Don changed too.

The memories were returning—slowly, vividly—of nights long ago when he’d worn that gang uniform, shadowed in the streets, known as someone who people respected, even feared. Not because he was violent, but because he was loyal. Sharp. Dangerous when needed. He had been the Vice-Captain of the gang… though no one at school ever knew.

Except one.

The old gang leader.

---

And as Don sat in his room that night, flipping through one of Aarya’s old poetry books, his phone buzzed with a message.

Unknown Number:

> “You still wear the scars like medals?

Some of the boys still talk about you. We never forgot, Vice.”

Don stared at the screen for a long time. He didn’t reply. But for the first time in months, he smiled faintly.

---

At school, Jake and Gor were beginning to notice a shift.

Don had started showing up early again. He helped build props for the play. He even laughed, quietly, once or twice when Jake made stupid jokes. He didn’t stop smoking—but now, he didn’t hide it either. He stood on the rooftop like a symbol, ashes falling into the wind.

Jake climbed up one afternoon and stood beside him.

“You ever gonna quit?”

Don exhaled smoke. “No. I already told you. This is the one thing I still control.”

Jake didn't argue this time. He just handed him a lighter and said, “At least don’t let it control you back.”

---

The night before the festival, disaster struck.

The props room was found trashed. Costumes were slashed. Paint cans had been spilled over the wooden stage boards. Principal suspected local miscreants.

But Jake knew. And so did Don.

“Mark,” Jake said coldly, fists clenched.

This time, Don didn’t stop him. He walked outside the gate that night, past curfew, past rules.

And there he was.

Mark stood with three others from another school. “Well, if it isn’t the golden boy and the ghost of the past,” Mark laughed.

Don didn’t say anything. He stepped forward, slow, steady, smoke still curling from his lips.

“I warned you once,” Don said, voice low. “You remember what I used to be, right?”

Mark’s smile wavered. “You’re nothing now.”

Don took one more step forward, his face unreadable. “Try me.”

It didn’t lead to a fight. Not that night. But the message was clear. Don wasn’t someone to provoke.

---

The next morning, Don stayed behind the curtains as the play began. His script came alive through the voices of classmates. Laughter and tears rippled through the audience.

At the end, Jake and Gor pulled him onto the stage.

“He wrote this,” Jake announced proudly. “Every line. Every moment. This guy.”

The students clapped. Some even stood.

Don looked at the sea of faces—many of them once strangers, or enemies, or ghosts of a past he thought he’d buried.

And in that moment, just briefly, he felt something soft bloom inside his chest.

Belonging.

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End of Chapter 27