My class is not normal. Every face hides a secret. Every smile hides an agenda. Behind their innocent looks is a mess—gossip, betrayals, scars, curses I didn't even know existed.

There's a boy with a scar across his face. Darker reputation than his silence. One girl whispers, "I even proposed to him once." I blink. "How many guys have you proposed to already?" My stomach twists just thinking about it. She laughs like it's a joke. "He rejected me, of course."

From the corner, someone snickers, "I heard he made a junior cry last week. Seriously, watch your backs." I freeze. My hands sweat, gripping my notebook like it could shield me.

I heard a rumor about ragging, but then he strolls in—scar, black eyes, calm as chaos—and suddenly, the room feels smaller. He pauses, scanning the class, and then, almost casually, leans down to me and says, "We don't rag girls like you. You look cute." My heart skips a beat, a mix of relief and confusion flooding me. Wait… what? Did he just say that to me?

The girls live in another world. They don't just talk—they dissect.

"Look at her shoes! Are those even from this mall?"

"She cut her hair! Does she think she's edgy or what?"

"Her waist is smaller than mine. I need that workout plan."

I sit frozen, notebook shaking in my hand. How can someone judge a person by her body? Yet to them, it's normal. Looks are currency. Gossip is a blood sport.

The class divides into tribes. Temporary alliances. Whispered strategies.

"Hey, tell me what she said to the teacher!" one whispers to another.

"She's hiding something. Bet she's scared," the other replies, eyes flicking around like we're playing spy games.

Even the quiet kids aren't quiet—they just observe, storing information like a secret vault. I keep thinking, Do they see me as weak? As easy to manipulate? My chest tightens.

And then there's him. Mr. Popular. He doesn't just watch; he studies, calculates. Four moves ahead. Life is his chessboard.

"Why are you staring?" I whisper one day, heart hammering, palms clammy.

He tilts his head. "Observing. Can't miss a single detail."

Detail? My heartbeat skips, stomach twisting. I force a laugh I don't feel. Why does he make me feel so small?

He debates vegan Oreos, teases me with black magic, and leaves chess games unfinished like a dare. Every interaction feels like a challenge.

Piece by piece, I am pulled into this chaos. Crushes, rejections, secrets, scars, laughter that cuts. Friendships that twist like knives. Somewhere in the middle, I realize this isn't just school. It's survival. A battlefield disguised as a classroom.

Being new is brutal. I don't know who's real. Who's pretending? Old schoolmates whisper stories I can't control. This world feels alien. Friendship is a trend, not a bond. I survived a month here—survived, not thrived.

I may look fine to others, but I am not. I am exhausted. Food feels bland. Sleep doesn't heal. Some mornings, I don't even want to lift my head. Three kilos gone. Compliments pour in. "Your hair, your skin, your face…" But no one sees the hollow.

I want joy again. I want laughter without pretending. I want someone to notice me for me. Not my hair. Not my skin. Not my clothes. My personality. My heart. My effort.

I just want a hug. A real one. The kind that wraps me tight and says, "You're safe. You're not alone."

And just when I think I can handle it, my mind drifts. What if my dream life is real? The one where I'm married to a guy who takes care of me like no other, always there to watch my back. What if that life is true, and this one… this one is just fake?

"Kriti, what are you thinking? Get back!" I scold myself. I guess I should sleep so I can see that dream guy again…

But before I can even try to focus on that thought, my phone buzzes. From someone I don't even have saved.

Three simple words:

"I'm watching you."

And suddenly, I know… the game has only just begun.....