“Okay, so now I have to prep for the interschool competition and Teacher’s Day. Nice. Just nice,” I muttered, tossing my bag onto the chair like it had personally wronged me. 

My room was a disaster—notes, sketches, clothes flung everywhere. Proof that my brain was being yanked in ten directions. The next day. The competition hit like a storm—loud, messy, impossible to dodge.

 Everywhere I looked, people seemed… sorted. Shree swaggered around with cue cards and her ‘I own the stage’ vibe. Di, our flawless head girl, was orbiting Akayy, ticking boxes like a queen on duty. Me? I got stationed in the auditorium as dance coordinator. Basically, stressed-out babysitter, zero medals. 

Still, the buzz was electric. Bright costumes dashed past, dupattas flying, teachers panicking, microphones screeching, and me desperately trying to look like I had my life together. Somehow, my “chatty with teachers” mode switched on, so I found myself socializing more with adults than kids. Maybe it’s my curse. Or charm.

 Then the performances started—and wow. The auditorium exploded into a living painting. Swirling skirts, jingling anklets, drums rattling the floors. Sweat, perfume, excitement mixed in the air. Dancers moved like fire and water, sequins throwing rainbows everywhere. My heart? Stolen, instantly.

 Who needs a partner when there’s a festival happening in front of you?

 Around me, clusters of giggling groups looked like they belonged. I watched, wanting to join, throat locked up. So, I did what I do best—stayed in my own lane, enjoyed quietly, acted like it didn’t sting. 

When the crowd cleared, we moved to the football court. Different vibe—dusty ground, falling sun, crowd buzzing like bees. My first real match. Sudden aggression. Boots thumping, cheers flying. Jaw dropped. 

Plot twist—the scary guy was not just a player, but the captain. He was fire on the field, shouting orders, charging, totally owning it. 

Akayy sat sidelines, acting like football royalty, trash-talking every move. “What was that pass?” “He should retire.” I snapped, “Why don’t you go play then?” His reply? Laughed. Like I was a stand-up comic, not a challenger. Annoying.

 Di was orbiting Aksh. Shree and I soaked it in, trading laughs at the tiny things. For once, I didn’t feel so invisible. The day ended messy, loud, and weirdly perfect.

Day Two.

 Singing event. 

Enter trouble kid—star singer from another school, inhaling junk food like tomorrow’s banned. He waltzed over, asked (in English!), “Can I have some warm water with rock salt?” Flex? Congrats, you’re fluent in ‘rock salt’. I sent the helper on a quest. He ate more junk. Next round, he wanted sea salt. Then pink salt. Was our school now a salt dealership? Poor helper ran laps, fetching his mineral water fantasies.

 My murder stare must have worked. He offered me his chips. My inner sass: “No thanks, I don’t mix chips and salt water like some weird cocktail.” I just told him, “I don’t eat junk.”

Later, in class, Akayy appeared—of course. Music’s involved, he’s there. I hinted the chief guest was about to sing, and boom, he raced to the auditorium, seat-saving like a mission. We sat together. He leaned back, whispering a running music commentary. I moved closer, trying to hear… suddenly, our faces were a pen distance close. Heart? Chaos. His reaction? Nothing. He just kept decoding the music, like nothing was weird. Around us, people definitely noticed. Eyes followed us, faces turning into gossip radars. Afterwards, as the lights dimmed and the crowd left, I couldn’t shake it. The way we sat, nearly touching, him acting chill—was that normal? Did he just not notice? Or was he pretending? And that final, scary thought hit.

Does he already have someone, or is he just messing with my story?