Fight broke out where calm once sat. Come winter of eighth year, what folks called the “Social Hierarchy” twisted - back-stabbings tangled like old wires.

Friday morning, that was when it went down. Walking into school, what caught my eye was a cluster of older students - Vikram out front - loitering by my locker. Laughter spilled from them like something breaking open.

"Look at this," Vikram said, holding up a piece of paper. "It seems our little singer has a secret admirer in the sports hostel."

A note arrived, penned by Ajay. At last, he put words on paper. Somehow, Vikram got hold of it first - before I ever saw a line.

"Return it now, Vikram Bhaiya," I said - voice trembling, yet steady.

"Bhaiya? Now you want to be respectful?" Vikram smirked. "I wonder what your father would think of this. 'Dear Dhanya, I miss the way you look in the library...' It's quite poetic, isn't it?"

Frozen in place, the "Girl Gang" hovered close by. My eyes turned to Monisha, waiting for her to step up. Yet her gaze dropped to the ground instead. Fear of Vikram held her tight. Priya didn’t move forward either. Standing there, I felt every inch of solitude.

"Give. It. Back."

A gasp escaped before fingers closed around the paper. The note vanished mid-sentence, tugged sharp into shadow. Vikram stood frozen, wrist still lifted. Dust swirled where ink had gleamed seconds ago. Silence followed the rustle of stolen words.

It was Bharat. He looked tiny compared to Vikram, but his eyes were blazing. "The letter belongs to her. And the next time you touch her locker, I’m going to the Principal. I don't care who your uncle is."

Vikram laughed, a cold, dry sound. "You’re a brave little mouse, aren't you? Fine. Keep the letter. But the news is already out. By the time you get home, Dhanya, I think your father will have a lot of questions."