Halfway through eighth grade, everything began to feel dimmer. Not long after, Vikram turned into someone who never seemed to disappear - always hanging around the water fountain or by the library door. His grin stayed fixed, like he took pleasure in tracking where I went. Without realizing it, I found myself staring at the ground more often. Tile by tile, step by step, anything to skip seeing him watch.
Then came Rishi.
Not with fanfare did he show up - laughter came first. There I stood by the bulletin, squinting at hymn practice times, when Vikram chose that moment to casually tilt into the board, arm pressing like it was nothing. Blocking everything without saying a word.
"Lost your way, little singer?" Vikram sneered, his shadow towering over me. "Or are you looking for a place to hide another secret letter?"
A chill tightened inside me, sharp and known. Yet just as words began to rise, fingers pressed hard onto Vikram’s shoulder.
"Actually, Vikram, I think she’s looking for the exit to this conversation. It’s getting a bit boring, don’t you think?"
Above me appeared a face - someone from ninth grade, familiar near the football yard. There he stood, not wide like Vikram, yet somehow looser, flowing where Vikram felt tight. That was Rishi. Hair wild, unfairly good-looking, his tie always off-kilter by half an inch. His eyes moved first - he carried laughter inside them, something playful I barely remembered.
Back off, Rishi,” Vikram snapped, even as his foot slid backward a small step.
"Helping a friend is my business," Rishi replied, flashing a grin that was both charming and incredibly annoying to someone like Vikram. He turned to me, completely ignoring the 10th-grade 'King.' "Dhanya, right? I heard you singing in the hall yesterday. My ears actually stopped bleeding for a full three minutes. That’s a record for this school."
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My eyes snapped shut, then open again. That guy had a way of making people laugh without trying too hard. His words felt real, like they came from somewhere deep. What stood out? No fear in his voice at all.
Most days after that, Rishi stepped in without warning. Not once did he mention wanting something back. His way of helping always involved turning tense moments into jokes. Should Vikram start moving toward me near lunchtime, out of nowhere Rishi showed up. A crumpled snack bag in hand, he’d wave it at Vikram while spinning some tale about a staff room argument nobody had heard of.
A tiny eraser appeared one morning, loud yellow like a traffic cone. Sometimes a sketch waited there instead - some goofy coconut belting out tunes, clearly poking fun at where I grew up. That kind of thing should’ve annoyed me. It didn’t. Laughter came easier than anger. Then there were the notes, short ones, tucked just so: “Watch out for stone monsters - they hate coffee breaks.” His voice echoed in those words
Rishi showed up without masks. Not chasing drama like Chandru, nor fading into quiet duty like Ajay - he stayed close in his own way. Laughter found me because he let it. While others observed from corners, he stood beside me. Just Rishi - steady, real, there.
Now that someone had her back, Obedient Dhanya began slipping bits of Funny Dhanya into the days once more. Each time Vikram tried scheming against me, he wound up empty-handed; yet oddly, Rishi stepping in only made Vikram burn hotter, tangled tighter in his own irritation.
Facing summer's approach, the visit to Thiruvananthapuram grew harder to ignore. Rishi stood strong against schoolyard taunts, yet nothing shielded me from what waited beyond that old southern doorstep. Decisions piled up where protection ended.
