It started with a whisper.
In the corridor, near the chemistry lab, two girls were giggling way too loudly. I wasn't eavesdropping (okay, maybe just a little), but one word froze my blood mid-step:
"Shabd."
I turned.
"She gave him a rose," one of them said. "In front of everyone. And he actually took it."
My stomach twisted like I'd crashed into a wall at 300 km/h.
I didn't ask who the girl was. Didn't need to.
It could've been anyone—and it would still feel like the world had tilted.
Later that day, I saw him. Standing under the banyan tree near the senior block. Holding… a red rose.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't blushing. He wasn't doing anything.
But he was holding it.
I felt like someone had punched the air out of my lungs.
I stormed back to class, slammed my bag down, and yelled at three boys for chewing gum, one for breathing loudly, and another just because I was angry and he was closest. Everyone stayed away from me that day. Good.
I needed the silence.
That night, I opened my scrapbook and flipped to a blank page. I stared at it for a long time. Then I grabbed a red pen and drew a rose. Messy, angry, bleeding red ink into the paper.
Underneath, I wrote:
"She gave him a rose. He accepted it. But I was the one who memorized his voice. Who studied the way he walked. Who raced like he was my finish line."
Then I cried. Not a loud sob. Just silent, shaking tears—like a storm with the sound turned off.
Because even Hitler has a heart.
And that night, mine cracked a little more.
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