The dream still lingered in Harshan’s heart as he woke up, the final image of Ishwaani’s soft smile dissolving into the harsh white ceiling of his hostel room. The warmth of her lap, her comforting silence, and the peacefulness that had wrapped around him in the dream—all gone now. He was back in reality. Cold. Cramped. Alone.
The morning light pushed through the mesh window and settled quietly on his desk, where a half-finished assignment lay. Harsha’s eyes drifted to his right hand. The ring shimmered faintly in the sun. Identical to Ishwaani’s. The only shared proof of a bond the world had tried so hard to erase.
He sighed, pulled himself out of bed, and started getting ready. Sunday or not, he had college until 5 PM. Special classes, lab records, observation work—it never seemed to end. His brain was tired, but his body moved on autopilot.
After the first lecture of the day, the class advisor entered the room
“From now on, Harsha will be your new class representative,” the advisor announced.
There were murmurs. Some surprised. Some sarcastic. A few amused. Harshan blinked.
“You seem disciplined. You don’t get into trouble. That’s why I’m giving you this role,” the advisor said, not waiting for agreement before moving on to the lecture.
Harshan didn’t know whether to feel proud or worried. It wasn’t a role he wanted—but maybe this was an opportunity. A way to be useful, to be seen, to maybe even feel included again.
He started his duties from the very next period: passing along messages, forming groups for assignments, relaying updates about submission dates. But by the third day, it was clear—nobody cared what he said.
“Harshan, you didn’t inform us about the change in deadline!”
“I told you. I wrote it on the board yesterday. I even shared it in the group.”
“No you didn’t. Don’t make excuses.”
This cycle repeated. Again and again.
Even when he followed every instruction clearly, someone would blame him. Group members would intentionally leave him out. Lab partners ignored his calls. Once, he waited alone in the lab for over an hour because no one told him they’d changed the venue.
By the end of the week, Harsha realized: the badge of ‘class rep’ was just another weight. A reason for everyone to look at him only when something went wrong.
Classes stretched endlessly. The few moments of laughter others managed to steal between lectures—Harshan had none. His break times were filled with checking submissions, calling unresponsive classmates, and updating instructors.
The college had no mercy. Sunday classes ran till 5 PM. Observations, record works, and assignments came in waves, crashing onto him without rest. He barely had time to eat properly. Even sleep came late and shallow.
He stopped checking messages after a while. No one replied anyway. And the more he reached out, the more it felt like shouting into an empty room.
The ring on his hand stayed hidden under his sleeve, but sometimes—when the loneliness bit too hard—he’d turn it slowly on his finger and close his eyes.
One evening, after submitting his assignment in the faculty room, Harshan wandered out into the dim corridor. Most students had gone back to the hostel. The silence was thick, but he didn’t mind. Silence had become his most familiar company.
As he walked toward the stairs, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen. An unknown number.
He hesitated. Probably a wrong number or one of the admin staff calling from a new SIM.
But something in him—maybe instinct, maybe hope—made him answer it.
“Hello?”
There was a pause. Then a familiar, breathless voice:
“Harshaaa!”
His heart stopped. That voice—raw, unfiltered, and unmistakably genuine—was like hearing his own past calling him back.
“Dharan?” he whispered, voice cracking.
“Yeah da, it’s me! I got Appa’s old phone finally fixed. Got a SIM too. You didn’t forget me, right?”
Harshan couldn’t speak. His throat tightened. His legs gave in and he sat down on the steps, hand trembling slightly as he held the phone closer.
“I missed you, da…” Harshan finally managed to say, eyes welling up with tears. “I didn’t know how to reach you… Everything here is—”
“I know,” Dharan said gently, his voice dropping in tone. “You think I forgot about you? Not a chance.”
They spoke for almost an hour. Harshan let it all pour out. The loneliness. The coldness of the campus. The fake friendships. The jealousy in the football team. The blame. The silence. The pain of losing Ishwaani. The emptiness.
Dharan didn’t interrupt. He just listened, the way only a true friend could.
“You’re still fighting alone, Harsha. That’s not fair. But hey,” Dharan added with a soft chuckle, “don’t let these people define you, da. They don’t even know your worth.”
Harshan smiled faintly, for the first time in days. “Just hearing your voice… it’s like breathing again.”
“You’re not alone, da. Call me anytime. And next time I get some balance, I’ll call you first.”
Harshan stared up at the ceiling above the staircase, the dusty light bulb flickering. Something in his chest had loosened.
He wasn’t okay. Not yet. But he wasn’t completely lost anymore.
As he walked back to his room, the corridor didn’t feel as heavy. He passed the same faces—none of them acknowledged him. But that was okay.
Because tonight, he had heard a voice from the only person who truly knew him.
And sometimes, one voice is enough to silence the thousand that don’t matter.
He entered his room, sat at the desk, looked at the ring one last time before placing it gently near his books.
He opened a fresh page in his record and began writing.
YOU ARE READING
700 ᏦᎥᏝᎧᎷᏋᏖᏒᏋᏕ ᏗᏇᏗᎩ
Non-FictionHe loved her in silence. They tore them apart when the truth surfaced. Friends vanished. Only one stayed. Now, 700 kilometers from home, Harsha seeks a fresh start. New faces. New hopes. But the smiles fade. The walls close in. Alone again, for reas...
