The day we got our exam results, everything changed — and I don’t just mean the grades.

Pranshi and I had always walked the same road. Same school. Same friends. Same everything. But now, for the first time in our lives, we were choosing different paths. She went one way. I went another. And just like that, the hours we used to spend together shrank to almost nothing.

But then our parents gifted us smartphones — and suddenly, the distance didn’t feel so big. I’d text her between lectures. She’d call me in the evenings. Long calls. Long WhatsApp chats that went deep into the night. It was different from before, but in a way, it was better. More intentional. Like we were choosing each other every single day.

I joined a private science college. Within a few days I had 4-5 friends — easy, relaxed guys who shared stories about school and how life had landed them here. It felt good. A fresh start.

But no matter how good the day was, the moment I stepped out of college, there was only one person I wanted to talk to.

SHE BECAME POSSESSIVE ABOUT ME

Every evening I’d rush home—not to eat, not to rest, but to call her. Her admission was official, but since her classes hadn’t actually started yet, she spent her days at home, waiting for my updates.

And honestly? I loved it. I’d tell her everything. What the teacher said. Which friend cracked a stupid joke. What the canteen served for lunch. She listened to all of it.

One evening, right in the middle of our usual easy chatter, her tone shifted. Almost casually, she slipped in a question.

She wanted to know if there were any beautiful girls in my college.

I told her I had no idea. That I didn’t really look.

She laughed softly, pleased. Then, half‑joking and half‑serious, she told me I wasn’t allowed to look at any other girl. That I needed her permission.

I teased her back, asking if I really needed permission just to talk to someone. After all, no one could restrict me.

She knew that. She said so herself. Yet she still warned me—not to let any girl come too close. Not even by mistake.

When the call ended, I realized my face hurt.

I’d been smiling the entire time. A ridiculous, giddy smile—one that refused to fade.

Because I had always wanted this. I had always wanted her to be a little afraid of losing me. And now, I could hear it in her voice.

One afternoon, when our teacher didn’t turn up, the classroom slipped into that familiar, lazy chaos. Someone started teasing another about an old crush, which quickly snowballed into a full-blown discussion about love lives. Failed confessions. Awkward breakups. First attempts that went nowhere. Everyone had a story.

I stayed quiet, leaning back, just listening.

Then suddenly, the attention shifted.

Someone asked, half-curious, half-skeptical, “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

That caught them off guard.

“Show us her photo!” they insisted.

“Her name is Pranshi,” I said, smiling.

Before I could add anything else, Piyush was already typing away on his phone. He found her on Facebook and, without hesitation, sent her a friend request.

“Now I’ll talk to her too,” he laughed, “and tell her all your secrets. I’ll inform her about all your mischiefs.”

“Go ahead,” I said, completely unfazed. “I’m not scared.”

That evening, when I called Pranshi and told her everything, there was a pause on the other end of the line. Then she started talking—her voice softer, gentler than usual. I could almost see her blushing through the phone. She sounded embarrassed, happy, overwhelmed… all at once.

And in that moment, I was on cloud nine.

Absolutely floating.

I CAME INTO THE LIMELIGHT

Every week, our college conducted practice tests. Most students didn’t take them very seriously. I did.

There was always a quiet fear inside me—the fear of falling behind, of disappointing myself. So every night, I revised whatever was taught in class. I read it again and again until I understood it well.

The effort showed results. My marks were good. Consistently good. Slowly, the teachers began to notice.

One day, the director called me aside. He told me I was now in the spotlight and that he expected great performance from me. I nodded and promised to try my best.

By then, I had a clear goal—IIT. The Indian Institutes of Technology. A name that commands respect. Cracking the entrance exam became my dream, something I held close to my heart.

That evening, I told my parents. They were very happy and proud. Then I called Pranshi. She was excited—maybe even more than I was.

At that moment, everything felt right. My studies were going well. My relationship was strong. I remember thinking—maybe this is how life is supposed to feel.

I STARTED FEELING INSECURE BUT I HAD AN ADVANTAGE

Then Pranshi’s classes began. And that quiet fear I thought I’d left behind? It came back — but this time, it had a different shape.

I looked up her college online. What I found made my stomach drop. A bad reputation. Stories of girls whose lives got derailed there. And the boys — I kept imagining them. Confident. Clever. The kind of guys who knew exactly what to say.

My friends said, “You know what kind of guys study there, right? Pranshi is not that mature. Smart guys with cunning words — she could easily get carried away.”

I hated that they were saying it. But I hated more that part of me agreed.

But I had one advantage — her elder sister, Disha. She had started texting me on WhatsApp, and within weeks, she felt like a big sister to me. Warm. Protective. Whenever Pranshi and I fought, Disha would step in and untangle the mess. Knowing she was there made me feel safer.

Sometimes in the evenings, Pranshi and Disha would sneak out — making some excuse at home — and we’d hang out together. Nothing big. Just walking, talking, laughing. Those were some of my favourite hours.

Then one day, Pranshi’s mother overheard her on the phone with me. She demanded to know everything.

Pranshi went silent. But Disha stepped forward & said, “He’s a nice guy. Good-looking, good at studies. Pranshi is lucky. Why are you angry? Let them be together — we can get them married in the future.”

Her parents didn’t cheer. But they didn’t shut it down either. A careful, watchful silence — which, in families like ours, means something.

Later that night, Pranshi called and narrated the whole thing. And I felt a knot in my chest slowly loosen.

Her parents know. Her sisters are rooting for us. I don’t need to be afraid anymore.

I held onto that feeling. I didn’t know then how fragile it was.

I LIT MY FIRST EVER CIGARETTE

Two months into college. Life was smooth. Studies, friends, Pranshi — everything was clicking.

Then one Sunday, my friends planned a trip to the nearby beach. I got permission from Dad. My heart felt light the whole morning — I’d never done something like this before. Just guys, the sea, no schedule.

When we reached the beach, one of my friends pulled out a pack of cigarettes and passed them around. Everyone took one. Everyone except me.

I watched them light up, watched the smoke curl lazily into the ocean air. Something stirred in me. Curiosity, maybe. Or just the thrill of the moment — the sun, the waves, the feeling that this was a day unlike any other.

“Can I try one?” I heard myself say.

Everyone looked at me like I’d just announced something impossible.

“Are we dreaming? Chirag is asking for a cigarette?”, said one of my friends.

“Yeah. I want to know how it feels.”, I smiled and replied.

He handed me one. I lit it. The first puff hit me like a wall. I coughed so hard my eyes turned red, burning and watery. One friend laughed, another looked concerned.

One of my friends said,”Why are you doing this? You don’t need to.”

Another one said, “Don’t worry. Everyone goes through this the first time. Try once more.”

I tried again. Smaller puff this time. The smoke came out slower, steadier. The coughing stopped.

Honestly? It felt kind of cool. Like I’d crossed some invisible line and come out the other side.

“Now you’ve become a man,” someone said. Everyone laughed.

My head felt dizzy on the ride home. Light. Floaty. Strange. But I didn’t hate it.

After that day, I smoked here and there. Once every day or two, with the same group. It became a small, quiet ritual. Something that was just mine.

I didn’t tell Pranshi.

One evening, she called me. Before I could even say hello, she asked,
“Why are you smoking cigarettes?”

My heart sank.

I replied, “What? Who told you that nonsense? I don’t do such things.”

She said, “Really? My friend saw you—with your own group of friends. And now you’re lying to my face.”

There was nowhere to run. I apologized. Promised her I’d stop. She forgave me — but I could tell she hadn’t really let it go. It was sitting there, behind her words, quiet and watchful.

Oh no! why did i do that?

From that day, whenever she would start a conversation, she would ask, “How many cigarettes have you smoked today?”

I’d change the subject. She’d ask again the next day. And the next. And the next.

At first I understood. She was worried. That made sense. But after weeks of it — every single call, without fail — it started to feel different. Like a hammer, landing on the same spot, over and over.

I tried to stay calm. I really did. But one evening she crossed a line, and all that stored-up pressure exploded out of me.

“Do you think you’re a very good girl? Have you forgotten what you did to me — ditching me for Rony? I haven’t smoked since I promised you. But you keep taunting me like I’m nothing. I don’t want to talk to you.” I screamed.

“Then do whatever you want,” she said quietly. And I hung up.

Fifteen minutes of silence. Twenty. An hour.

I knew I had gone too far. I knew it the second the call ended. But my ego sat heavy in my chest, and I didn’t reach out. I waited.

I checked her WhatsApp status. Nothing. Facebook. Nothing. Just silence, and that hollow feeling you get when you realize you might have actually broken something.

Three hours later, her number appeared on my screen. I picked up immediately.

Her voice was shaking. She was crying — not dramatically, but like someone who had been quietly hurting for a long time and just couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Why did you talk to me like that? I only cared about your health. But the way you said it — I felt like I have no character. Your words hurt me so much.” She said in a choked voice.

Something collapsed inside me. I said sorry. Ten times. Fifteen times. I kept saying it because it felt like the only word I had. I tried to be soft, gentle, everything I hadn’t been during that awful call. After twenty minutes, her crying slowly faded, and she became herself again.

“Please don’t bring up my past. It makes me feel terrible.” she requested me.

“I promise. I won’t. Not ever.” I replied.

The call ended. And on the surface, everything seemed fine again.

Although I apologized to her. But that one outburst had put an invisible crack in our relationship.

But I could feel it. Something had shifted — like a tiny crack in a wall that you almost can’t see. You’d have to press your ear right up against it to hear the difference. But it’s there. And cracks don’t heal on their own.

I didn’t know it yet, but that one explosion had planted something. Something dark and slow-growing between us. And two months later, it would bloom into something I was completely unprepared for.

What happened next — I could never have imagined it.

To be continued…