Honestly, the night started out so routine it was almost boring. Everybody else in the house was already out cold, her parents probably dreaming about spreadsheets or whatever grown-ups dream about, the ceiling fan doing its endless lazy circles, everything hushed and settled. The kind of quite that makes you think nothing could possibly go wrong.
But you crack open Avyukta’s door and, man, you’d think you just walked into ground zero. Her room was a battlefield. Her eyes felt raw, stinging like she’d been staring at a screen for weeks without blinking. Her head was pounding, like, genuinely, she could hear her own pulse, and her handwriting? Forget about it. Looked like a toddler with a crayon, not the tidy cursive she used to be proud of. The words on the page just refused to behave, slipping around, switching places, doing this weird dance that made everything twice as exhausting. But she kept at it, because what else was she supposed to do? She grabbed her pen, knuckles white, and tried to force out something. Anything. The result? Gibberish.
Write a comment ...