His father's voice echoed through the walls.
"How long do we feed a grown man?"
"Look at Sharmaji's son! Already earning in Bangalore!"
No matter how hard he studied, the pressure kept building.
When he failed the third time, they stopped talking to him.
Not in anger — in disappointment.
That was worse.
He finally said one quiet night,
"Just… give me more time. I'll succeed. I promise."
His father didn't reply.
"Time for what? You haven't achieved anything. Just wasting money," his mother said.
He needed money. Not for himself. For silence.
He took a local job as a delivery boy. Then found work editing YouTube videos for others. Slowly, he learned how the system worked — thumbnails, tags, engagement hacks.
He never liked it. But it worked.
One day, his first video hit a million views.
Then another. Then ten million.
He bought new clothes. Paid off the home loan. Upgraded the house inverter.
His father smiled at him again.
His mother made his favorite food again.
And all the while, his notebooks gathered dust in a corner.
"This isn't me…"
But he couldn't say it.
He was the success story now.
Ever since then, he hadn't written a word in his stories.
A year later, he sat at his desk. Pulled out his seven dusty notebooks and decided to start writing again.
He sat at his desk the next day. Pulled out a fresh notebook. Pencil ready.
He waited.
Nothing came.
"Maybe I just need to read my old stuff again."
He opened his first fantasy novel — written when he was 18.
He remembered the excitement back then.
Now, the words felt dead.
"Why does this sound so… immature?"
He closed it.
He opened the sci-fi story.
Then he just sat there, staring at the blank notebook for hours.
"What's wrong with me?"
Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
His eyes grew darker. He barely ate. Barely slept.
He scribbled three words on a note and pinned it to the wall above his desk:
"Never give up – 73"
The number wasn't random.
It was the seventy-third time he tried to write again after quitting YouTube.
And failed.
His sister brought food to his room one evening.
She looked around. Dust. Cold coffee. Unread messages.
"Brother… are you okay?"
He forced a smile.
"I'm just… figuring things out."
She nodded and left. But looked back once.
He didn't notice.
A month passed.
He stopped leaving his room.
The camera he used for streaming lay unplugged.
One night, quietly, he pressed "record" on it one….. last….... time.
The house was quiet the next morning.
His sister knocked.
No answer.
She pushed the door open.
He was… hanging from the ceiling.
She screamed.
Dropped the food tray. Plates shattered.
His parents ran in.
Their eyes widened.
His mother cried out loud the next second.
His father was expressionless — hollow inside — thinking maybe it was just a bad dream.
But reality hit him when his wife's cries rang through his ears.
Moments later, Rohan was laying in her lap.
His father's hands trembled as they slowly reached Rohan's face.
When he touched him, a tear fell.
He pressed Rohan's face between his palms.
And broke.
They cried until