The result didn't come on a screen. It arrived on a sheet of paper, pressed flat and unforgiving between his fingers. The red marks beside his roll number confirmed it: Aarav had failed the entrance exam.
He had studied with trembling focus, with guilt hanging over him every time he picked up a pen to write a story instead of solve a problem. He had listened to coaching videos through headphones, half the volume drowned by the memory of Niya's laugh and Yuvaan's voice telling him it was okay to chase more than a rank. But now, all those justifications melted away, leaving behind a single undeniable truth: he hadn't made it.
He didn't cry. He just walked home slowly, the envelope tucked under his arm like a quiet shame.
His parents were waiting.
They must have known.
His father stood near the dining table, arms folded. His mother sat on the edge of the couch, back straight, lips pursed.
Aarav didn't speak. He handed them the result.
It didn't take long. His father read it in silence, then set it down like something heavy he no longer wished to carry.
"So," his father said, "what now? Will you write your way into a future?"
His mother's voice was colder. "We sacrificed everything for this, Aarav. Your hostel, your coaching. And this is what you bring back?"
Aarav opened his mouth, but the words were jammed somewhere behind his ribs.
"Do you even realize what a burden you've become?" she continued, the word hitting harder than he expected.
Aarav stared at them. He felt strangely hollow, like someone had removed the part of him that would usually flinch.
"I didn't ask to go," he said quietly. "You never asked me what I wanted. You just wanted me to be someone else."
His father's face stiffened. "And what exactly do you want to be? Some failed writer with Rs. 300 stories on the internet?"
He looked at them both. For the first time, really looked.
"I want to be someone who doesn't hate himself when he wakes up in the morning," Aarav said.
Silence.
He didn't wait for permission. He turned, walked into his room, and began packing. There wasn't much. A few clothes. His worn notebook. The typewriter keychain Niya had once given him, now faded and scratched. His own stories, printed and pinned together with hope.
When he came back out, his parents hadn't moved. He didn't expect them to stop him.
Outside, the air was heavier, but freer.
He called Yuvaan. No explanation.
"Come over," Yuvaan said.
And so he went. No luggage except what he could carry on his back. No future except the one he would now have to write himself.
He didn't cry that night. Not even when Yuvaan handed him a cup of instant coffee and sat beside him on the floor.
"They didn't mean it like that," Aarav whispered, staring ahead. "Their version of love just looks different."
"You're still allowed to be hurt," Yuvaan said.
Aarav nodded. But inside, a quiet voice repeated:
This is where it begins.
Not the success. Not the glory.
Just the writing.
Just him.