The week after the announcement was a blur of rehearsals, whispered gossip, and endless polishing of uniforms. The auditorium felt like a stage being built piece by piece—chairs lined in perfect rows, banners strung across pillars, microphones being tested until they screeched.
But one face was missing.
Shree.
She hadn't come to practice even once. She texted me, "I'm sick, can't come." But I knew better. This wasn't sickness—it was sadness. Losing her post had carved something out of her, and she couldn't bring herself to stand here pretending. Still, everyone kept asking, "Where's Shree? Why isn't she here?" And I had to keep repeating the same lie.
The morning of the ceremony, we all stood in crisp whites: skirts pressed, shirts tucked in, sashes across our shoulders. Shoes gleamed, braids were tight, not a thread out of place. The Head Girl and Head Boy looked even more striking, their white garments sharper, ties knotted perfectly. The whole school was buzzing like a festival.
Backstage was chaos—teachers barking orders, juniors running around with flowers and files, Kavya fixing her hairpin for the tenth time, Di glowing like she'd been born for this day.
And then there was him.
Not the unshakable figure everyone saw, but a boy standing rigid, clutching his draft speech, lips moving silently as he rehearsed. His fingers tapped against the paper, restless, like he was keeping time with his own nerves.
I hovered nearby, pretending to check notes but really… just watching. After days of distance, it felt strange to talk to him again. We drifted into random chatter—his least favorite subject, whether uniforms should be banned, which teacher was scarier. Nothing important, yet somehow it mattered.
And then my mouth betrayed me.
"Do you… have a crush?"
The pen in my hand nearly snapped from how tightly I gripped it.
He looked straight at me, calm as ever. "Yes. I do have."
The ground tilted under my feet. "Who?"
His lips curved into the faintest smirk. "Why would I tell you?"
I scoffed, trying to sound casual, though my ears burned. "Fine. Why would you tell me?"
He didn't answer. Just went back to staring at his speech, as if my question was nothing but a breeze passing by. And I hated it—how he could drop a bomb and leave me choking on the smoke.
The bell rang, calling us into line. Time to begin.
On stage, the tension in his shoulders melted. The nervous tapping stopped. The paper in his hand became unnecessary. When he stepped up to the microphone, it was like flipping a switch. His voice was smooth, confident, alive. The boy who had looked human backstage now looked untouchable under the sun. Every word rolled out of him like he had written the script of the world.
"Akayy—Head Boy!"
The auditorium erupted with whistles and applause. He climbed the stage, sash across his shoulder, calm as a king walking to his throne.
And of course—
"Di—Head Girl!"
She rose, radiant, smiling so brightly it blinded. The principal—her mother—looked at her with pride as the applause shook the air. Di and Akayy stood side by side, the golden duo everyone expected. Perfect, untouchable, admired.
I clapped too, though my palms stung. My chest twisted in knots—like I had both lost something and found something in the same moment.
When my own name was called—Editorial Board Incharge—I walked up, collected my sash, smiled for the polite applause, and walked back down. Nothing thunderous, nothing golden, just… enough.
Later, when it was all over, the auditorium emptied into chatter and scattered flowers, and curiosity clawed its way back. His words—"Yes, I do have"—kept echoing.
So I asked around. Quietly. Casually.
One girl smirked, "Oh, you know, he has a crush on her."Another giggled, "Please, he likes me, I'm sure."A third rolled her eyes, "No, everyone knows it's someone from tuition."
Every answer was different. Every name changed. Nobody gave me the truth.
And that only made it worse.
Because now I wasn't just curious. I was restless. Burning. My brain kept circling the same question:
Who?
And if it wasn't me… why did it matter so much?