(Malik's POV)
Mornings in my house are a battlefield. Not the loud, screaming kind—more like the passive-aggressive, under-the-breath war between me and my mum. Dad had already left for work by the time I dragged myself out of bed. Typical. He was the early-riser type, shirt ironed to perfection, tie knotted before I even opened my eyes. Mum loved to remind me of that fact, like my ability to hit snooze six times was a personal failure.
"Malik Sharma," her voice carried up the stairs like a siren, "if you're not down here in five minutes, I'm pouring cold water on your head."
I groaned into my pillow. "That's child abuse, Mum!"
"Then wake up on time like a normal human!"
Normal. Right. Because the Sharmas were so normal. Dad, the overworked consultant; Mum, the queen of passive judgment. And me—apparently the disappointment wrapped in a hoodie.
I rolled out of bed, raking a hand through my messy hair. I didn't bother fixing it. The messier, the better—it looked intentional that way. Quick shower, toothbrush jammed in my mouth while I checked my phone, hoodie over my head. Done. Minimal effort, maximum irritation to Mum.
When I finally made it downstairs, she was already at the table, tea in hand, looking at me like she was debating whether to strangle me or not.
"You know, your father was never late to school," she said. Classic opening move.
I plopped into the chair opposite her, grabbing toast like it had wronged me. "Yeah, well, your father probably didn't have TikTok to scroll at midnight."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't get smart with me."
"Too late," I said around a mouthful of bread.
She sighed the kind of sigh that made me think I'd aged her ten years. "You're going to be late. Again."
I leaned back in my chair. "Fashionably late, Mum. There's a difference."
"Malik."
"What? I'm making an entrance. It's branding."
"Branding?" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're not an influencer. You're a student."
"Same thing these days."
Her lips pressed thin, the way they did when she wanted to yell but was trying to be zen. Dad probably told her to "pick her battles." Spoiler: I was the battle.
"Your father worries about you," she muttered.
I stilled for a second. Dad never said that stuff to me directly, but I knew he meant it. I hated the way it made my stomach twist.
So I shrugged, mask back in place. "Tell him not to. I'm amazing."
She shook her head, muttering something in Hindi I pretended not to understand. Probably a prayer for patience.
---
By the time I got to school, I was late. Obviously. But that was the point. Walking in on time meant blending in. Walking in late meant every eye followed you, whether they wanted to or not. I liked the attention—it made me untouchable.
So I strolled into class like I owned it, hoodie up, bag slung over my shoulder. Didn't rush, didn't apologize. Just… entered.
The teacher raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Sharma, you're late."
I flashed a lazy smile. "Traffic, sir."
There was no traffic. I'd just spent too long staring at the ceiling this morning, debating whether life was worth moving for. But he didn't need the details.
I headed down the aisle, my eyes scanning the rows without really looking. People always stared, but I didn't stare back. Kept me in control.
Then my bag brushed against some girl's desk. Pen dropped. Fine. No big deal. I bent to grab it, and of course—that's when it happened.
The bottle tipped. Liquid sloshed out, splashing across her notebook.
I froze, staring at the spreading stain. Shit.
She froze too. Big eyes. Waiting.
For half a second, I considered apologizing. The decent thing. But then every head in class turned, waiting to see what Malik Sharma would do. My pride kicked in. Couldn't look weak. Couldn't look like I cared.
So I shrugged. Straightened. Kept walking.
And then her voice cut through the silence.
"Excuse me?!"
Sharp. Loud. Way too loud for a classroom. Half the class whipped their heads toward her.
I paused mid-step, turned slowly. Her glare was fire.
"Yes?" I drawled, letting my accent roll lazy and smooth.
"You just baptized my notebook and you're walking away?!"
I couldn't help it—the corner of my mouth tugged up. "You're welcome. Now it's blessed."
Laughter rippled across the room. Perfect. I leaned into it.
Her jaw dropped. "Blessed?! Are you insane?!"
I tilted my head, feigning innocence. "It's just paper."
Her voice shot back, rapid-fire. "Just paper?! That was my transfer paperwork! Do you know how hard my mom worked to print that out? The ink alone—"
The giggles grew louder. She was spiraling, and I should've backed off. But something about the way she fumed at me made it impossible.
"Buy a new notebook. Problem solved."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You think because you sound like you swallowed the Queen's dictionary, you can just spill juice on people and walk off?"
Now I really smirked. She had fight in her. "You're loud," I said simply, and walked to the back row.
The look on her face—yeah, I'd be replaying that later.
---
After class, I changed into my basketball gear and headed to the gym. Practice was the same as always—sweat, squeaking sneakers, the coach barking plays. I thrived on the rhythm of it. On the way the ball felt in my hands, solid and certain, when everything else wasn't.
That's when I noticed him. Ethan. Blond hair, perfect posture, the kind of guy who looked like he never broke a rule in his life. Everyone knew his dad was the principal. Made sense—he was the poster child for obedience. I rolled my eyes.
Perfect son of the perfect principal. Must be exhausting being that clean-cut.
Then, across the gym, Jayla's voice cut through the noise.
She was yelling at one of the cheerleaders, hands on her hips, hair in perfect curls. Queen Bee energy all over her.
I leaned on the wall, wiping sweat from my face, watching her for half a second.
"Someone give her a crown already," I muttered. "Cheer captain thinks she's Beyoncé."
I shook my head, chuckling to myself, and pushed off the wall. Not my business. None of it was.
Because me? I stayed on the edges. Always watching, never worshipping. That's how you survived.