Success changes voices. It changes how laughter sounds, how people greet you, how long they wait before looking away. Rohit noticed that the first moment he met Amendra again, six years after they last shared the same streets.
Back in school, Aman was the wild one—the boy who teased teachers, broke windows, and somehow still charmed everyone into forgiving him. He had a contagious energy that filled every room. Where Rohit was quiet and cautious, Aman was reckless and radiant. They were opposites, but maybe that's why they fit. Rohit used to be the listener; Aman used to be the storm.
Those school days were simple. The two of them shared the same tiffin boxes, copied each other's homework, and planned grand futures they barely understood. Aman wanted glory; Rohit wanted peace. Both thought they had enough time.
Then life split their roads. Aman pursued sports, particularly boxing. While the rest of them prepared for exams, Aman was sweating through training camps, nursing bruises, skipping meals, and chasing tournaments no one believed he could win. His family wasn't rich, but his determination filled the gaps. Rohit still remembered how Aman once said, "People like us don't need talent—we just need the courage to get hit until we stop caring."
Six years later, that courage had paid off. Aman had turned into "Amendra Singh," the name that flashed across every local billboard. He had medals lined up on his shelf, sponsors competing for his presence, and a crowd that screamed his name whenever he entered the city gym. Newspapers called him "the town's pride." Girls called him "heartthrob."
Rohit watched all this from the side, proud yet slightly hollow. When they met again after so long, Aman hugged him like nothing had changed. But Rohit could feel the new weight in his friend's tone—a quiet confidence that comes only when life finally bows to you.
And then there was Divya, Aman's elder sister.
If Aman's rise was built on punches and sweat, Divya's transformation was carved out of silence and sheer will. Six years ago, after her second failed engagement, the family had gone through financial strain. Her father's health had worsened, and debts had piled up. While others pitied her or whispered about her "curse," Divya worked.
She started small—managing a boutique that barely made rent. But she had a mind sharper than people ever gave her credit for. She studied online business models late at night, learned digital marketing principles through borrowed Wi-Fi, and turned that tiny shop into a proper brand. By the time Aman's fame began to explode, her boutique had expanded into a chain of small outlets across two cities. Within a few years, she became one of the most known entrepreneurs in the region.
Newspapers that once discussed her bad luck now published her success story. People who had avoided her now sought business advice. But behind that graceful, composed exterior, something about her still carried a trace of sorrow—like a woman who built everything but never stopped fearing it could collapse.
When Rohit visited their new house before the wedding, he was struck by how much had changed. The old neighborhood walls had been replaced with marble floors and framed certificates. Family photographs showed Aman shaking hands with sports ministers, Divya at business conferences, their parents smiling with pride. Only Rohit's own reflection in those polished tiles felt old-fashioned—out of place, like a guest who had arrived at a party that wasn't meant for him.
He met Aman in the backyard gym where punching bags swayed like slow pendulums. Sweat glistened on Aman's arms as he practiced combinations, each punch echoing confidence.
"Not bad," Rohit said, smiling. "From street fights to championships."
Aman grinned. "You sound surprised."
"I am. You actually became what you said you would."
Aman threw a light punch toward him in jest. "And you became what you always were—the thinker who watches the fight instead of joining it."
It should have been a joke, but something heavy hid under those words. Rohit smiled anyway. "Someone has to write about it when you're famous."
They both laughed, but the air wasn't the same anymore. Success had added a thin, invisible distance even between brothers.
Later, he met Divya in her office room on the house's top floor. She was discussing vendors over the phone, wearing a crisp linen saree that looked more like a statement than an outfit. Her desk carried files, invoices, and a faint scent of jasmine.
When she hung up, she smiled faintly. "It feels strange, doesn't it? This used to be our parents' old drawing room."
"Yeah," Rohit replied, looking around. "You turned it into a headquarter."
She chuckled softly. "I had to do something to survive. After Aman became a celebrity, people expected me to fade into the background. I decided to be louder in my own way."
Her words had weight. There wasn't arrogance in her tone—just quiet assertion, the kind earned through years of swallowing humiliation. Rohit admired that.
As they spoke, Aman entered, laughing. "Don't let her intimidate you, Rohit. She looks calm, but she used to hit me with sandals during school!"
Divya rolled her eyes. "You deserved it." Then, turning to Rohit, "He still does."
For a few moments, the room felt like the old days again—siblings teasing, Rohit smiling quietly, warmth filling the gaps that success had almost stolen. But even as they laughed, Rohit felt something unsettled. The more he watched them, the clearer it became: they had both conquered their worlds, yet both carried invisible scars the world couldn't see.
The real world saw shiny medals and profit charts. But Rohit saw two people who had clawed their way out of pain, each in different forms—Aman through sweat and pride, Divya through silence and strategy.
And in the middle of their shining new lives, fate was preparing a twist that would drag Rohit right into their story—again.