(First Life)
The stretch of time between 27th July, 2023 and 1st August, 2023 passed quietly.
Too quietly.
It began with a missed chance.
Felix couldn't stand on the court that day. He didn't even sit on the benches. He wasn't injured. He wasn't late. He simply got an stomach ache, when the badminton trials happened.
By the time the list was pinned to the notice board, his name was already irrelevant.
He knew why.
Kunal.
Not openly. Not loudly. Nothing that could be pointed at or proven. Just timing that didn't favor Felix, words that traveled faster than truth, and a decision already shaped before Felix even realized he was being evaluated.
He understood that much.
What he didn't do—what he never did—was say it out loud.
After that day, Felix became quieter.
Not withdrawn in a dramatic way. Just… smaller. He spoke less in class. He stopped volunteering answers even when he knew them. His shoulders slouched a little more when he walked the corridors.
He knew Kunal had a hand in it.
But knowing and acting were two very different things.
And Felix chose silence.
Nikhil noticed, of course.
He always did.
"Wow," Nikhil said one afternoon, leaning against the classroom desk with his usual grin, "you really chickened out, huh? Skipped trials and everything, and what a lame excuse did you come up with!!"
It was said lightly. Half a joke. The kind meant to provoke a reaction.
Felix didn't smile.
"I didn't chicken out," he said flatly.
Nikhil blinked. Just once.
"Oh," he said, softer now. "Okay."
That was the moment Nikhil realized something was wrong—but Felix didn't explain. He never did. He took the joke seriously, too seriously, and let it sink somewhere it shouldn't have.
The next day, the English test went badly.
Not catastrophically. Just… poorly enough to sting.
Felix stared at the paper longer than he wrote. His thoughts kept drifting, sentences forming too late, ideas dissolving before they reached the page.
When the papers were returned, Vincent Sir didn't hide his reaction.
"Well," he said dryly, tapping Felix's answer sheet with the back of his pen, "this is… consistent."
A few boys chuckled.
"Badminton didn't work out," Vincent Sir continued, eyes sharp but amused, "and now English too? You're really exploring your options, Felix."
More laughter.
Felix smiled thinly.
He deserved it, he told himself.
That was easier than pushing back.
Days passed.
School. Home. Shop.
Felix helped at the shop every evening, stacking shelves, handling customers, and counting change. His hands moved automatically. His mind stayed somewhere far away.
At night, he studied just enough to stay average.
No ambition. No collapse.
Just maintenance.
Sometimes, while locking up the shop, he'd catch his reflection in the glass—older than seventeen should look. Quieter than he remembered being.
On 1st August, 2023, someone mentioned the competition in passing.
Felix nodded as if it meant nothing.
By then, it didn't.
The opportunity had already slipped into the category of things that almost happened—a place where regrets went to fade quietly instead of hurting loudly.
That was Felix's specialty.
Letting things end without a fight.