Rhea's Pov
The problem with public failure is that it's never announced.
It's revealed.
The class was unusually silent that day. The kind of silence that smells like bad news and fresh chalk. Mrs. Chatterjee walked in holding a stack of papers like they were verdicts.
"Class test results," she said.
Front benches straightened. Confidence inflated.
Neil adjusted his seat—third bench now, posture perfect, pen ready.
I didn't look at him.
"Aditi — 18 out of 20."
Applause. Actual applause.
Mrs. Chatterjee smiled like a proud investor.
"Arjun — 17."
More nodding. More validation.
Then she paused.
"Neil."
The room leaned forward.
"12."
Silence.
Not the shocked kind.
The judging kind.
Neil blinked. Once. Twice.
"Twelve?" he repeated softly.
Mrs. Chatterjee frowned. "You were doing so well lately."
There it was.
The disappointment reserved for people who break expectations.
Samar whispered, "Front benches don't like refunds."
I didn't laugh.
Neil stared at his paper like it might change its mind.
Then—
"Rhea — 19."
The room snapped.
I looked up.
Mrs. Chatterjee hesitated before saying, "Well done."
Not proud.
Not warm.
Just… factual.
Kabir's name followed. "Kabir — 19."
That one hurt her more.
The last row shifted.
Whispers spread like cracks in glass.
Neil turned around slowly.
He looked at me.
Not angry.
Not jealous.
Just confused.
As if he'd followed all the rules and still failed.
Break time was worse.
Front benchers didn't sit with Neil anymore.
They didn't insult him either.
They did something crueler.
They ignored him.
I watched him stand there, tray in hand, scanning for a place to sit.
He stopped near us.
Samar didn't look up.
Kabir kept eating.
Neil cleared his throat. "Can I—"
"You can sit," I said before anyone else could stop me.
He sat.
Carefully.
Like a guest.
"I studied," he said suddenly. "Properly. With them."
I nodded. "I know."
"They said they'd help."
Kabir spoke calmly. "They helped themselves."
Neil swallowed. "I thought marks would fix everything."
I met his eyes. "Marks don't fix belonging."
That landed.
The real earthquake came the next week.
Midterm results. Final list. Display board.
Students crowded like moths.
I stayed back.
I already knew.
Samar came running.
"Rhea," he said, breathless. "You're not going to believe this."
"I will," I said. "Tell me anyway."
He grinned. "You're rank two."
I blinked. "Who's one?"
Kabir answered from behind me. "Me."
I turned.
"You?" I said.
He nodded. "Barely."
Neil stood near the board.
Rank… fifteen.
He didn't look crushed.
Just… hollow.
Mrs. Chatterjee arrived, eyes scanning the list.
She froze.
Her gaze moved from the top—
Kabir.
Rhea.
Then slowly… to the last row.
She said nothing.
But something shifted.
Teachers hate when patterns break.
That afternoon, she called Kabir aside.
Then me.
"Your performance," she said stiffly, "has improved."
I smiled. "It didn't improve, ma'am. It continued."
She didn't like that.
Neil watched from his seat.
Later, he came up to me quietly.
"You were right," he said. "I didn't lose marks. I lost myself."
I studied him.
"You still have time," I said. "Just not shortcuts."
He nodded. "I know where I want to sit now."
I glanced at the last row.
"Seats are limited," I said lightly.
He smiled—small, real. "I'll earn it."
That day, the class felt different.
Front benches weren't untouchable anymore.
Teachers weren't unquestioned.
And the last row?
We weren't invisible.
As I packed my bag, Kabir leaned toward me.
"They'll push back," he said.
I smiled. "Let them."
Because for the first time, the numbers were on our side.
And numbers?
They don't lie.