Chapter 2: The Invisible Ones
812 Words
Both Priya Kapoor and Vedant Rathore were mere side characters in the novel, barely mentioned.
Priya had only paid attention to them because she shared her name with the former and had an inexplicable soft spot for the latter. Now, as the cruel taunts of her classmates echoed around her—"psycho," "freak," "disabled loser"—her chest tightened with anger.
Finishing the last line of her essay, the bell rang. Arjun Malhotra, Rahul Mehta, and the others sauntered back to their seats just as Mr. Sharma, their balding English teacher, strode in.
"Newspapers out!" he barked, rolling his textbook into a baton. He began inspecting each desk, his voice booming. "How many times must I say it? Underline your answers in the passage! And this essay—three paragraphs? Is this a joke? Do you think you’re doing this for me?"
Rahul snatched his newspaper off the desk, paling when he saw it—completely blank.
Priya hadn’t done it.
His face twisted in fury as he whipped around to glare at her. Priya’s desk mate nudged her. When she looked up, Rahul’s expression could’ve melted steel.
She raised a brow—Really?—and turned away.
Rahul’s jaw dropped. Was she mocking him?
If not for the teacher, he’d have stormed over. His friend hissed, "Just copy it now! Sharma’s coming!"
Scrambling, Rahul scribbled answers, cursing Priya under his breath. Just wait till class ends—
"Rahul Mehta!"
Mr. Sharma yanked the paper from his hands. Silence fell as the teacher scanned it. Then—
"What is this? Two answers marked for one question? And your essay—did you copy this from the reading passage? Do you think I’m blind?" His voice rose to a thunderclap. "If you’re going to waste your parents’ money like this, you might as well—"
Priya bit her lip to stop a laugh.
No wonder students feared Sharma. His scoldings were legendary—rapid-fire and brutal.
Serves him right.
After demolishing Rahul, Sharma moved down the rows. When he reached Vedant, he paused—then walked past without a word.
No one expected anything from Vedant.
The boy sat shrouded in shadows, his overgrown hair veiling his eyes. All Priya could see was his sharp, pale jawline—too thin, too fragile.
She looked away just as Rahul’s murderous gaze burned into her back.
The Aftermath
After class, Priya checked her timetable and reached for her math book. A shadow loomed over her.
Rahul.
"What?" she said flatly.
His eye twitched. "You didn’t do my newspaper."
"Did I promise to?"
Nearby, Ishita and Arjun glanced over, surprised. Rahul’s face flushed crimson. "Say that again."
"Are you deaf? Move." She stood, heading for the back shelves.
Rahul snatched her book and hurled it across the room.
It slammed into Vedant’s leg before clattering to the floor.
The class froze.
Priya’s stomach dropped. In the novel, Vedant’s Asperger’s made him hypersensitive to touch—even a brush could feel like a burn.
"Are you insane?" She shoved Rahul aside and rushed to Vedant. Behind her, Rahul spat, "Think you’re special because Ishita pities you?"
Ignoring him, Priya knelt, gathering the books. "Are you okay?"
No response.
Vedant sat statue-still, his bandaged hands (from the earlier fall) gripping a pen. His desk wasn’t covered in scribbles—but advanced calculus formulas.
Newton-Leibniz. Indefinite integrals.
Priya blinked. This isn’t high-school level.
"I’m sorry," she murmured.
For a heartbeat, his pen stopped. His eyes—just visible under his hair—flicked to hers. Then, silence again.
The Isolation Game
Rahul spent the next hour rallying their classmates against her. "She’s delusional," he sneered. "Thinks she’s on Arjun’s level? Look at her—can’t compare to Ishita at all."
Priya rolled her eyes and popped an Alpine strawberry lollipop into her mouth—one of the candies "she" used to bribe them.
Pathetic.
If the original Priya had focused on studies instead of begging for approval, maybe she wouldn’t have been the class punching bag.
By afternoon, the silent treatment was in full effect. Former "friends" avoided her. Priya couldn’t care less—she didn’t even remember their names.
As she packed up, she noticed Vedant still scribbling in the back. Peering students smirked, assuming he was doodling.
She waited until the room emptied before standing.
The Wheelchair
Vedant moved only when silence reclaimed the school.
His injured hands trembled as he gripped the wheels. At the ramp, he hesitated—10 seconds, 20—before pushing forward.
Suddenly, the chair rolled smoothly.
Someone was pushing him.
Vedant whipped around, panic flaring. "Let go!"
The girl—Priya—released him at the bottom and walked away without a word.
He stared after her, knuckles white.
He remembered her.
Earlier, she’d asked if he was okay.
And apologized.
No one ever apologized to him.
- Writer
