Beyond the Pages

After the rigorous NCC training and weeks of bonding, the students of St. Xavier’s High—once strangers—had now formed close-knit groups, laughing and chatting in clusters. The morning assembly had just ended, and with no teachers around, the classroom buzzed with noise, finally stirring Priya Kapoor from her nap on the desk. Still groggy, she barely registered her surroundings when a group of rowdy boys crashed into her desk. Priya jerked awake and instinctively leaped aside. The boy—Rahul Mehta—slammed into the chair instead, tumbling to the floor with a grunt. Rubbing his sore arm, he shot her a glare. "What the hell? Why’d you move?" Priya: ??? She stared at him—tall, stocky, with a buzz cut and a few angry pimples splattered across his scowling face. He rams into me, doesn’t apologize, and then blames me for dodging? "Should I have just sat there and—" Before she could finish, the girl in front turned around. "Rahul, stop it." Her voice was soft, melodic. Even half-asleep, Priya found herself looking twice. Ishita Joshi was effortlessly pretty—fair-skinned, delicate features, her school uniform somehow looking elegant on her. Her large, doe-like eyes sparkled under the classroom lights. Rahul’s irritation vanished instantly. "Relax, just messing around!" He grinned before turning back to Priya. "Hey, where’s the candy today?" Candy? "What candy?" "The usual? Did you forget?" Rahul leaned over, reaching into the hollow of her desk. Even if they were friends, this was invasive. Priya blocked his arm. "What are you doing?" Rahul froze. Normally, no one paid Priya much attention, but Ishita always included her. Over time, Priya had started buying snacks and drinks for the group—a desperate bid for acceptance. They never thanked her, but free treats were free treats. So when she "forgot," they’d just help themselves. Today, though, Priya had stopped him. Rahul shrugged, unfazed. "Fine, just get the usual ones by afternoon. And do my English newspaper—full essay. Mr. Sharma’s been on my case." He tossed his unfinished assignment onto her desk and sauntered off with his friends, still laughing. Priya: … Around her, the classroom hummed with chatter. No one batted an eye. "Ishita, want me to refill your bottle?" "Yes, please," Ishita smiled, handing over her water bottle. "Where’s Arjun?" "Saw him leave with the others—probably getting breakfast." Meaningless gossip. But it made Priya’s head spin. Ishita Joshi. Arjun Malhotra. Her stomach dropped. She’d read a novel last month—one where a side character shared her name. Curious, she’d skimmed the plot. Ishita and Arjun were the protagonists. She snatched Rahul’s newspaper off her desk and flipped open her textbook. PRIYA KAPOOR. A single thought screamed in her mind: Oh, hell no. Why was she Priya Kapoor—the pitiful, bullied side character—and not the gorgeous, brilliant heroine? Just because they shared a name? In the book, Priya was the tragic punching bag—neglected at home, tormented at school. She clung to Ishita’s group, buying their affection with snacks and doing their homework. Reading it had infuriated her. Why waste money on these people instead of feeding yourself? Absolute nonsense. Without hesitation, she stood and flung Rahul’s newspaper back onto his desk. Then she pulled out her own—half-finished, the essay blank—and started writing. The Boy in the Shadows Outside, the wheelchair ramp was gentle, but Vedant Rathore still struggled. His arms lacked strength—weaker than most, even weaker than many girls. Students streamed past, giving him a wide berth. Whispers followed. Stares burned. Vedant kept his head down, pale fingers gripping the wheels. Just as he reached the building entrance— THUD. A boy sprinting out crashed into him. The wheelchair jerked back. Vedant’s finger caught in the wheel—a sharp pain shot through him. Before he could react, the chair tipped. A girl shrieked as the wheelchair careened down the ramp, Vedant spilling onto the concrete. His palms scraped raw, blood smearing the ground. The chair lay overturned meters away. The boy who hit him sheepishly righted the wheelchair, shoved it toward Vedant, then bolted—as if touching him was poisonous. Vedant’s hands trembled as he dragged the chair closer. Arms shaking, he tried hauling himself up— Thud. He fell. Tried again. Thud. Students watched. Some hesitated, then walked away. On the third attempt, he managed to pull himself back into the chair. His white uniform was dust-streaked, blood spotting the fabric. Expression blank, he turned the wheelchair toward the ramp again. Back in Class Priya was halfway through her essay when the boys returned. The tallest—Arjun Malhotra—placed a water bottle on Ishita’s desk. Ishita’s shy "thank you" was so saccharine, Priya almost rolled her eyes. Arjun was undeniably handsome—tall, sharp features, the kind of guy who made heads turn. When someone called "Arjun!", it clicked. Ah. The male lead. Arjun spoke softly to Ishita before his gaze flicked to Priya. For a split second, disgust flashed in his eyes. Priya: … Wow. Rude. She’d never liked the male lead anyway. Her favorite was Vedant Rathore—the tragic, wheelchair-user-side character. Too bad he died early. Heart heavy, she turned toward the back of the class. In the novel, Vedant shared their classroom. Afraid of light and noise due to his condition, he sat alone in the darkest corner. Right now, his seat was empty. Priya returned to her essay, unaware of Arjun’s puzzled glance. Then a wiry boy burst in, grinning. "Just saw Vedant take a tumble outside! Some guy rammed into him—wheelchair flipped. Brutal." Priya’s pen froze. "Who’d even bump into him? Messed up," someone muttered. "Dude fell hard," the boy laughed. "Couldn’t even get up. No one helped." A girl giggled. "We should be more compassionate. He’s our classmate." "Yeah, right," another snorted. "Who’d risk touching him?" "Is his condition contagious?" "How should I know?" "Ask him! 'Hey Vedant, is neuropathy contagious? How about epilepsy?'" Laughter erupted—until Vedant appeared. Silence fell. The pale boy wheeled himself in, head bowed. His chair rolled soundlessly to the shadowed corner, where light barely reached. No one spoke to him. No one even looked his way. The classroom’s noise continued, lively and loud. But Vedant Rathore sat alone—unseen, unheard. As if he didn’t exist at all.