Chapter 3: The Broken Script

"Doesn’t it hurt?"

Priya let go of my hand, suspicion clouding her eyes.

She stepped back, adjusting her dupatta nervously, her voice trembling just a bit. "You’re acting odd, Rohit. What’s wrong with you?" The air between us was thick, as if the walls themselves were waiting for the outcome.

I grinned. "How could it hurt? I feel excited all over."

I flashed a crooked smile, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Arrey, after all that’s happened, you think this is pain? This is nothing, Priya. Just the beginning."

Compared to the pain I’d suffered in my previous life, this little scratch was nothing.

Memories stabbed at me—hospital corridors, my mother’s warnings echoing in my ears: "Beta, these modern girls, don’t get too friendly, they can ruin you." The shame of being exposed in front of my batchmates, the silent dinners at home. This scratch was a mosquito bite compared to the wounds I carried inside.

She wanted to leave scratch marks on my hand as evidence that I’d harassed her.

I remembered her tricks—mess up her hair, shed a few tears, point to the marks on my arm. The elders would believe her, as always. The boys would cheer Amit. I’d be left alone, branded for life.

Before others arrived, she’d mess up her own hair a bit, making her story more convincing.

I could almost hear the whispers already. My mother’s worried face, her words—“Rohit, don’t trust such girls.” But not this time.

But my reaction was completely unexpected, giving her a chill.

Priya’s hands shook, her face paling. Maybe for the first time, she was unsure what would happen next.

Priya instinctively took two steps back, guilt flickering in her eyes. "Forget it, I don’t want you to teach me anymore. You can go."

She fumbled for her bag, eager to put distance between us. Her confidence wavered, fear showing through. "Bas, ho gaya. You can leave now, okay?"

"How can that be? Didn’t we just agree? Today, no one can stop me from teaching you—not even you."

My voice was soft but firm, echoing in the empty room. "You called me here, Priya. Let’s finish what you started."

She stepped back, and I moved closer, forcing her into a corner.

Her back hit the chalkboard, her face drained of colour. She clutched her notebook, voice trembling as she tried to sound brave.

Realising things were going wrong, Priya began to threaten me. "Don’t come any closer! If you do, I’ll scream."

Her eyes darted to the door, voice rising. "Main chillaungi, samjhe? You better back off!" She tried to sound strong, but fear had crept in.

"Go ahead and scream. Let’s see who can save you."

I shrugged, daring her, my face impassive. My words sliced through the silence.

I suddenly paused, feeling like a villain from a movie.

For a moment, I caught my reflection in the window glass—a shadow, no longer the soft-hearted boy I once was. The lines between right and wrong had blurred. Did revenge really heal me? I could almost hear my father’s silent suffering, my uncle’s boxing advice—“In the ring, beta, your biggest opponent is yourself.”

From my previous life, I knew her boyfriend Amit was hiding nearby.

I remembered the sound of heavy breathing outside, Amit’s cologne mixing with the scent of sweat. He was waiting for his cue.

As soon as Priya called out, he’d rush in to play the hero.

I could almost hear his footsteps shifting, waiting for his moment to burst in and claim his glory. The old script was ready, but this time, I’d rewrite it.

But how could I let her call for help?

This time, the script would change. I tensed every muscle, ready for action.

Just as Priya was about to shout, I quickly grabbed a piece of chalk and tossed it into her mouth.

The chalk dust hit her tongue, turning her scream into coughing. Her eyes widened in shock and fury.

Cough, cough—

Her coughs echoed in the empty room, dry and desperate. She clawed at her throat, mascara smudging beneath her eyes. For a moment, she looked almost human—frightened, helpless.

Priya choked and coughed violently.

She doubled over, gasping for breath, tears streaking her cheeks. Her carefully built mask crumbled in an instant.

Just as she spat out the chalk, my hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her cries before they could echo down the corridor.

I moved quickly, pinning her against the desk. The air between us was heavy with old rage and new fear.

I thought of all the wrongs she’d done to me, and without hesitation, punched her.

My knuckles cracked against her cheek, years of humiliation rising up in that single blow. The room trembled with the echoes of violence.