Shabd Heer was obsessed—with books, brains, and becoming the best neurosurgeon India had ever seen.
I used to think I was obsessed too—until I saw what real obsession looked like.
He wasn't like the other boys who played games in class or whispered about crushes behind notebooks. He was quiet, focused, always scribbling notes, solving thick reference books no one else touched.
Me? I was racing around the classroom like usual, shouting at people to shut up, confiscating pens like a mini principal, and challenging boys to arm-wrestle just to prove I could win.
I was the storm.
He was the silence.
But somehow, I kept getting pulled toward him—like gravity didn't care about grade levels.
I tried everything. Sat near his class during break. Made sure my voice echoed when I talked about F1 so maybe, just maybe, he'd overhear. Once, I even fake-volunteered for a science exhibition just because I knew he was on the senior panel.
He didn't even glance my way.
Shabd was chasing a future I didn't exist in.
His world was full of neurons and surgery and brain scans.
And no matter how loud I was, no matter how many races I dreamed of winning, he was running too fast in a direction that didn't lead to me.
Sometimes I wondered… if I became a genius too, would he finally notice me?
Other times, I just hated him.
For being so calm. For being so focused.
For not looking up—just once—to see the girl who ruled her classroom like a tyrant but melted every time he walked by.
In my secret scrapbook that night, I drew a track.
Two cars—one going straight, one turning away.
I labeled his: "Dream: Neurosurgery."
I labeled mine: "Dream: F1. Heart: Shabd."
And in the middle, a gap wide enough to fit all the unsaid things between us.
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