By the time Myra and Aarvi stepped inside the school building, the noise had doubled.

It wasn’t just students anymore.

It was comparisons.

Marks being thrown around like they defined everything.

Voices overlapping.

Reactions—too loud, too dramatic, too forced.

“Why does it feel like a marketplace?” Aarvi muttered.

Myra glanced around.

“Because everyone’s selling their marks.”

Aarvi snorted. “You’re so annoying.”

They moved through the corridor, trying not to get pulled into conversations.

It didn’t work.

“Hey, Myra!”

She turned slightly.

Rhea.

Of course.

Perfect hair. Perfect smile. Perfectly timed appearance.

“What did you get?” Rhea asked, tilting her head just enough to look curious—but not enough to look desperate.

Myra met her gaze.

“556”

Rhea’s eyebrows lifted—just a fraction.

“Oh. I thought you’d get more.”

Aarvi shifted beside her, already ready to react.

But Myra spoke first.

Calm.

Easy.

“Yeah,” she said, “I thought you’d mind your own business.”

A beat.

Aarvi choked back a laugh.

Rhea’s smile tightened slightly.

“I was just asking,” she said.

“And I just answered,” Myra replied, just as smoothly.

They didn’t wait for her response.

Just walked past.

Aarvi leaned closer immediately.

“I love you.”

Myra smirked. “I know.”

They hadn’t even reached the classroom when someone else stopped them.

“Marks?”

A girl from another section.

Already holding her result like a trophy.

“Why?” Aarvi asked.

“So we can compare.”

Myra raised an eyebrow.

“With what?”

She blinked.

“What?”

“My marks,” she said. “What are you comparing them with? Yours or your expectations?”

Aarvi lost it.

The girl just stood there, confused.

“Seventy,” she said defensively.

Myra nodded once.

“Good for you.”

And walked away.

“YOU’RE INSANE,” Aarvi whispered loudly.

“They asked,” Myra shrugged.

Inside the classroom, it wasn’t any better.

Clusters of students.

Voices overlapping.

“Kitna aaya?”

“I got 91—”

“Bro I’m dead—”

Aarvi leaned into Myra slightly.

“I suddenly don’t want to be here.”

“Too late,” Myra said. “We’re already in.”

“Girls, settle down,” a teacher called out from the front.

“No pushing. You’ll all get your mark sheets.”

They moved forward slowly.

One by one.

Names being called.

Papers being handed over like they carried more weight than they should.

“Myra Sharma.”

She stepped forward.

Took the paper.

Didn’t look at it.

Didn’t need to.

“Next.”

“Aarvi Singh.”

Aarvi grabbed hers, immediately flipping it open.

“Okay wait—wait—no this is actually okay—”

Myra glanced at her.

“Told you.”

Aarvi exhaled. “I hate this system.”

“Same.”

They stepped aside, making space for others.

“Seventy-Nine right?”

Myra turned again.

Another girl.

Different face.

Same tone.

“Yeah.”

“That’s… decent.”

There it was again.

That word.

Myra smiled slightly.

“Yeah. So is your concern.”

Aarvi coughed to hide her laugh.

“Why is everyone so obsessed?” Aarvi muttered once they moved away.

“Because they don’t have anything else to talk about,” Myra said.

There was a pause.

Then Aarvi said quietly—

“Do you feel… weird about it?”

Myra didn’t answer immediately.

Just looked down at the folded marksheet in her hand.

“Yeah,” she said finally.

“Same,” Aarvi admitted.

Another silence.

Not heavy.

Just… real.

Then Aarvi nudged her shoulder.

“Okay but listen—this is not our final form.”

Myra huffed a small laugh.

“Obviously.”

Aarvi grinned. “We’re upgrading.”

“Majorly.”

They stepped out into the corridor again.

The noise hadn’t changed.

But something in Myra had.

Seventy Nine percent.

Not enough to stay here.

Her grip on the paper tightened slightly.

“Let’s go?” Aarvi said.

“Yeah.”

As they walked out of the school gates together, Aarvi stretched her arms.

“I’m so done with today.”

Myra glanced at her.

“It just started.”

“Exactly. I’m already done.”

Myra smiled faintly.

But it didn’t reach her eyes this time.

Because she knew—

this wasn’t just about marks.

It never was.

At home, the house was quieter.

Too quiet.

Myra slipped off her shoes, walked in, her marksheet still folded in her hand.

Her mother looked up first.

“Got it?”

Myra handed it over.

A pause as her mother read it.

“Hm.”

Not impressed.

Not disappointed.

Just—

measuring.

Her father glanced over.

“Math could’ve been higher.”

Myra didn’t respond.

“You’ll have to be more serious now,” her mother added.

“Class 11 isn’t easy.”

Myra let out a quiet breath.

“I know.”

Her marksheet was handed back to her like it was just another paper.

Not something she had stayed up nights for.

Not something that cost her more than just effort.

Just—

a number.

She walked back to her room.

Closed the curtains.

Sat down.

The noise from school.

The questions.

The comments.

The expectations.

All of it settled at once.

Her gaze dropped to the marksheet again.

Seventy Nine percent.

Her jaw tightened.

"I hate this feeling."

She slumped down on the bed.

And opened her phone, checking the notice about admission.

"Right—the admission."

She let out a sigh, tired.

"Next day.."

She remained still on the bed, staring at the ceiling..

lost, in her own thoughts.

"I'll do better."

"I must."