Stuck Voyage of 20's

Some people walk into a room and change the air.

Dhruv didn't just walk in — he owned the room the moment his sneakers hit the floor.

A student at Banaras Hindu University, pursuing Bachelor of Physical Education (B.P.Ed.), Dhruv was one of those rare combinations — tall, athletic, endlessly confident, and annoyingly likeable. He wasn't just good at sports; he was the face of the university's basketball team — medal-winning, crowd-cheering, poster-boy-level popular.

There was something about him — an energy that pulled people in. He was unshakable, like the pole star. Always shining. Always centered.

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His appearance helped, too.

With sharp features, a strong jawline, and eyes like early morning rain — gentle, unexpected, and strangely comforting — he looked like someone straight out of a college romance novel. His nose had a defined curve, catching the sunlight just right, and his lips, naturally curved and symmetrical, always seemed like they were on the verge of a grin that said, "Yeah, I know I'm charming."

But Dhruv wasn't just looks and charm. He had discipline. Focus. His dedication to basketball wasn't just about trophies — it was about passion. Purpose.

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He was born in Ujjain, into one of the city's wealthiest families. His father ran a successful import-export business — their house was the kind people slowed their scooters in front of, just to stare. But despite his privilege, Dhruv never came off as arrogant.

From the moment he stepped into kindergarten, he was the kid who volunteered first, ran fastest, climbed highest, laughed loudest. Games weren't just games to him — they were challenges he had to win.

And somewhere in that same kindergarten class was a girl who couldn't have been more different — Avantika.

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Their fathers were old friends. Their mothers exchanged recipes and borrowed sugar from each other. But the kids? They couldn't stand each other.

Where Dhruv saw fun in chaos, Avantika craved order.

Where she buried herself in books, he threw himself into fields.

And somewhere in between — their parents made the mistake that would define their entire childhood: they started comparing them.

> "Look at Dhruv! Always active. Why don't you go play outside like him, Avantika?"

"Why can't you focus on studies like Avantika, Dhruv? She scores full marks every time!"

And that was enough.

The comparisons stung. The resentment settled in early.

They didn't argue. They didn't fight.

They simply ignored each other — with such intensity that it became louder than words.

Throughout school, they shared the same classrooms, the same teachers, even the same rank list on the board. But they acted like strangers — polite when necessary, dismissive the rest of the time.

Over the years, the distance became habit. Their story — if it could even be called one — became a silent rivalry neither of them ever admitted, yet both carried.

But life, of course, had other plans.

Because some stories don't end.

They just go quiet… until they're ready to be told again.

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