Sirens go silent
Kunal was drowning again.
Screams rang out, but he couldn't tell where they came from. They weren't sharp—they were distant, warped, like echoes underwater. The ground trembled beneath him, boots pounding past his frozen limbs. Something crashed behind him—glass maybe. Or a voice. Or both. The chaos swelled. The air grew hotter. Somewhere, the sound of helicopter blades thudded into existence, slow at first, then faster, louder, unbearable—
He sat up, breath ragged, chest heaving.
The room was quiet. A dim shaft of early morning light cut across the floor. His roommates lay curled on their beds, undisturbed. Outside the window, the world looked still. Too still.
It had been a full day since the attack. Twenty-four hours of lockdown, of silence broken only by security announcements and the low hum of drones patrolling the perimeter. The administration had finally called it what everyone already suspected: a Naxal operation. Coordinated. Surgical. Unprecedented.
Kunal got up and pressed his forehead to the glass. Security vans parked near the main gates of Meridian Hostel. Barbed wire strung hastily along the fencing. Even the birds seemed to have left.
He turned away. Memory punched through him.
The hall. The glass. The shouting. The taser cracking through the air. The look in Advik's eyes just before they vanished into the smoke.
And him, crouched behind a bench, unable to move.
He tried to remember what he had done. What plan he had reached for. What strategy. But there was nothing.
He hadn't done anything.
Just frozen.
His throat tightened.
You always have a plan, right? That's what Advik used to say.
He blinked hard, shook it off, and grabbed his hoodie. He needed to see someone. Anyone. Maybe Dev.
The corridor was quiet, save for the occasional beep of security drones hovering at checkpoints. He walked past silent doors and faded posters on cork boards. The hallways felt like someone had pressed pause on the world.
Dev lived a few floors down.
As Kunal made his way down the stairs, the image hit him—clear and sudden. The other halls. The other rooms. He'd heard about it later, pieced together from whispered conversations and official statements that said too little. Two students in Hall A, trampled in the stampede when the main exit bottlenecked. Tased, then crushed underfoot as panic surged. The stairway had been covered in bloodied footprints, scattered sandals, torn paper. People didn't talk about it much. No one wanted to remember.
He reached Dev's door and knocked.
A few seconds later, it opened.
Dev looked like he hadn't slept either. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair stuck up unevenly, like he'd run his hands through it too many times. He stepped back without a word.
Kunal entered.
The room was cluttered. Used mugs. A couple of textbooks stacked under a half-torn schedule. Scribbled notes all over the desk. A cracked phone charging in the corner.
They sat in silence.
"You sleeping at all?" Dev finally asked.
Kunal shook his head.
Long pause.
"I should've done something," Kunal said.
Dev didn't argue. Just nodded. "Me too."
Nothing else needed to be said.
At 8 a.m., the curfew lifted. Students began to drift out slowly, warily. Most kept to their hostels. A few wandered the quad like ghosts. No laughter. No music. Just shuffling feet and silence.
Dev hadn't spoken to Myra since that day. He didn't know what to say. But something inside told him he needed to see her.
He found her near the admin building, sitting alone on a stone bench.
She looked up, her face unreadable.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
A pause.
"How're you holding up?"
"Fine," she said. "You?"
"Trying."
Another pause.
Myra's eyes narrowed. "If you have something to say, get it over with."
Dev's jaw clenched. His voice was low, rough. "I know you're angry. But Shri made a choice."
Myra stepped in, her expression breaking. "Then you should've stopped him. Don't act like it was some noble sacrifice."
"I don't—"
She cut him off, voice rising, brittle with grief. "You were right there, Dev! He ran out alone, and you let him."
Dev looked down, guilt swimming in his face. "He wanted to protect you."
Myra scoffed bitterly. "And you accepted that? Is that what being a friend means to you? Just nodding along when someone walks into a disaster?"
His voice cracked, rising with frustration. "Come on, Myra. You think I didn't feel it? It was an impossible moment. He put that on me. I didn't ask for it. I hate him for that too."
Her tone turned cold, deadly soft. "When the screaming started, I felt safer because you were beside me. If I'd known what a coward you are—"
The word hit him like a physical blow. He staggered back half a step, face draining of color. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. For a long moment, he just stared at her, something breaking behind his eyes.
She took a shaky step back, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. "You know what? Maybe I'm just angry at myself. For not seeing it. For letting him walk out that door like it was nothing. For trusting all of you—martyrs, rationalists. At least I know I messed up."
He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper now, raw and stripped. "I was trying to protect both of you—do you think I haven't replayed it a thousand times in my head?"
She turned, her voice sharp and final. "Don't call him your friend. You don't get to."
Dev was silent, face twisted in pain. He sat down hard on the bench, like his legs gave out beneath him. His hands covered his face.
Her voice cracked, tears finally spilling. "He didn't even say goodbye."
He pushed himself up slowly, unsteady. "Don't walk away like this."
She paused mid-step, turned, eyes wet and blazing. "Or what? You'll hold me back again?"
Dev wanted to say something, anything, but he knew nothing more could be said.
Later, Kunal sat in the library. He hadn't meant to come here, but his feet had carried him without thinking.
The library was nearly empty except for a handful of students scattered across tables. Preeti sat a few rows away, her usual spot near the psychology section. They'd been in the same classes for months, shared a few group projects, but never really talked beyond that.
The usual corner. The usual seat.
Advik's seat was empty.
Kunal hesitated. For a second, he thought of putting his bag there like always. He didn't.
He sat across from it.
Preeti's voice broke the silence.
"Kunal?"
He turned. She was standing beside his table now, half-surprised, half-concerned. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Yeah," he said, voice low. "Needed to focus."
Her gaze drifted to the empty seat across from him, then down to his bandaged hand. Her expression softened.
"You were there, weren't you? When it happened?"
He didn't answer right away. Then: "Yeah. Didn't do much though."
"You were there. That counts for something." Her voice was gentle, but steady, like she was trying to anchor him to the present.
He gave a faint smile, tired and unsure.
She sat beside him, quietly placing her things on the table. After a moment, she said, "We barely know each other. But even back in the first semester, when most of us were clueless, you always looked like someone who had a plan."
He shook his head. "I thought I did. But when it really mattered... I just sat there."
Preeti tilted her head, studying him. "Then maybe now's when it really matters."
Kunal looked at her, uncertain. Something about her voice—firm but not demanding—made it hard to look away.
She gave a small smile, warm but worn. "You don't have to fix everything today. Just don't stop thinking. Don't stop trying. You can always make another plan, right?" She leaned in slightly, her eyes locking with his. "Right?"
He nodded, almost involuntarily.
Preeti stood. "I'll see you around, Kunal."
He watched her go.
Kunal opened his notebook. The page stared back at him, blank and accusing. He exhaled slowly and began to write.
A timeline. A layout of the hall. The seating arrangements. Every small detail he could remember.
He scrawled a question in bold across the middle:
What did I miss?
Underneath, a new question formed almost on its own:
They knew where to strike. They knew exactly who to take. They had a chopper ready for extraction. They had very unique tasers. How many Naxals could afford such technology and planning?
His grip on the pen tightened.
This time, he wouldn't freeze.
He kept writing.
He wasn't done—not yet.