Two side of coin

The Raheja dining room was as elegant as the rest of the estate—warm golden lighting, carved teak chairs, a table that could seat ten but usually hosted four. The clinking of cutlery echoed softly in the silence. Misha sat with her usual posture—straight back, quiet hands, slow, precise movements as she ate.

Her grandfather, seated at the head of the table, watched her with eyes that held both fondness and expectation.

“So,” he began, his voice deep and slightly cracked with age, “how’s school treating my little storm?”

Misha glanced up, her lips tugging into a poised smile. “It’s going well, Dadaji. We had a test in physics. I ace it.”

“Of course, you did.” His chest swelled with pride. “My girl is built for brilliance.”

Her father, who had been quietly sipping wine, nodded approvingly. “She’s always been sharp. Took after her grandfather. Not just intelligent—disciplined.”

The conversation felt warm… until her grandfather leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Although I did hear there’s a new boy giving you some competition?” he said with a knowing smirk. “Specs guy, was it?”

Misha’s knife paused mid-air, just for a fraction of a second  “ARJUN”. She set it down gently and reached for her water glass.

Her smile returned—just a little sharper this time. 

Her father raised an eyebrow. “He’s topped the last two tests. I heard he's quite exceptional. That boy has potential.’’

She dabbed the corner of her lips with a napkin, still calm. “Temporarily. The crown doesn’t fit him.”

Her grandfather chuckled. “Oh? And why is that?”

Misha looked at her father—not directly, but through the glass of her water, then back at her grandfather. Her voice didn’t waver.

“Because the crown belongs to those who carry it in their blood. To those built for it. Brilliance can be practiced. But legacy?”—she offered a polite shrug—“that’s inherited.”

The air grew thicker for a second. Her father smirked subtly, proud. Her grandfather laughed heartily and patted her shoulder, clearly amused and pleased with her confidence.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

She smiled again, more gently this time, but didn’t say another word. As soon as dinner was done, she excused herself, heading upstairs to her room with her books in hand.

The moment her door shut, the façade slipped.

She tossed her books onto the desk and leaned over, palms pressed flat on the table. Her smile was gone. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes—usually calm—now narrowed with a fire she hadn’t dared show.

Not for long, she thought.

He may be good. But I was born for this.

She sat down, cracked open her notes, and dove into them with the hunger of someone not trying to succeed—but trying to conquer.

Dinner at the Khanna residence was always the same—three vegetables, two types of rotis, one topic: studies.

Arjun sat at the table, chewing quietly, eyes drifting toward the book lying just beyond his plate. It was a thick volume on behavioral economics—borrowed secretly from the school library. He had hidden it under his syllabus books like it was something to be ashamed of.

“Tomorrow you have that Chemistry test,” his father said while scooping sabzi. “Revise the mole concept again after dinner. And solve that 2020 sample paper I gave.”

“I already solved it,” Arjun replied politely, “twice.”

His mother looked up. “Then revise it a third time. Nothing is ever enough in this competition.”

He nodded. Not because he agreed, but because saying otherwise would lead nowhere.

“I wanted to go to the library after school tomorrow,” he began carefully.

Both his parents paused mid-bite.

“To return that—?” his mother asked.

“No, I wanted to borrow something new,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “There's this book on behavioral science. It connects how people make decisions with economic—”

“You’re wasting time again,” his father said, not raising his voice but firm as stone. “All these ‘extra’ books... they won’t help you crack IIT or get into a top college.”

His mother chimed in with her well-practiced smile, “Beta, you are smart. But remember, it’s not the curious ones who win—it’s the consistent ones. Focus on your rank. Leave these side distractions.”

Arjun looked down at his plate. He didn’t want to argue. Not because he was afraid—but because he’d done it before, and it always ended with guilt and silence.

“They’ll all clap when you top, not when you read a book on psychology,” his father added, shaking his head. “You’re not like those rich kids who can afford hobbies.”

He didn't say her name.

But Arjun heard it anyway.

Misha.

The girl with expensive opinions and a crown of confidence. The girl who spoke like she owned intellect.

And who dismissed him like he was a knock-off brand of her own excellence.

That night, when his parents went to bed, Arjun opened the book anyway. Not as an act of rebellion, but survival. He read not just to learn, but to arm himself—for the next time she challenged him, for the next time he dared to raise his hand before hers.

His parents wanted a topper.

But Arjun wanted more.

He wanted to be remembered. Especially by her

6:00 a.m.

Two alarms rang across two entirely different worlds.

One in a compact two-bedroom apartment, accompanied by the clatter of Arjun hastily brushing his teeth while stuffing a half-burnt paratha into his mouth.

The other in a sleek, minimalistic room, where Misha woke with perfect timing, tied her silky brown hair into a neat braid, and sipped warm lemon water while scanning her Chemistry revision notes one last time.

Across the city, Arjun dashed down three flights of stairs, school bag bouncing on his back, and sprinted to catch his crowded school bus just as it roared to life. Meanwhile, Misha stepped into her polished black car, chauffeur at the wheel, headphones in, Bach playing faintly as she mentally recited equations.

By 7:20 a.m., the school gate buzzed with students streaming in.

Arjun reached first, breath still a little uneven, shirt slightly wrinkled despite his best efforts. As he walked toward the entrance, the sleek car purred to a stop beside him. The chauffeur stepped out, opened the door, and out stepped Misha—composed, calm, radiating quiet confidence.

Their eyes met.

Just for a moment.

No words exchanged, but sparks? Oh, plenty.

She raised an eyebrow. “So, ready for the Chemistry exam?” Her tone casual, but the smirk said otherwise.

Arjun pushed his glasses up with a faint smile. “Always am.”

They began walking side by side, neither willing to break the rhythm, neither willing to fall behind. Step by step, they tried to subtly outpace the other. One inch faster. One inch ahead.

By the time they reached the stairs, their footsteps were slightly quicker, almost in a comical sync.

From a few meters away, a teacher chuckled, coffee in hand. “If walking could win marks, these two would’ve topped the world by now.”

The students nearby laughed. Arjun and Misha didn’t.

They just exchanged a side glance—competitive, electric.

Then kept walking, stride for stride, like generals headed to war. Not to crush each other—no. To prove they were better. Smarter. Unshakable.

And deep down?

To be seen. Only by each other

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