(Ever since I was young, people said I was the most smart and respected, everyone should be like me, quiet and respectful.)
That sentence still makes me cringe.
It's like something out of a cheesy motivational poster—words spoken with blind optimism and zero understanding. My family loved to toss it around at dinner parties, weddings, and in every single school application they helped me fill out. I remember being five, standing in an itchy suit at my uncle's third wedding, and hearing my mom say proudly, "Ojas is the most smartest one out of all the cousins. So focused. So disciplined."
But the truth? That sentence doesn't even match a single cell in my body. Not one percent.
I was born into a family full of high-functioning brainiacs. We're talking about real titans of intellect here: a neurosurgeon aunt, a tech startup cousin, a Nobel Prize-nominated grandfather (okay, he wasn't actually nominated, but he liked to say he was). Our dinner conversations revolved around things like gene-editing, economic policy, and whether artificial intelligence was going to steal our jobs or save humanity. The family group chat reads like a TED Talk comment section.
So naturally, everyone assumed I'd fall into place,another one in the well-oiled legacy machine. But I was the bad blueprint. The cracked gear. The game that glitched every ten minutes.
I wasn't "confident or smart." I was confused, moody, and hopelessly addicted to video games, manga, and biographies of dead people who also felt confused and moody. My parents saw potential. I saw a maze.
Take this morning, for instance. I was halfway through reading an old, yellow-paged biography of a 70s philosopher who believed emotions were illusions. I hated how slow it was. The romance chapter was nowhere in sight, and this guy was still yapping about how he wasn't "intelligent, just observant."
Like, what the hell?
Being an observer is a waste of time. Especially when a girl walks by and you're too busy 'observing' to notice her glance at you.
Just as I mentally scoffed, reality hit me. Literally.
"Ackk!"
My headphones were knocked off my head, the book flying from my hands. I spun around, startled. My mother stood behind me, her hands on her hips, the 'you-disgraced-our-lineage' expression burning into my soul.
"Mom! I was just reading a biogra—"
"Shut up, Ojo!" she barked. "Your teacher has been calling your name for fifteen minutes downstairs! You're rotting your brain with this nonsense again? For God's sake, get a grip. Reading some dead man's regrets won't make you smarter. Work for it, dummy!"
"I'm sorry, Mother. I'll go greet her now," I said, grabbing my book as I tried to compose myself.
Before you jump to conclusions,my name is not Ojo. It's Ojas. But my mom insists on shortening every name into some babyish nickname. Ojo, Jassy, Babu, Dumpling. Weirdly enough, I don't mind. When she says it, there's still a bit of affection buried under the exasperation. A flicker of the days when she used to hum lullabies and smooth down my hair before school.
And yeah... I know what you're thinking. Is this some deep, brooding, reclusive teenage boy story?
Not exactly.
Want to hear something wild?
I'm a femboy.
Just kidding... or am I?
To be honest, I've always felt like there's more to me than I let on. I love girls. But sometimes, I look in the mirror and imagine what I'd look like with eyeliner and a crop top. Maybe it's weird. Maybe it's normal. I haven't told anyone. Not my friends. Definitely not my family.
It's one of the many things I keep hidden. Like how often I cry after school, or how I once carved poetry into the back of my biology notebook just to feel like I wasn't disappearing.
"Aghhh!"
Another disaster.
I tripped down the stairs again. My ankle twisted halfway down the last few steps, and I landed face-first into the wooden floor. The pain shot up my leg like fireworks. I groaned, clutching my knee.
"Mr. Ojas! Are you okay?!"
My tutor, Miss Kaur, rushed over.
Let me pause here. Miss Kaur deserves a paragraph. Hell, a whole page.
She's in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, and has this effortless glamor that makes her look like a Vogue model moonlighting as a physicist. She dresses smart,button-up blouses, pencil skirts, the occasional red lipstick. She has this mild, melodic voice that makes algebra sound like poetry. Most of my friends had tutors who bored them to death. I had a teacher who looked like she belonged on a Netflix drama.
And she was crouching over me, genuinely concerned.
"You've scraped your knee again. I'll get my first aid kit," she said gently.
She returned within minutes, tending to my wounds with practiced ease. The scent of vanilla lotion filled the air. My skin tingled as her fingers worked around the cut.
"There," she smiled. "All better. You really need to watch those stairs, Ojas."
"T-thank you," I mumbled, face burning. "I'm sorry for the trouble."
She gave a soft chuckle, then spotted my headphones. "Wait a second... are those the Glorious Constellations headphones?"
I blinked. "You play that game?"
"Of course I do!" she grinned, eyes lighting up. "I'm obsessed! I've been collecting the merch since beta release. But I couldn't get these. They were sold out in ten minutes."
"I-I bought two. You can have the spare, if you want…"
Her face lit up like a teen fangirl. "Are you serious? Thank you, thank you! Oh my god, you're my hero! How much were they? I'll pay double!"
"No need to pay," I stammered. "It's just a gift…"
Before I could finish, she leaned in.
Her finger pressed gently against my lips to hush me.
But then…
Her finger slipped into my mouth.
I gagged.
Confused, I tried to pull back, but everything tilted. My world spun. My tongue tingled. My limbs went numb.
She'd drugged me.
Everyone dreams of nightmares.
But I live them,every Friday.
Since I was a kid, every Friday night, the same dream plays on repeat. A dark forest. A creature with four glowing eyes. Its body is pure shadow, except for the inscription across its chest. The words flicker like a dying lightbulb, and though I forget them when I wake, I always remember the feeling they give me: dread and recognition.
The demon,Dollus, I call it,never attacks anymore. Not since I turned ten. It watches. Watches like it's waiting for me to do something.
I journal about it. Sketch its face in my school notebooks. But I never tell anyone. What would I say?
"Hey, I think a four-eyed demon is stalking me in my sleep."
No thanks.
But today wasn't Friday.
And I saw it anyway.
This time, Dollus wasn't chasing me. It was holding me. Its arms, impossibly long, wrapped around me like armor. I could hear its breath, like a whisper echoing through a canyon. For the first time, I wasn't afraid.
Then I had the thought: Am I dreaming?
And just like that,I woke up.
But not in my bed.
I was strapped to a chair. Tight leather bands pinning my wrists and ankles. My face felt strange. Something was on it,glasses, maybe? Filthy and scratched. The smell hit me first. Blood. Sour. Old. Mixed with... something chemical. Bleach? Rust?
My brain was foggy, like TV static. I tried to scream, but my throat felt dry and my lips heavy.
Where am I?
Why am I tied?
The door creaked open.
Footsteps.
A shadow moved closer, taking the glasses from my face. And there she was. Miss Kaur. But this wasn't the elegant, kind teacher I knew. She was wearing a black trench coat that fell to her knees, a crimson scarf wrapped tightly around her throat. Her hair was tied back. No makeup. Just cold, calculating eyes. Her skin looked yellowish, maybe because of how weirdly lighted the room was.
"You're awake," she said softly.
"M-Miss Kaur...?"
She tilted her head. "I didn't want it to happen this way. But you weren't ready to remember on your own."
"Remember... what?"
She stepped forward, her fingers brushing against the inscription etched into the wall behind me. It glowed faintly,the same way it did in my dreams.
"You've been seeing him, haven't you?" she asked.
My blood ran cold.
"Dollus."
Her lips curled. "That's not his real name. But close enough."
"What… is going on?"
She knelt, eyes meeting mine. "You are more than you think. More than a student. More than a gamer. You were chosen, Ojas."
I shook my head. "This isn't real…"
"It is," she whispered. "And you're about to remember everything."
Then she placed her hand on my forehead.
The room trembled.
.
.
.