Eternal Storm: Volume 1 – The Awakening

The iron gates of Blue Rigid Academy loomed in front of Aryan like a prison entrance. He hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The chatter of students filled the air—laughter, greetings, casual conversations. He used to be a part of this world. Now, he was nothing more than a ghost.

Whispers followed him as he walked through the corridor.

"Isn't that the guy who failed?" "Damn, repeating a year? That must suck." "Even his own friends left him." "He's just a failure." "How is he still alive?"

"I heard he tried to kill himself." "Tch, couldn't even do that properly. What a joke." "Maybe he should try again."

Aryan flinched at those words, but he kept walking, forcing his face to remain blank. Every step felt heavier, like walking through quicksand. They're not wrong, are they? he thought bitterly. I am a failure. Maybe I really should have died.

A year ago, Aryan had been different. He had been confident, lively, always surrounded by friends. His dark eyes once held a spark, his posture was proud, and his voice never wavered. He had been an above-average student, good at sports, and had even been popular among his peers. His thick, neatly combed hair and well-kept uniform made him stand out as someone who cared about his appearance.

Now, he barely recognized himself. His once sharp features were dulled by exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes a permanent fixture. His uniform was wrinkled, his shirt untucked, and his hair unkempt, as though he had stopped caring about everything. He moved sluggishly, like a man carrying an unbearable weight. His eyes, once filled with determination, were empty and lifeless.

He entered his new classroom, one year behind his former classmates. The desks felt unfamiliar. The faces around him were strangers—juniors who hadn't shared his past. He found an empty seat in the farthest corner, away from everyone. He preferred it that way. Out of sight, out of mind.

The teacher, Mr. Kapoor, a middle-aged man with a stern face, walked in and began taking attendance. Aryan barely paid attention, staring down at his desk, tracing invisible patterns with his fingers. His classmates whispered among themselves, their voices carrying through the room.

"Hey, isn't that the guy who failed last year?" "Yeah. My cousin was in his old class. Said he just stopped trying halfway through." "Must be embarrassing, sitting here with us juniors." "I wouldn't even show my face if I were him."

Aryan swallowed hard. Embarrassing? That wasn't the word for it. This was humiliating. Every glance thrown his way, every hushed whisper felt like a knife digging deeper into his chest.

"Aryan Verma?" Mr. Kapoor called out.

He hesitated before answering, "Present."

His voice felt small, weak. A few students chuckled. He clenched his fists under the desk.

The lesson started, but Aryan wasn't listening. The words blurred together. The numbers on the board made no sense. He had once been good at math—decent, at least—but now, it felt like his brain refused to work. His thoughts were too loud, drowning out everything else.

You don't belong here. You're a failure. Even your best friend left you.

His eyes drifted to the window. Across the hallway, in their own classroom, Rishi and Anaya sat together, laughing at something on Rishi's phone. Aryan stared, willing them to look his way, to acknowledge him, to show any sign that he still mattered.

They didn't.

They hadn't spoken to him in months. Not after he failed. Not after he disappeared from their lives. They had moved on. He was nothing but a past mistake.

His stomach twisted painfully. He looked away, pressing his fingers against his temple. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor, to never have to sit in this classroom again.

The class continued, and as the teacher explained a complex equation, Aryan's mind drifted back to that night—the night he decided to end it all. He had stood on the chair, tied the bedsheet around his neck, and kicked the chair away. But the ceiling fan had come loose, crashing down with him.

He had laid there on the floor, stunned, staring at the broken fan. Then he had laughed. Laughed so hard that he could barely breathe. Even in death, he had failed. He hadn't told anyone. Who would care?

As the day dragged on, his isolation only grew. He walked alone to lunch, but he couldn't bring himself to eat. Instead, he found a quiet corner in the courtyard and sat there, staring at the ground.

The voices of other students reached him, sharp and cruel.

"Man, imagine having to repeat a year. I'd just drop out." "Right? I mean, how does it feel to see your juniors surpass you?" "Pathetic. I'd rather die."

Aryan's fingers curled into fists. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell them that he had tried to end it all. That he had spent nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if the pain of death would be worse than the agony of living. But what was the point?

They wouldn't care.

He sat there, letting the world move around him, disconnected. He thought about all the moments that led to this—his slow decline, the loneliness, the whispers that grew louder every day. He had once been part of something. Now, he was just a shadow, fading with each passing second.

The final bell rang. He grabbed his bag and left before anyone could stop him. His feet carried him away from the school, away from the suffocating walls of failure. He walked aimlessly, with no destination in mind, just wanting to escape.

When he reached home, the silence in the house was deafening. His mother sat at the dining table, flipping through some bills. His father sat on the couch, eyes fixed on his phone. Neither of them acknowledged his presence at first.

Then his father sighed and muttered, "You're back early. Not like you'd have any extra classes."

Aryan set his bag down quietly. "School ended," he said, barely above a whisper.

His mother scoffed. "At least you managed to attend a full day. That's progress."

"I swear, I don't know what to do with you anymore," his father said, shaking his head. "You had everything, Aryan. You were supposed to make something of yourself. But instead, you—"

He didn't finish the sentence, but Aryan already knew what he meant. He failed. He humiliated them. And the worst part? He was still here.

His mother glanced at him, her voice colder than usual. "Dinner's in the fridge. Heat it yourself."

No concern. No warmth. Just routine disappointment.

He climbed the stairs to his room, closing the door behind him. His chest felt hollow, as if there was nothing left inside. He laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Will things ever change?

Deep down, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

END OF CHAPTER 1