Volume 1: The Beggar's Audit

  ---

  The corridor stretched before me, fluorescent lights humming their eternal hymn of bureaucratic despair. Students flowed past like fish in an aquarium—aimless, colorful, occasionally bumping into glass.

  I checked my phone. 9:47 AM.

  Three hours until lunch. Two hours until the next prison bell. One hour until I run out of excuses to not think about Shruti.

  "Oh my," I muttered, stopping mid-stride. "I totally forgot. Truck-kun generally takes walks at night."

  The realization hit me like—well, like a truck, ironically. Here I was, complaining at 3 AM, when the celestial delivery service clearly operated on a different schedule. Of course Truck-kun wasn't coming at 3 AM. That's rush hour for insomniacs and night shift workers. The cosmic hit-and-run requires optimal conditions: low visibility, distracted pedestrians, and exactly the right amount of dramatic irony.

  I sighed at Truck-kun. Actually sighed. At a fictional Japanese truck. Who may or may not exist. Who may or may not be my only hope of escaping this reality.

  This is my life now. Bargaining with anthropomorphic vehicles.

  I resumed walking, weaving between clusters of students who somehow had the energy to laugh at this hour. Show-offs.

  A flash of movement caught my eye. Near the college gate, leaning against the grille like he owned it, stood a Gen Z guy. The uniform was a dead giveaway: oversized t-shirt with some English phrase that didn't make sense ("Vibe Check: Failed"), jeans with strategically placed holes (not the "fell on the road" kind, the "paid extra for this" kind), hair styled to look unstyled.

  And in his mouth? A wad of tobacco.

  He saw me looking. He saw me judging. In response, he spat a glob of red onto the pavement. Right there. On public property. In front of God and everyone.

  I sighed. Audibly. Heavily. The kind of sigh that carries the weight of generations.

  "Yup," I murmured, walking past. "Toddler have no civic sense."

  Toddler. That's the word. Not "young adult." Not "fellow citizen." Toddler. Because that's what we've become—a nation of toddlers in adult bodies, throwing tantrums and spitting wherever we please.

  My mind drifted, as it often does, to unrelated historical tangents.

  Coronavirus. Remember Coronavirus? Back in '20, '21? For one glorious, terrible year, everyone suddenly understood civic sense. Masks. Sanitizer. Distance. We washed our hands like our lives depended on it—because they did. We looked at strangers on the street and thought, "I hope you're healthy," instead of the usual "I hope your WiFi is down."

  Peak civic sense. Absolute peak. We touched it. We held it. And then we let it go like a gym membership after New Year's.

  "Huh?" I stopped walking. A thought had struck me—the kind of thought that usually arrives at 3 AM but was apparently running early today.

  Can't I just... create a virus and get teleported?

  I snorted. The sound escaped before I could stop it, earning me a confused look from a passing girl.

  "Nope," I said to no one. That's for zombies. Wrong genre. Zombies are horror, not power fantasy. Unless it's a zombie apocalypse where I'm the only intelligent one and everyone else is just... slow... and I can finally get some peace and quiet...

  I shook my head. No, Rudra. Bad. That's called "genocide with extra steps." Even you have standards.

  I reached the college gate. The tobacco guy was still there, now on his phone, occasionally looking up to assert dominance over passersby. I gave him a wide berth.

  Life isn't as fun without Truck-kun.

  Or worse.

  I stopped again. The list assembled itself in my brain with military precision:

  · Single: Check.

  · Virgin: Check. (Sad check. Lonely check. Please don't think about it check.)

  · Pathetic: I mean, I'm talking to myself about Japanese trucks and viruses, so... check.

  · Fool: Attending a degree I don't care about, in a college I didn't choose, studying for a future I can't visualize. Check, check, checkity-check.

  I leaned against the gate pillar, letting the cool metal ground me.

  Nope.

  I pushed off, standing straight.

  I am not those things. I am an overpowered MC waiting for Truck-kun. This is just the prologue. The training arc. The "before they were famous" montage. Every hero has one. Naruto had the orphan loneliness. Luffy had the "I'll be King of the Pirates" speeches to absent friends. Goku had... well, Goku had brain damage, but that's different.

  I'm in my origin story. That's all.

  Any day now. Any day, Truck-kun. I'm here. I'm ready. I'm—

  I realised for quite some time Priya was watching me.

  She stood about ten feet away, near the canteen entrance, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. Her expression was... complex. The kind of expression you'd wear if you witnessed a stranger having an intense conversation with a lamppost and then realized the stranger was your classmate.

  How long has she been there? Did she see me sigh at nothing? Did she hear me talk about viruses? Oh God, did she hear me list my—

  I leaned in that direction. Slightly. Just to test the waters. Just to see if—

  She's probably wondering why I'm such a weirdo. She's probably calculating the safest exit strategy. She's probably—

  My face turned red instantly.

  WHY IS MY FACE RED. I AM NOT A CHARACTER IN A SHOJO MANGA. I DO NOT BLUSH AT GIRLS. I AM A DIGNIFIED MC WAITING FOR TRUCK-KUN'S SWEET EMBRACE.

  Priya's eyes narrowed. Her glare could have cut glass. Could have frozen the tobacco guy's spit mid-air. Could have—

  "Pervert," she said.

  "I AM NOT!" I blurted out.

  The words echoed across the college gate. Several heads turned. The tobacco guy looked up from his phone, grinned, and gave me a thumbs up. Thanks, random tobacco guy. Very supportive.

  Priya's glare didn't waver. But something flickered at the corner of her mouth. A twitch. A tremor. The beginning of—

  "I didn't call you," she said slowly, deliberately. "Did I?"

  Oh no.

  Oh no no no no no.

  She set a trap. And I walked into it. Like a fool. Like a virgin. Like a pathetic—

  STOP THAT LIST.

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Made a sound like a fish having an existential crisis.

  Priya's eyebrow rose. Just one. She'd clearly practiced this in the mirror. The "I am superior and you are vermin" eyebrow. It was effective.

  "So," she said, taking a step closer. "If I didn't call you a pervert... who were you responding to? The voices in your head? The ghost of your social life? Or do you just pre-emptively confess to things?"

  The hell messed up.

  I will bring heaven and Earth. I will cultivate the ultimate dao. I will become—

  I remembered.

  I am not Fang Yuan.

  Yet.

  "I was..." I started. Stopped. Started again. "I was... responding to the concept of being called a pervert. It's a preemptive defense mechanism. In case you were going to call me that. Which you weren't. Obviously. Because I'm not. A pervert. Obviously."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Priya stared at me.

  The tobacco guy laughed. Actually laughed. The sound carried across the gate like a gift I didn't ask for.

  I hate everyone.

  "Interesting," Priya said. She'd closed more distance now—we were maybe five feet apart. Close enough that I could see the tiny mole near her left eye. The one I'd never noticed before. The one that was suddenly the most interesting geographical feature in existence.

  Focus, Rudra. Focus. She's toying with you.

  "Interesting how?" I asked. My voice only cracked slightly. Progress.

  "Interesting that your brain works that way." She tilted her head, studying me like a specimen. "Most people, when they see someone looking at them, think 'oh, they're looking at me.' You thought 'oh, they're about to accuse me of something.'"

  She's not wrong.

  "That's called anxiety," I said. "Millions suffer from it. I'm raising awareness."

  "By talking to yourself near the college gate?"

  "Someone has to."

  For a moment—just a moment—her expression softened. The glacier melted by half a degree.

  Then she struck.

  "So what were you actually thinking about? Before you thought I was calling you a pervert?"

  Traps. So many traps. She's like a dungeon master who really hates players.

  "Nothing," I said.

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing of consequence."

  "Nothing of consequence," she repeated. "While leaning against a pillar. Making faces. Moving your lips. For..." she checked her phone, theatrically, "...approximately four minutes."

  Four minutes. I was standing here for four minutes. Having a full conversation with myself. In public. Where anyone could see.

  "I was..." I searched for an excuse. Something plausible. Something that didn't involve Truck-kun, viruses, or my own inadequacies. "I was rehearsing."

  "Rehearsing."

  "For a play."

  "A play."

  "A college play. Cultural fest. Coming soon." I was gaining momentum now. Building a castle of lies on a foundation of panic. "I have a role. Lots of dialogue. Need to practice. In public. For... authenticity."

  Priya's lips twitched again. That same almost-smile from before.

  "What play?"

  What play. What play. Think, Rudra. Think. Name a play. Any play. Shakespeare? Too obvious. Modern? Too risky. Something with monologues. Something with—

  "Waiting for Godot," I said.

  The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I'd messed up.

  Priya's composure cracked. Just slightly. Just enough for a genuine smile to peek through before she shoved it back down.

  "Waiting for Godot," she said. "The play about two men waiting for someone who never comes."

  ...yes.

  "And you're rehearsing for this play."

  ...yes.

  "By yourself."

  ...yes.

  "At a college gate."

  ...yes.

  "While moving your lips and making faces."

  ...yes.

  "For four minutes."

  I nodded weakly.

  Priya looked at me. Really looked. And then—slowly, deliberately, like a cat deciding whether to push a glass off a table—she smiled.

  "You're an idiot," she said.

  "I prefer 'eccentric genius,' but I'll take what I can get."

  "The eccentric genius who forgot to bring a book to class?"

  "Books are a construct. Knowledge flows through me like—"

  "Like what? Like water through a sieve?"

  Ouch.

  But she was smiling. Actually smiling. Not the polite smile from before. Not the "I'm tolerating you" smile. A real one. With teeth and everything.

  Is this... working? Am I... winning?

  "So," I said, seizing the moment. "What were you doing? Watching me for four minutes? That's not creepy at all."

  Her smile flickered. Just slightly. Gotcha.

  "I wasn't watching you. I was waiting for someone. You just happened to be in my line of sight."

  "Uh-huh."

  "You were performing a one-man show. It was hard to look away. Like a car crash. Or a really confused mime."

  "A confused mime?"

  "Your hands were doing things. At one point, you raised them like you were accepting an award. Or summoning demons. Hard to tell."

  I did what? I don't remember raising my—oh God, the virus thing. The zombie thing. I was gesturing.

  "I was... emphasizing a point."

  "To yourself."

  "The best audience. Never interrupts."

  Priya laughed. A real laugh. Short, surprised, like she hadn't meant to let it out. She clapped a hand over her mouth immediately, eyes wide.

  Did Priya Mehta just laugh at my joke? Did the ice queen of Batch 23 just—

  "That was..." she started, recovering. "That was accidentally funny. Don't get used to it."

  "Too late. I'm already framing the moment. It's going on my wall. 'The day Priya Mehta admitted I'm amusing.'"

  "You're not amusing. You're desperate. There's a difference."

  Ouch again. But delivered with less venom this time. Progress?

  "Desperate for what?"

  The question hung between us. Unexpected. Unplanned. I hadn't meant to ask it—it just slipped out, past all my usual filters.

  Priya blinked. For a moment, the mask slipped. Beneath it, there was something I couldn't name. Something that looked almost like the thing I saw in the mirror every morning.

  Then the mask was back.

  "Desperate for attention," she said smoothly. "Obviously. Why else would you perform Beckett at a college gate?"

  Smooth recovery. Almost too smooth.

  "Maybe I just like theater."

  "Do you?"

  Do I? I've never been to a play in my life. I don't even watch web series without someone forcing me.

  "No," I admitted. "But I like the idea of it. Waiting for something that never comes. Feels familiar."

  Priya's expression shifted. Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Kinship. The briefest moment of "me too" before she looked away.

  "Yeah," she said quietly. "I get that."

  Silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just... present. Two people standing at a college gate, sharing a moment of unexpected honesty, while a guy with tobacco spit watched from the sidelines.

  This is weird. This is nice. This is—

  "So," Priya said, breaking the spell. "Waiting for Godot. Who do you play? Estragon or Vladimir?"

  I don't know who those are. I've never read the play. I just know the title because it's famous for being about nothing.

  "Estragon," I said. "Definitely Estragon."

  "Why Estragon?"

  Because it sounds like estrogen and that's the only thing I remember from the Wikipedia summary I definitely didn't read?

  "He's the one who forgets," I said, pulling knowledge from some deep, desperate well. "He wants to leave but can't. He suffers. He waits."

  Priya nodded slowly. "And Vladimir is the one who remembers. Who tries to find meaning in the waiting."

  "Yeah."

  More silence. Different this time. Thoughtful.

  "You'd make a good Estragon," she said finally.

  "I'll take that as a compliment."

  "Don't."

  But she was smiling again.

  ---

  THE HOUR THAT WASN'T

  ---

  We talked.

  That's the thing. We just... talked.

  Not about anything important, at first. The canteen food. The professors. Karthik's habit of laughing at other people's suffering. Rohan's ability to sleep through anything, including fire alarms and existential crises.

  Then about other things. Movies she'd seen. Books I hadn't read. The time she tried to learn guitar and gave up after a week. The time I tried to learn coding and gave up after a day.

  "I lasted longer than you," she pointed out.

  "Coding is harder than guitar."

  "That's what someone who gave up after a day would say."

  "That's what someone who gave up after a week would say to feel superior."

  She laughed again. That same surprised laugh. Like she kept forgetting she was allowed to.

  At some point, we moved from the gate to the canteen steps. Then from the steps to the bench near the old banyan tree. The one with the carved initials and the suspicious stains that no one talked about.

  The sun moved across the sky. Students came and went. The tobacco guy eventually left, probably to go disappoint his family in new and creative ways.

  And we talked.

  I forgot.

  That's the part that hit me later—the part that would keep me up at night, when I finally remembered. I forgot.

  For one hour—maybe more, maybe less, time had stopped being measurable—I forgot about Shruti Baghel. About the frozen mother. About the diary titled "The Beggar's Frost." About the cage and the audit and the thousand questions that had consumed my brain since 3 AM.

  I forgot about Truck-kun.

  I forgot about being single, virgin, pathetic, fool.

  I forgot about waiting.

  For one hour, I was just... Rudra. Talking to a girl who actually seemed to enjoy talking back.

  ---

  "So," Priya said, as the clock tower struck something-or-other. "Buy me a coffee?"

  The question hung in the air. Simple. Direct. Terrifying.

  Buy her a coffee. That's a thing people do. That's a normal thing. Friends buy each other coffee. Acquaintances buy each other coffee. Strangers buy each other coffee in movies and then fall in love and—

  STOP. BREATHE. RESPOND.

  "Sure," I said. My voice was calm. Impressively calm. Inside, my brain was doing parkour.

  Coffee. Coffee means more time. More time means more talking. More talking means—

  Don't think about what it means. Just say yes. YES IS GOOD. YES IS PROGRESS. YES IS—

  "Great," Priya said, standing. She brushed off her jeans—the ones that weren't intentionally torn, just old—and looked down at me. "There's a place near the park. Good coffee. Cheap coffee. My kind of coffee."

  The park. She said park. Park is romantic. Park is where couples go. Park is—

  STOP. IT'S COFFEE. COFFEE AND A PARK. FRIENDS DO THAT. FRIENDS DO THAT ALL THE TIME.

  I stood. My legs felt strange. Like they belonged to someone else. Someone who did things like "go for coffee" and "walk in parks" and "interact with women without immediate social catastrophe."

  "Lead the way," I said.

  She did.

  ---

  THE WALK

  ---

  The coffee shop was small. Tucked between a stationery store and a place that sold phone cases, it had exactly three tables and a menu written in chalk on a blackboard.

  Priya ordered something complicated with foam. I ordered black coffee, because (a) it was cheap, and (b) I had no idea what the complicated things were.

  "You drink it black?" she asked, watching me take my first sip.

  "I drink it existentially."

  "That's not a word."

  "It is now. I'm starting a movement."

  She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. The smile was becoming familiar. Becoming something I looked for.

  We drank. We talked. More about nothing. Less about everything.

  And then:

  "Should we walk?" she asked. "The park's nearby. Nice one. Lots of trees. Fewer people than the gate."

  The park. She remembered the park. She wants the park.

  "Sure," I said again. My vocabulary had apparently shrunk to one word. Sure. Sure. Sure. I was a broken record of agreement.

  We walked.

  The park was nice. Lots of trees. Fewer people. A couple on a bench, too close to be friends. A kid chasing pigeons. An old man doing yoga in a way that looked painful.

  The sun was lower now. Golden hour. The kind of light that made everything look like a memory before it happened.

  "Thanks," Priya said, as we walked along the path. "For today."

  "For what?"

  "For... not being weird. Well, for being weird in a way that's entertaining instead of creepy. There's a difference."

  "I'm aware. I've studied the distinction extensively."

  "I bet you have."

  We walked in silence for a while. Comfortable silence. The kind that doesn't need filling.

  Ohh God, I thought, watching the light catch her hair. How am I so lucky?

  The thought was dangerous. It implied things. It suggested possibilities. It opened doors I'd kept firmly locked since—well, since ever.

  I pushed it away. Failed. Pushed again. It kept coming back, like a persistent cat that knew exactly where the food was.

  This is what it feels like, I thought. This is what people mean. This is—

  "Look," Priya said, pointing. "The lake."

  There was a lake. Small. Greenish. Ducks floating on it like they didn't have a care in the world.

  Lucky ducks.

  We stood at the edge, watching the water. The couple from before had moved closer together. The kid had caught a pigeon? No, the pigeon had escaped. The old man was now in a position that defied human anatomy.

  "It's nice," Priya said. "Peaceful."

  "Yeah."

  "Better than the gate."

  "Much better."

  She glanced at me. I felt it more than saw it—the weight of her attention, the shift in the air between us.

  "Rudra?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks. For today. Really."

  I turned to look at her. Really look. The golden light. The small mole. The eyes that held something I couldn't name.

  "Thank you," I said. "For... starting it. At the gate. For not walking away."

  "I almost did."

  "But you didn't."

  "No." A pause. "I didn't."

  Something passed between us. A moment. A possibility. The kind of thing that happens in parks during golden hour, when the light is too perfect and the world feels too kind.

  This is what it feels like to fall in love, I thought.

  The words were dangerous. I let them be dangerous.

  ---

  TRUCK-KUN KEEPS HIS PROMISE

  ---

  7:03 PM.

  I know the time because I checked my phone when we left the park. Seventeen notifications. All from apps I didn't care about. Nothing from anyone who mattered.

  Shruti, I thought, for the first time in hours. The next chapter. I never—

  "Rudra?" Priya called. She'd crossed the road ahead of me, waiting near a streetlight. "You coming?"

  "Yeah," I said, stepping off the curb. "Sorry, I just—"

  I heard it before I saw it.

  The roar of an engine. Too close. Too loud. The wrong kind of loud—not traffic, not normal, not distant.

  I looked up.

  Headlights.

  Truck-kun.

  No.

  The truck was huge. A monster of chrome and steel, barreling down the road like the universe had finally answered my prayers at the worst possible moment.

  No no no no—

  But it wasn't coming for me.

  It was coming for her.

  Priya stood in the road, frozen. Her phone had fallen from her hand. The screen cracked on impact. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, reflecting the headlights that grew larger with every heartbeat.

  She couldn't move.

  She couldn't—

  NO.

  I don't remember deciding to run.

  I don't remember my legs moving, my body launching itself across the asphalt, my arms reaching out.

  I just remember—

  Pushing.

  The impact was... soft. That's what surprised me. I'd always imagined Truck-kun's kiss as something violent. Explosive. Dramatic.

  But when my hands found Priya's shoulders, when I shoved her with everything I had, when the truck found me—

  It was soft.

  Like being hugged by something too big to hug back.

  I flew.

  That part wasn't soft. The flight was long and wrong and full of sounds I couldn't place. My own scream? The truck's brakes? Priya's voice, calling my name?

  I don't know.

  I hit the ground. The world became pavement and pain and the taste of blood.

  'It feels good,' I thought, as my vision blurred. 'It feels good to walk with a girl.'

  I smiled.

  Through the haze, I could see her. Priya. On the ground, a few feet away. Alive. Moving. Her mouth was open—screaming? Crying? Both?

  People were running toward us. Shouting. Pulling out phones. Someone was crying—a woman, not Priya, someone else.

  Everyone is crying, I thought. Some are calling. Very dramatic. Very main character.

  I looked down at myself. My hands were curled. Around nothing. Around the memory of her shoulders. Around the last thing I'd touched before—

  'My hands curled around Priya,' I realized. 'As if I want to thank her further.'

  Thank her for what? For the coffee? For the park? For the hour when I forgot to be waiting?

  For making me feel, for one golden afternoon, like I wasn't alone?

  I grinned.

  It hurt. Everything hurt. But I grinned anyway.

  Because above me, through the gathering crowd and the flashing lights and the beautiful, terrible sunset, I saw him.

  Truck-kun.

  Standing there. Waiting. The driver had gotten out—a panicked man in a blue shirt, hands on his head, mouth forming words I couldn't hear.

  But behind him, above him, through him—

  Truck-kun nodded.

  'Finally,' I thought. 'Finally I did it.'

  My eyes found Priya one last time. She was crawling toward me. Her face was wet. Her lips were moving.

  "—Rudra—stay with me—please—"

  'It's okay,' I wanted to say. 'This is what I wanted. This is what I've been waiting for.'

  But my mouth wouldn't work anymore.

  So I just smiled.

  And closed my eyes.

  And thanked Truck-kun for taking the night shift.

  ---

  End of Chapter Two

  ---

  { Author request here -> Do a Sarcastic comments on behalf of Priya Or Shruti over our Lazy overthinker protagonist, that is going to be a prodigy}

  -