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I Can Help You


I sprinted through the echoing corridors of IIT Kharagpur, my breath ragged, my heart a trapped bird hammering against my ribs. The cold tile beneath my feet blurred as I pushed myself faster, desperate for the solitude of the terrace. System Engineering. Mechanics. Two red slashes across my academic record, each a brand seared into my soul. Hope, the fragile butterfly I’d carried for so long, had finally given up, its wings crumbling to dust. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that I would never reach the heights I had dreamed of.

The terrace doors swung open with a groan, revealing the vast, star-studded sky. The wind whipped at my face, a cold caress that mirrored the emptiness inside me. I walked to the edge, the drop a dizzying invitation.

"Where are you off to?"

The voice, a low murmur from behind me, made me jump. I whirled around, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. He was a senior, I recognized him from a few pictures I have seen of him from our hostel's noticeboard as a sports star. His face, etched with the weariness of countless late nights, held a strange mix of curiosity and concern.

I poured out my story, the words tumbling over each other in a rush of despair. The crushing weight of failure, the shattered dreams, the bleak future stretching before me like an endless, empty road. He listened patiently, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the campus lights.

When I finished, he didn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances. Instead, he began to talk, his voice soft but firm. He spoke of probabilities, of the statistical improbability of guaranteed success even with hard work and high scores. He wove a tapestry of numbers and formulas, illustrating the sheer, breathtaking odds stacked against anyone reaching the pinnacle of achievement. And within that cold, calculated logic, a tiny spark of something flickered within me. A sliver of hope.

He finished his impromptu lecture, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Don’t give up,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “The odds may be long, but they’re not impossible.”

Nodding weakly, I turned and headed back towards the stairs. The hope he had rekindled was fragile, easily extinguished, but it was enough to propel me forward. I descended the steps, each footfall echoing in the quiet stairwell.

At the bottom, the guard sat slumped in his chair, seemingly asleep. As I approached the exit, he stirred, his eyes snapping open. "Where are you coming from?" he asked, his voice rough.

"The terrace," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "The terrace?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "No one is allowed up there."

"But… I was just talking to a senior student," I stammered, confusion creeping into my weariness.

The guard’s gaze intensified. He looked me up and down, a strange mix of astonishment and fear in his eyes. "There's no one up there," he said slowly, his voice laced with a chilling certainty. "No one has been allowed up there for years. Too many incidents… suicides. The terrace has been locked since then."

My blood ran cold. I looked back up the stairs, a wave of dizziness washing over me. The senior. His calm voice, the intricate calculations, the spark of hope he had ignited…

"But… he was just there," I whispered, my voice trembling.

The guard shook his head, his eyes filled with a pity that chilled me to the bone. "No one goes up there," he repeated. "Not anymore." He looked past me, up the empty stairwell. "And no one comes back down.


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