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Krishna was the heartbeat of the college, the golden boy who made everything seem livelier just by being there.
With a lazy smirk and an effortless charm that could disarm even the toughest professors, he breezed through classes as if they were mere pitstops in his day.

But the real fun began once the lectures were over.

That was when Krishna turned into a mischief-maker, stirring up harmless chaos wherever he went.

He had a knack for setting people against each other just to watch the drama unfold—never anything serious, just enough to make things interesting.

A few whispered words here, a strategically misplaced note there, and suddenly two best friends were arguing about who had stolen the last samosa from the cafeteria.

He’d watch from a distance, leaning casually against a pillar, enjoying the show before swooping in at the last moment to "make peace," earning admiration from both sides.

As he strolled down the hallway, every pair of eyes followed him—especially the women.

Their conversations always seemed to pause when he passed, only to be replaced with hushed giggles and dreamy sighs.

"Did you see how his hair falls over his forehead? So effortlessly perfect!" one girl whispered.

"And the way he smiles—it’s like he knows something we don’t," another sighed, clutching her books like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

Even the professors, though exasperated by his antics, couldn’t deny there was something magnetic about him.

Just as he was deciding whose day he should turn upside down next,
Ram—older, taller, and far more responsible—marched up to him with urgency written all over his face.

"Krishna, we need you for the basketball tournament. You’re the only one who can save us."

Krishna raised an eyebrow.

"Save you? From what, exactly? A tragic loss of dignity?"

Ram groaned. "Stop messing around. The other team is crushing us, and you know you're the best we’ve got."

Krishna pretended to think about it, stretching his arms lazily.

"Well, I was planning on another hour of meaningless mischief… but sure, why not?"

The moment he stepped onto the court, the energy in the arena shifted.

The crowd buzzed with excitement. His teammates looked relieved, while the opponents suddenly looked less sure of themselves.

The match was intense—bodies clashed, sneakers squeaked, and the scoreboard flipped back and forth like it couldn’t decide who to favour.

But Krishna?

He moved through the game like he was born for it.
His dribbles were smooth, his footwork effortless, and every shot he took seemed to defy gravity.

The audience watched in stunned silence as he weaved through defenders like a shadow, leaping into the air with perfect form before sinking a three-pointer with barely a glance at the hoop.

The final moments were a blur—Krishna stealing the ball at the last second, a dazzling spin move that left the opponent grasping at thin air, and then, with a flick of his wrist, the ball swished cleanly through the net.

The buzzer rang.
The match was over.
They had won.

The crowd erupted.

Women had literal hearts in their eyes, swooning as if he had just stepped out of a romantic movie.

Even the men, whether they admitted it or not, were in awe.

Some cheered his name, others groaned in defeat, and a few sulked in jealousy, muttering about how unfair it was that one guy could have everything—looks, charm, and ridiculous basketball skills.

After the game, Krishna was showered with praises, pats on the back, and even an official award—Man of the Match.

As if that weren’t enough, a scout from the national basketball team approached him, impressed beyond words.

"You have a real shot at the big leagues, Krishna. You should consider joining the team for nationals."

Krishna twirled the basketball on his fingertip, pretending to consider it.

The entire room held its breath. And then, with a shrug, he let the ball drop.

"Appreciate the offer, but no thanks. Too much effort," he said, flashing that signature grin.

The scout blinked, clearly unprepared for that response.
His teammates groaned.
The crowd gasped.

But Krishna?

He just laughed, ruffling his already-messy hair as he walked off, hands in his pockets, whistling a carefree tune.

Because at the end of the day, Krishna did what he wanted—and that, more than anything, was what made him unforgettable.

The tournament had drained them both, and as soon as the final cheers faded, Krishna and Ram trudged their way home, their bodies aching but their minds still buzzing from the thrill of victory.

The night air was crisp, a welcome contrast to the heat of the match, and the quiet streets provided a peaceful backdrop to their conversation.

"Man, you really had to show off with that last shot, huh?" Ram teased, nudging Krishna’s shoulder.

Krishna smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. "Had to remind everyone why I’m the best. You know, just in case they forgot."

Ram rolled his eyes. "You’re unbearable."

Krishna chuckled. "And yet, here you are, stuck with me. What a tragedy."

Ram snorted. "Tragedy is realising that if we lived in ancient times, you'd be the guy who gets sacrificed first in a crisis. Too pretty to be useful."

Krishna gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "How dare you? I am a gift to this world!"

Ram smirked. "A gift that talks too much."

Krishna’s face twisted in mock offence.
"That’s it. I’m telling Maa!"

And with that, he took off running towards home, his exhausted body suddenly full of energy.

Ram groaned and jogged after him, muttering something about how Krishna was way too old for this kind of nonsense.

The two walked at a slower pace once Krishna’s outburst settled, exchanging more jabs and laughter, so absorbed in their banter that they didn’t realise they had already reached home.

Their house wasn’t grand or extravagant, but it had something better—warmth.

The walls carried the scent of home-cooked meals, the furniture bore the marks of years of use, and every corner held memories that made the place feel irreplaceable.

Krishna loved this house, not for what it was but for the people inside it.

His parents, who had showered him with love.
And Ram—his older brother in every way that mattered, even if not by blood.

Ram had lost his real parents when he was young, and Krishna’s parents had taken him in, raising him like their own.

The bond they shared wasn’t just formed by shared walls but by years of unspoken understanding, playful fights, and quiet reassurances.

As they stepped inside, Krishna, still grinning from Ram’s ridiculous insult, called out, "Maa! You won’t believe the ridiculous thing Ram just—"

His words faltered.

The air inside the house was heavy, thick with something unspoken.

Seated on the couch were a man and a woman, unfamiliar yet strangely expectant, and beside them stood a girl—around sixteen, eyes darting nervously between everyone in the room.

On the opposite couch sat Krishna’s parents, their expressions subdued, lined with something between sadness and guilt.

His mother’s hands were clasped tightly together, as if holding onto words she was struggling to say.
Something was wrong.

Ram, sensing the tension, straightened.
"What’s going on?"

Krishna’s mother looked up, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Come here, both of you."

They obeyed, exchanging wary glances before settling onto the couch across from their parents.

She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself.

"Krishna… there's something we need to tell you."

He didn’t move.

She continued, her voice trembling.

"You are not… our child by birth."

The words should have felt like a thunderclap, a revelation meant to shatter his world—but they didn’t.

He had known.

Years ago, Krishna had stumbled upon a hushed conversation between his parents, words spoken in the dead of night when they thought no one was listening.

At the time, he hadn't been sure if it was real or just some misunderstanding.

He had pushed it aside, buried it under laughter and routine.

But he had never expected this.

Never expected that one day, the truth would sit across from him in the form of two strangers claiming to be his real parents.

Never expected that he would have to leave.

Ram shot to his feet, rage flashing in his eyes. "What the hell are you saying?"

The sudden outburst made the young girl flinch, clutching the woman’s sleeve as if seeking protection.

Krishna immediately reached out, grabbing Ram’s wrist before he could say anything more.

"Calm down," he murmured, his voice firm but controlled.

Ram’s fists clenched, his chest rising and falling in anger, but Krishna didn’t let go. Not yet.

His mother’s eyes filled with tears.

"We never wanted to keep this from you. You are our son in every way that matters, but… they are your biological parents. They… they want you to come back."

A silence settled over the room, suffocating and unbearable.

Krishna let out a slow breath, his grip on Ram loosening.

He didn’t look at the couple, didn’t acknowledge their hopeful gazes.

Instead, he turned to his mother, the woman who had raised him, who had wiped his tears, who had scolded him, fed him, laughed with him.

"You want me to go?" His voice was quieter now. Less playful.

His mother’s lips trembled. "No, Krishna. Never. But… we thought you deserved to know the truth."

Krishna finally looked at the couple.

The woman had tears in her eyes.
The man sat stiffly, his face unreadable.
The girl, presumably his sister, shifted awkwardly, as if she didn’t know whether to smile or cry.

He could feel their expectation.
But Krishna?

Krishna only felt the weight of a choice he had never wanted to make.

A heavy silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating, stretching longer than any of them could bear.

Then, at last, Krishna’s adoptive father took a deep breath and spoke, his voice rough with emotion.

"There’s something you need to know, Krishna," he said, his gaze filled with both sorrow and guilt.
"Your real parents… they were in trouble."

Krishna lifted his eyes, watching the man who had raised him, the man he had always known as his father.
His strong hands, the same ones that had taught him how to tie his shoelaces, how to throw a perfect pass, now trembled slightly as he spoke.

"Your maternal uncle… he seized everything. The entire business empire your real father built—gone, just like that. They were left with nothing, and in the middle of all that chaos… they had to keep you safe. That’s why they gave you to us."

Krishna’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.

His father swallowed hard before continuing, his voice raw.

"Later, when they managed to stand back up, even if just a little… they wanted to take you back. But by then, your mother and I—" He let out a shaky breath, his lips quivering.

"We were too attached. And so were you. We just… we couldn’t."

A tear slipped down his weathered cheek, tracing a slow path over years of laughter, scoldings, and shared memories.

"Honestly, we were selfish. We knew this day would come. That the longer we kept you, the harder it would be when you found out. But for that moment’s happiness… we made a choice. A choice that we knew would cost us later."

His voice broke on the last word.

Ram looked away, his jaw clenched tight, his hands balled into fists on his lap.

He was trying to hide it, but Krishna saw the way his shoulders trembled.

Ram never cried—not openly—but this… this was different.

Even Krishna felt a sting in his eyes. He blinked, tilting his head slightly, hoping the tears wouldn’t fall.

His gaze moved to his mother, who sat with her hands clasped together, biting her lip so hard it had turned white. And then, to the couple across from them—his biological parents.

They looked hopeful, nervous, guilty, and desperate all at once.
The girl beside them fidgeted with her sleeves, glancing between everyone like she wished to disappear.

Krishna closed his eyes for a moment.
He understood.
He always did.
This wasn’t anyone’s fault.

Not his parents, who had chosen to keep him despite knowing the pain it would bring.

Not his biological parents, who had been forced to give him away in the first place.

And certainly not him, who now stood at the centre of a storm he never asked for.

Right now, everyone in this room was in chaos.

Their emotions raw, their hearts pulled in different directions.

And in the middle of it all, the weight of the decision rested on him.

Krishna inhaled deeply, then exhaled, slow and measured. His voice, when he finally spoke, was softer than usual.

"I need some time," he said. "To think."

No one argued. No one could.

With that, he stood up and left the room, leaving behind the tangled mess of past and present, unsure of what the future would bring.

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📣 Bonus Segment:

A Word with Krishna

Author: So, Krishna… care to explain what that basketball God mode was?

Krishna: What can I say? When the spotlight calls, I answer.
Besides, did you see that dunk? Even physics gave me a standing ovation.

Author: Yeah, physics also filed a complaint. “Defamation of Gravity.”

Krishna: Lies. Jealousy. Maybe Newton’s just mad I never acknowledged him in my victory speech.

Author: You had a victory speech?

Krishna: Not officially. But my wink at the camera was deeply poetic.

Author: Uh-huh. And what about that whole running-from-your-family-drama part? Are you okay?

Krishna: Define "okay."

Author: Emotionally stable. Peacefully healing. Maybe not dramatic every second.

Krishna: So... not okay.

Author: Figured.

Krishna: But hey, at least I still look good while spiralling. Can you write that into the narration? Something like “his pain was aesthetically pleasing”?

Author: No.

Krishna: “His heartbreak deserved its own runway show”?

Author: Still no.

Krishna: “The tragedy was tragic—but make it fashion”?

Author: Krishna!

Krishna: Fine. But I want snacks in the next chapter. I suffered. I deserve snacks.

Author: You got a whole stadium screaming your name.

Krishna: And yet, not one cookie.

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