The King Forever Reign

The iron gates of Anand Academy, an elite school, gleamed under the morning sun, towering like golden walls of an empire that didn't know the girl who had just stepped through them. Ananya's shoes, a pair of fading Kolhapuri flats that had seen too many monsoons, squeaked softly on the polished marble floors. No one noticed. Or worse - they did, and pretended not to.

The school was a world sculpted in sleek lines and expensive perfumes, echoing laughter that rang too loud and too rehearsed. The girls were beautiful dolls in a glass house, with shining hair that curled just so, boys with careless grins that hinted at inherited power. Ananya, with her plain braid and fuller curves tucked under a frayed cardigan, was invisible - a ghost lingering where she was not meant to be.

She paused in the corridor outside her first class, her fingers tracing the edge of her notebook - the one she had wrapped in old brown paper to preserve it. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. She had memorized the route, timed the steps. But courage wasn't something you could pack in your bag the night before.

Inside, the room was flooded with soft light that bounced off glass walls and whiteboards. The desks were spread like little islands, occupied by students who wore their uniforms like couture. Her seat was at the very front - because "scholarship kids should be grateful to learn" - a silent rule never spoken but always enforced.

She walked to it like someone stepping into a spotlight they hadn't asked for.

Behind her, she could feel the weight of glances - soft giggles dressed in cruelty, the whispered edge of mockery brushing her skin. A group of girls, their lips glossed and their eyes hard, leaned closer to each other, sharing secrets Ananya wasn't meant to hear.

"God, did she even wash that sweater?"

"She's like... tragic."

"Imagine being that quiet and still taking up space."

Ananya lowered her gaze, her cheeks burning not from shame, but from the bitter fury she never voiced. Her mind was sharp - sharper than theirs, she knew - but sharpness wasn't currency here. Here, wit was ornamental, not functional. Here, beauty was the only truth that mattered.

But inside, beneath the layers of fabric that clung too tightly to her body, lived a girl they hadn't yet met.

Ananya was all dream and ache. She read forbidden poetry by candlelight when the electricity went out at home. She danced when no one was watching - sensual, aching movements in the darkness of a locked room. Her body, though larger than the girls around her, moved with a silent grace that pulsed with withheld power. Her heart carried songs - aching, aching songs of places far beyond the city's grime. She longed for silk and spotlight, not for others to notice her, but because she knew she could wear desire like perfume if only someone dared look deeper.

But they never did.

The teacher entered - Mrs. Verma, all perfume and prejudice. She looked through Ananya like one might look through the help - present, but not important. "Good morning, class," she said, her voice syrupy around the front row, cool by the time it reached Ananya. "Today we begin with Shakespeare. Page 3."

Shakespeare. Ananya adored him. The Bard, who layered lust with longing, who let women speak with fire. She turned the page carefully, her fingers lingering on the ink as if it could whisper back to her.

"Let's have... Riya start," the teacher said, choosing the girl in the center - always the center. Riya, with her kohl-lined eyes and honeyed voice, read Juliet's lines with the bored sweetness of someone used to being adored.

Ananya followed silently, mouthing the words. Her own voice, when she read them at home, was a seduction of syllables - soft but deliberate, intimate like breath on the back of a neck. Here, she was mute. To speak would mean to draw attention, and attention here was a blade.

At lunch, she sat alone under the neem tree that drooped in the far corner of the schoolyard. It was quieter here - more real. The air smelled like bark and soil, and her food, wrapped in foil and still warm from her mother's kitchen, held the only comfort she knew.

She watched the others from her distance. The girls with perfect ponytails shared lunch from Tupperware containers and talked about malls and manicures. The boys traded sneakers and attention, their voices thick with careless bravado. Ananya didn't envy their world. Not really. What she yearned for was to be seen. Not stared at, not pitied, but seen - for her mind, her quiet grace, her secret sensuality that no one had bothered to uncover.