Today's a struggle—a never-ending day of classes and interactions that drain every ounce of energy from me. I'm like a zombie, going through the motions, trying not to think about Tarun and the fight we had last night. I can't believe I actually gave in and tried to be... intimate with him. What a joke. I just couldn't do it. And now I'm stuck replaying his irritated face in my mind, his words slicing through me like a knife. "You're just too meek, Mukti. It's boring." As if I'm supposed to be something I'm not—more adventurous, more daring.

I pull on my white cashmere sweater, tugging at the hem to smooth out the wrinkles. Blue-washed jeans hug my legs, and my comfy Chelsea boots crunch lightly on the gravel path as I make my way to the bakery outside the dorms. The tan overcoat hangs loosely over my shoulders, shielding me from the bitter cold mountain air. The straight hair I spent an hour on last night is tucked neatly inside, escaping the constant battle with the wind. I look put-together, but I'm far from it.

The dorms here are fancy, more like villas than what I've seen in typical college movies—each with three rooms and a shared washroom on the first floor. The common area on the ground floor serves as a living room, a kitchen, and a project area for art history assignments. My roommates graduated last semester—an architecture major and another art history student like me. I was left with this huge villa all to myself, save for the occasional temporary roommate, and I'm lonely as hell.

There aren't many art history enthusiasts in this country, but Crescent Hills University is the last place I expected to feel isolated.

The bell over the door tinkles as I step inside the warm, cozy bakery. Rue greets me with a soft smile. She's an old lady with graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, always friendly and kind. "Morning, dear," she says as she sets a steaming hazelnut latte on the counter.

"Hey, Rue," I reply, my voice barely more than a mumble. I grab my drink and pick out a jalapeños cheddar bagel with cream cheese from the display case. The only thing I can manage to stomach this morning is something easy—no time for scrambled eggs or toast.

Rue rings me up, and I swipe my student card. The tap of the machine drowns out the buzzing of my phone in my tote bag. Another message from Tarun. I glance at it as I swipe through the text.

Tarun: "Hey, babe, meet me after school. I found a secluded spot near the old forest. I need you there."

I roll my eyes and shove the phone back in my bag. Like I have a choice. Like he even cares that I'm tired of following him around. He's always so demanding—expecting me to drop everything and cater to him. Maybe I'll skip it today. I could use a day to myself. A moment to just breathe without his suffocating grip on me.

Rue hands me my order with a warm smile. "Take care, dear. Try not to work too hard today."

"Thanks, Rue," I murmur, slipping my phone back into my pocket. I nod at a group of architecture students huddled together near the exit and make my way out into the chilly morning. The campus is buzzing with students, their voices echoing in the stone corridors of the colonial buildings. I weave through the crowds, heading towards the main lecture hall where my political science class is scheduled.

The hall is already packed when I arrive, the rows of seats filling quickly. I scan the room, looking for a familiar face, but I find none. I settle into a seat near the back, my eyes drawn to the oversized windows. The sun is hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, casting an eerie light over the snow-covered mountains outside.

Professor Shetty strides in, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He's an imposing figure, with a stern demeanor that commands attention. He clears his throat, and the class falls silent.

"Good morning, everyone," he begins. "Today, we're diving into the complexities of political power and its manifestations in society. As we discuss, remember to think critically about the intersection of political theory and real-world implications."

He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the room. "Mukti, I expect you to contribute today. You've been quiet for the past few weeks."

Heat rises to my cheeks. It's true—political science isn't my forte, but I try my best. I take a deep breath, my fingers tapping nervously on the edge of my notebook.

"Ms. Roy," Professor Shetty continues, "Can you tell us what power dynamics might look like in a rural Indian setting?"

I hesitate, fumbling for the right words. "Um, I guess... it's about the control and influence exerted by local leaders, the balance of power between different castes..."

"Not bad," a deep voice interrupts, cutting through my train of thought. "But you're missing the bigger picture."

I turn towards the voice—arrogant and confident—my heart skips a beat as I recognize him. Rudra Pratap Rajvardhan. The football captain. Future King of Mewar. And the most insufferable person I've ever met.

Professor Shetty nods. "Mr. Rajvardhan, care to add?"

He leans back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips. "It's not just about local leaders, Professor. It's also about how these dynamics play into national politics and influence policy decisions. It's a matter of power trickling down, not just a top-down approach."

Professor Shetty seems pleased with the response. "Precisely, Rudra. That's a crucial aspect we need to consider. Thank you for that insight."

I lower my gaze, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I know my answer was correct, but Rudra's interruption and the professor's approval leave me feeling small and insignificant.

I sank back into my seat, trying to focus on the lecture.

After class, I gathered my things quickly and started towards the exit, hoping to avoid another encounter. But as I stepped into the narrow hallway, I bump into a wall, "Watch where you're going" maybe not. His smirk reappeared as he saw me looking at him, startled and massaging my arm.

"Missed me already?" he drawled.

I rolled my eyes. "Hardly."

His smile widened, and he stepped closer, blocking my path. "You sure have a lot to say for someone who doesn't know when to keep quiet."

I tilted my chin up, meeting his gaze head-on. "Move" I shot back, my voice edged with defiance.

He stepped even closer, closing the space between us. "We'll see about that," he murmured, his voice low and challenging.

There was a heavy silence as we stood there, the hallway empty except for us. His proximity was intoxicating, and I couldn't deny the thrill of defiance that sparked inside me. Maybe it was just the danger in his eyes, the aura of power he carried around like a shield. But there was something magnetic about it, something that made me want to test the boundaries.

Before I could say anything else, another student passed by, breaking the moment. He pulled back with that same smirk, as if he knew he'd gotten under my skin. "Not so meek after all, huh?" he said, his voice low and taunting.

I was left feeling shaken, more aware of my pulse than ever before. There was an inexplicable thrill in being overpowered by his intensity. Maybe it was just the start of something I wasn't quite ready to understand.

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I trudge through the overgrown path, the ground beneath my feet soft with fallen leaves and damp earth. The forest is a dense labyrinth of towering trees and tangled vines, their branches heavy with the last remnants of autumn. As the sky fades from blue to a cold gray, I let my mind wander.

Two hours ago, Tarun sent me a text asking me to meet him here. I'm not sure why l came. Maybe a part of me hoped it wasn't too late, that he would still be waiting for me.

But it's clear now that he isn't.

What's wrong with me? Why can't I go beyond a certain level of intimacy with him?

We've already slept together-what more does he want? And why does he have to make this a workout, try new "routines," and then get disappointed when I can't meet his expectations?

He's a nice guy-really. I mean, he can cook dumplings. But every time he suggests something new, I feel a sick twist in my gut. I'm not sure if it's fear or guilt or something else entirely. All I know is that I can't keep doing this.

The chill in the air wraps around me like a shroud as I push deeper into the woods. The path winds through a clearing, the trees forming a canopy above, their branches intertwined like an archway.

The setting sun casts long shadows over the ground, painting the underbrush in hues of red and gold. I let out a shaky breath, the cold nipping at my nose. Maybe it's better if I just keep moving, put distance between us. I can't face him-not now, not after what happened.

Lost in these thoughts, I round a corner, the path narrowing into a steep descent. The undergrowth thickens, the ground soft and uneven. My boots sink into the mud with each step, the squelch of dirt and leaves beneath my weight a constant reminder of the silence that surrounds me. As the sun dips lower, casting a golden glow through the trees, I let my guard down for a moment.

And then I see them.

My feet freeze in place, rooted to the ground as I take in the scene before me. There's Tarun, pressed against a tree, with some girl in between him and the bark. Her skirt hiked up around her waist, his hands gripping her hips as he thrusts his other hand under the skirt.

Her face is hidden; it's buried in his, and I can hear the obscene noises-wet, muffled sounds-that send a chill down my spine. I'm frozen in place, unable to look away, unable to tear my eyes from the ugliness unfolding in front of me.

Tears sting my eyes as I watch. I'm not sure if it's pain or anger or a mix of both, but the humiliation is almost unbearable. I'm a sick voyeur, standing here, watching my boyfriend perform this obscene act right in front of me.

And I can't do anything but stand and watch. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat as he pulls her closer, his breath ragged, his face contorted with lust and anger.

I take a step back, but my legs feel heavy, rooted to the ground. The girl beneath him whimpers, he leaves the girl's mouth and pushes her head down exactly what he did with me until she's eye level with his crotch.

My stomach churns, and a sob escapes me.

Tarun's eyes catch mine, angry and triumphant. "You're late," he sneers, his voice low and mocking. The girl beneath him gags, and I turn away, my heart pounding.

Humiliation floods through me like a crashing wave as I realize that Tarun just performed the most disrespectful and obscene act of betrayal right in front of my eyes.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I watch, my body shaking with a mix of rage and terror. How could I have been so stupid? So weak?

All because I couldn't do exactly what he said, because I couldn't be his toy, his possession. I let myself believe that there was something real between us, something genuine. But now, I see it for what it is—a cruel joke, a sick fantasy that only serves to humiliate me.

I turn on my heels and run, the forest around me a blur of color and sound.

The wind bites at my skin, but I barely notice it. All I can think about is getting away, putting as much distance between us as possible.

Humiliation, pure and raw, wraps around me like a heavy blanket. I feel small, insignificant, and exposed. My vision blurs with tears as I stumble through the undergrowth, branches whipping at my face.

How did I let this happen to myself? How did I end up here, alone in the woods, watching my boyfriend degrade some girl like l'm nothing more than a voyeuristic weakling?

The cold wind cuts through the trees, not offering any comfort as I slow to a walk. I make my way back to the dorms, my steps heavy, my mind a whirl of self-loathing and blame. I was weak, I let it all happen. I'm nothing but a fool for thinking I could have something real with Tarun.

I keep walking until I see the dim lights of the departmental store, flickering like distant stars against the deep, velvety sky. The dried tears on my cheeks feel tight, pulling as I tilt my head back to look up—pure darkness, the sun long gone behind the mountain peaks. I stop in my tracks as I realize there's nearly no one around. It's a cold day here, and an unspoken rule in these mountains dictates that no one stays out too late when the temperature drops.

Shivering, I decide to head inside. The warmth hits me like a slap in the face, a welcome contrast to the cold bite outside. I walk down the aisles aimlessly, my eyes darting over the cluttered shelves. The store is nearly empty, and I'm grateful for the privacy. I grab a pack of beer cans from the refrigerator—Corona. They're cold, refreshing. A fitting companion for an evening like this. Wiping my face with my hands, I do my best to scrub away the evidence of misery. I need to get home, get cozy, and let the numbness take over.

I use the self-checkout and step out the back door of the store. The concrete patio stretches out behind the building, lined with graffiti-covered benches and metal trash bins. I walk a little further, my footsteps echoing on the cold pavement. Plopping myself down on the concrete edge, I crack open a can and chug it down. The beer burns a path down my throat, the cold liquid washing away some of the pain, if only temporarily. There's something almost poetic about it—the utter humiliation, the chill in the air, the burn of the alcohol that fucks up my motor responses. It feels like a strange, romantic ending to a shitty day.

As I'm on my third can of beer, I hear a voice cut through the silence—deep, mocking. "A drinker," it sneers.

His Royal fucking highness!