By the next morning, Aryan's eyes had only one kind of tiredness left in them.
Not the heavy, sticky kind from staying up too late.
It was the quiet kind. The tiredness that comes from holding too many different, heavy stories inside your head at once.
The bell hadn't even started its shaky ring yet, but the benches were already half-full.
Riya sat two rows ahead, pretending to read her own textbook. But her eyes kept flicking to the pages of his notes she'd briefly seen yesterday—lines that stuck in her memory like sharp little pebbles:
"New place means new danger for old legs."
"I chose this instead of some other misery."
Her own pitch outline—printed, color-coded, perfectly neat—lay open in front of her. She stared at it like it was a beautiful, expensive shirt that was suddenly two sizes too small. She didn't want it anymore.
Her fingers tightened around the barrel of her pen until it almost clicked.
Then the bell gave its first, rattling ring.
Raghavan Sir stormed in with his usual noise, dropping a stack of papers on the desk like a small earthquake.
"Entrepreneurs," he boomed, looking very pleased with himself. "Today we learn something very, very important."
He spun and wrote three words on the board, leaving chalk dust hanging in the air:
Your pitch = their pain.
A few kids snickered awkwardly.
"Not a stubbed toe," Sir clarified, slapping the board once. "The pain in their life. The system pain. The money pain. Customers don't pay you because you're smart. They pay you to stop the problem that's already making them hurt."
He scanned the class. His gaze didn't linger, but everyone saw it land on Aryan for that one extra second.
"If you don't understand their pain," he said, pulling his chair out with a screech, "your pitch is just a story. Not a business."
Riya felt a sudden, cold knot in her stomach.
Aryan didn't flinch.
But under the desk, his fingers curled into a fist. He was gripping something invisible, something he wasn't ready to let go of.
"Homework," Raghavan said. "You will summarize the three interviews you did yesterday. Turn those three stories into one single problem statement. Bring it tomorrow."
Aryan didn't need homework. He had enough notes already to fill three grown-up reports.
But he opened his notebook anyway, slowly. And for the third time, he wrote the same three summary lines, pressing the pencil harder this time:
"Hardest part is everything."
"I fear losing the right to stand here."
"We chose this instead of worse misery."
The ink seemed darker today. The sentences felt heavier.
Sagar flopped into his seat with a groan that was mostly for show.
"I swear, da," he mumbled, unwrapping his chapati. "Lunch break is too short for a human life."
Riya ignored him. Her eyes were glued to Aryan's rough notebook again.
"You're adding more?" she asked, trying to sound like she was asking about the weather.
He nodded, not looking up. "I'm trying to organize them. Like a cupboard."
Sagar peeked over. "It looks like a doctor's prescription pad."
Riya smacked his arm with her pencil pouch. "Everything looks like a doctor's report to you, idiot."
Aryan closed the notebook, a line appearing between his eyebrows.
"We go again today," he said.
Riya sighed, but not with real annoyance. "You say that like we have other hobbies."
He blinked once, his expression completely serious. "Do we?"
Sagar snorted so loudly on his rice that Ms. Devi, who was marking papers across the room, looked up sharply.
The street outside the gate was a wall of noise: louder than yesterday.
A school van honked like an angry goose.
A dropped tiffin box rolled onto the dusty road with a clang.
Parvathi Aunty shouted, "Don't step in the pani, ayyo, have some sense!"
It was chaos, the usual, familiar kind.
Aryan stood at the edge for a long moment, not moving, letting the whole noisy, messy picture burn itself into his memory.
Sagar nudged his elbow gently. "Plan?"
"Just listen," Aryan said simply.
They approached Murthy Uncle first.
He was in a complete frenzy—flipping bajjis in oil that sizzled angrily, taking coins, handing plates, wiping the sweat from his eye with the back of his hand.
He didn't even look up.
"Stand to the side," he commanded, the voice strained. "People think you're the billing counter otherwise."
Aryan waited patiently.
When the rush eased for a second, Murthy spoke, still facing the sizzling oil.
"You came again."
"Yes."
"Good."
That single, heavy word surprised Riya. It was a sign of respect.
Aryan waited again.
Murthy finally turned, his face red from the heat.
"Ask," he said.
Aryan pulled out his notebook just to check his old notes.
"Uncle… you said yesterday the hardest part is everything," he started. "But if you could change only one thing about your setup, just one… what would make your life feel easier?"
Murthy actually stopped moving.
"Hmm…" he muttered, rubbing his chin.
He thought hard. He thought properly.
Then he said the one thing Aryan had not expected.
"Predictability."
Aryan frowned. "Predictable… what?"
"Everything," Murthy said, waving a hand at the street. "The crowd, the police, the school rules, the rent. If I know one week ahead what is happening, I can plan. I can buy the correct amount of raw stuff. I won't waste the gas. I won't lose time."
He paused, looking down the busy road.
"And I won't lose all my money suddenly."
That word—suddenly—landed like a punch in Aryan's chest.
He scribbled quickly:
> They fear shocks.
> They want predictability.
When they reached Parvathi Aunty, she was in a full-blown argument with a tuition boy who had tried to sneak away without paying for his pani puri.
"Oi! You think this pani puri grows on a tree?"
He apologized with terror in his eyes and ran off.
She turned to Aryan, breathing hard.
"What now?" she demanded, not unfriendly, just tired. "You want my full life story also?"
Aryan shook his head. "One thing. If the school made a rule just for vendors, what rule would help you the most?"
She let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"Simple," she said. "Tell us where NOT to stand. Clearly. On paper. No shouting. No random changes. No 'go left,' 'go right,' 'move,' 'don't move' every two days from the watchman."
Her voice wobbled. It wasn't anger; it was the sound of old, stored-up frustration finally shaking loose.
"I don't need the best spot," she said, her voice dropping. "Just… the spot that stays put."
Aryan's pencil moved:
> Not "prime spot."
> "Consistent spot."
Salman wasn't busy today. He was refilling the ice jug, humming a quiet movie song.
"You look more tired today," he observed to Aryan.
Aryan just nodded.
"Brother… if the school wrote a contract with vendors… what are the three most important things in it?" he asked.
Salman raised an eyebrow, interested.
"Contract? Like a proper legal paper?"
"Small agreement," Aryan corrected. "Basic rules. Like a promise."
Salman leaned his hip against his cart, thinking.
"Three things," he decided. "Fair rent. Clear, simple rules. No sudden removal notices."
He tapped his metal cart gently with his knuckles.
"People think we are scared of the police," he said. "We are more scared of not knowing. When things change too fast… we break."
Aryan wrote:
> Rule: No sudden change.
> Feeling: Stability = survival.
Riya stared at his notes. They weren't just business bullet points anymore. They were a map of human worry.
She swallowed a difficult lump in her throat.
They approached the gate guard last.
Gopal sat with his usual heavy dignity, his wooden lathi resting across his knees.
"Ah, the project manager again," he said with a wry smile.
Aryan groaned softly.
Riya couldn't help but smirk.
Sagar burst out laughing openly.
"Uncle," Aryan said, keeping his voice serious. "If the school allows vendors formally, what is the biggest risk for the school?"
Gopal didn't even blink.
"Crowd," he said instantly.
Then, he leaned closer and whispered:
"And blame."
He tapped the asphalt.
"If one child gets hurt, they will not blame the vendor," he said, his voice flat. "They will blame me. And then… my job is finished."
A cold silence settled around them.
Aryan added:
> Risk: crowd flow = blame on staff.
"Uncle," he asked carefully, "how do you reduce the crowd?"
Gopal shrugged, looking annoyed. "Lines. Spacing. And parents not parking their cars like donkeys."
Riya actually choked on air.
Sagar collapsed onto the ground, holding his stomach and laughing.
But Aryan wrote the last part down seriously:
> Crowd solution = spacing + guidance + parent discipline.
They moved away from the vendors and stood near the cycle stand, where the shade was thin but a small relief.
Sagar sat on the low boundary wall, wiping his eyes.
Riya stood with her arms tightly crossed.
Aryan flipped back through his notebook.
The pages weren't neat lists anymore. They had become something alive, full of messy, honest human fears.
He whispered, not quite to them, but to the notebook itself:
"It's not just about drawing a new layout."
Riya and Sagar turned their heads toward him.
"It's about a trust problem," he repeated, louder. "A system problem. A communication problem."
Riya let out a slow, long breath.
He understood it. The simple business logic Riya had taught him was nothing compared to this deep, messy reality.
"What now?" Sagar asked, suddenly serious.
Aryan scanned the street once more.
Then he said the sentence that changed everything:
"I need to build two things at once.
A system that helps the school feel safe.
And a system that gives dignity to the vendors."
He snapped the notebook shut.
"And both must fit into one pitch."
Riya stared.
"How are you going to do that?" she asked, the question tight in her throat.
He shook his head.
"I don't know yet."
And then—quietly, firmly:
"But I will find out."
On the path back into the school building, a group of rich, senior kids from the international school down the road passed by. They were laughing so loud, not mocking anyone, just laughing in the easy, careless way the world allowed them to.
That difference—their clean shoes, their expensive headphones, their easy loudness—pressed against Aryan's ribs like a hard, uncomfortable truth.
Some kids get to laugh their way through the world.
Some kids have to build entire systems just to earn the right to exist.
Riya saw the shift in his face. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't envy.
It was something quiet and hard, like a stone being polished. It was resolve, sharpened by the sheer knowledge of what he now knew he could not afford to ignore.
Later, on the terrace, Aryan spread all his messy pages out:
Aditi's neat layout drawing.
The vendor's fears.
The vendor's simple, human needs.
Gopal's warnings about blame.
The traffic flows.
Riya and Sagar sat nearby, completely silent, giving him the space of someone who was about to do math.
Finally, Aryan said:
"I need to start writing the pitch."
Sagar perked up immediately. "Now only? Seriously?"
"Now," Aryan nodded. "Because tomorrow I'll draft the first half. And the day after that… I might need help with the rest."
Riya blinked, stiffening. "Help? From whom?"
He didn't answer right away.
Because his mind had already walked the path.
Tanushri's offer. The shelf he had kept closed for so long.
Now… he whispered the decision softly, like testing a strange word:
"If I can't make it clear enough…
I'll ask Akka."
Riya looked away sharply—that small, bitter ache twisted inside her again. Not envy, exactly. Just the raw feeling of seeing a friend need a strength that wasn't hers to give.
Sagar simply smiled, relieved.
"Good," he said. "Sometimes help is the fastest shortcut."
Aryan didn't agree. But he didn't reject the idea either.
And as the last light of the sun vanished, he lifted his pencil and wrote the first line of his pitch:
> "This is not a plan to move vendors.
> This is a plan to make the gate work for everyone."
The street didn't owe him anything.
But he was learning how to owe the street something back.