Rohan was an unremarkable boy in many ways, yet in his mind, he was destined for greatness. His small, wiry frame betrayed little of the fiery ambition that burned within him. Standing at five feet seven, his slender body was often hunched slightly, as if trying to disappear into the shadows of his own thoughts. His skin was a warm honey shade, common among Mumbai's bustling streets, and his jet-black hair was perpetually tousled, falling into his eyes despite his attempts to keep it neat.
His eyes—big, round, and dark brown—held a restless spark, a mirror of his vivid imagination. His face was youthful, with a hint of freckles across his nose, and his lips often carried a half-smile, as if he was perpetually lost in a dream. His clothes reflected his modest life—a plain white shirt, a navy blazer with patches sewn on by his mother, and khaki trousers that had seen better days.
His sanctuary was his small bedroom—cluttered but sacred. Posters of gods and mythological scenes decorated every inch of the walls. Shiva in his cosmic dance, Vishnu reclining on the serpent Ananta, Devi wielding her trident—each poster was a window into his soul. Shelves were lined with small idols—ceramic, brass, and marble—each representing divine power and cosmic balance. His desk was a mess of notebooks, filled with sketches of temples, divine symbols, and stories he created in his mind. The scent of sandalwood incense mingled with the musty smell of old paper and ink.
Rohan's dreams weren't just about heroism—they were about becoming a divine being, wielding cosmic powers, and changing the world. Every night, he drifted into fantasies where he would rise above mortal limitations, his body glowing with divine energy, his voice echoing with authority as he fought evil and protected the innocent.
Today, that dream felt more urgent than ever. His heart hammered in his chest as he prepared to talk to Maya, the girl whose smile was like a beacon in his dull world. Maya had long, wavy hair that shimmered like dark silk, and eyes that sparkled with mischief and kindness. She was the one person who made his world brighter.
He approached her during the lunch break, voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. "Maya," he managed, "I... I like you."
She turned, eyes wide with surprise. She looked him over—his awkward stance, sweaty palms, and the hope shining in his eyes—and then she smiled gently, a soft, understanding smile that made his heart flutter.
"I'm sorry, Rohan," she said softly. "I don't feel the same. But I hope we can still be friends."
His face burned with embarrassment. His heart, once soaring with hope, sank like a stone. As he turned to walk away, a car screeched past him—its tires fighting against the asphalt, horns blaring loudly—its headlights flashing like the eyes of a predator. The sound was deafening, a jarring interruption to his fragile moment.
No, not now— he thought desperately, his stomach twisting with dread.
Time seemed to stretch in slow motion. The world around him blurred into streaks of color and sound. The screech of tires, the blaring horns, shouts of bystanders—everything collided into a cacophony that deafened him.
Rohan's body froze, rooted to the ground as if glued by fear. His eyes widened in horror as the car—a speeding silver sedan—hurtled toward him with terrifying inevitability. Its headlights cut a blazing swath through the dusk, illuminating his face in a stark, white glow. The driver seemed unaware, lost in their own world of rush and distraction.
He tried to move, to shout, to run—anything—but his limbs felt leaden, as if he was sinking into quicksand. His heart pounded so loudly he thought it might burst. Every second stretched agony—then, the inevitable.
The car struck him.
The impact was a deafening explosion of noise, metal crashing into flesh, bones, and dreams. Pain shot through his body like lightning, and everything went black.