In the crowded streets of Chennai, amidst the hum of honking vehicles and the vibrant chaos of daily life, there lived a 17-year-old named Samuthiravel, a teenager whose existence was as unnoticed as the countless other faces in the crowd. The city pulsed with energy, yet Samuthiravel drifted through life, a quiet observer, content to be part of the backdrop.
To the world, Samuthiravel was just another student—a boy in the bio-maths stream, reliable but ordinary. He had recently moved into his 12th grade after struggling through his 11th exams. But unlike the stories of late-night cramming or relentless academic ambition that filled the air around him, Samuthiravel had learned to simply survive. He wasn’t the top scorer, nor was he a failure. He was the student who existed in the middle—doing just enough to stay under the radar, to not be noticed.
For most, it seemed like the perfect way to live. No one expected too much from him, and he didn’t expect much from himself either. But there was a different story underneath it all, one that was never shared—his silent battle with himself. Samuthiravel was not lazy, nor was he uninterested in his studies. He simply couldn’t find the energy to care. Life, at some point, had simply dulled him. The noise of the world, the pressure of the future, all seemed too distant, like the hum of a faraway engine that you can’t quite escape.
The last two months, however, had been harder. A series of health problems had kept him away from school. His absence compounded the struggle, the gap between him and his peers widening. His academic life, already a battle, now felt like a losing war. Every missed day of school became a scar in his academic journey, and the isolation grew. It wasn’t just his health; his entire existence felt like a series of missed opportunities—moments slipping through his fingers like sand. And no one seemed to care. His teachers, his classmates, his friends—they all carried on without him.
But amid the noise and isolation, Samuthiravel found solace in his hobbies. Photography, writing, and music were the only things that made him feel alive. On holidays, he would walk through the streets of Chennai, his camera in hand, capturing the small, quiet moments that most people would overlook—the flickering light of a lamp, a child’s laugh as they ran through the rain, the delicate sway of a leaf in the wind. Photography was his language, the lens his voice. When words failed him, the shutter clicked in his place. Writing, too, was an escape—a world of characters and stories that had no expectations, no grades, no judgments. Music was his constant companion, a refuge from the noise of the world, each notes a reminder that there was still something beautiful outside of his academic struggle.
But even these things couldn’t erase the loneliness. JD and Zee, his schoolmates and old friends, remained by his side, but over time, even their bond began to fray. There was an invisible distance between them that neither dared to bridge. JD, the loud and boisterous one, was always pushing him to be better, to care more. Zee, quieter but more insightful, had always understood him more than anyone. Still, neither of them could understand the depth of his apathy.
"You’ve changed, Samu," JD said one afternoon, concern creeping into his voice. "You used to care about something. Now you just seem… lost."
Zee, who had been less vocal about their drifting apart, said softly, "Is your photography all you care about? Don't you want to do something with your life? You're wasting your potential, Samu."
Their words stung, deeper than Samuthiravel had expected. They weren’t wrong. He had stopped caring—not just about his studies, but about everything. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be more, it was that he felt numb, as if he had lost the will to try. What was the point of it all? The long nights, the effort, the uncertainty? No one had bothered to ask what was going on inside his head; they only saw the result—the boy who didn't try hard enough, who didn’t fit into the mold.
For the first time, Samuthiravel found himself questioning everything. Could he be more? Could he become someone who cared? Was he truly the lazy, apathetic student they all thought him to be? He felt the weight of his mediocrity pressing down on him, suffocating. Something had to change.
And so, Samuthiravel made a decision.
He would stop living in the shadows. He would stop coasting.
It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him. The next morning, he woke up with a renewed sense of purpose. The excuses, the distractions, everything had to go. His photography, writing, music—his creative outlets, the things that had kept him sane—had to be put aside. He wasn’t running from them. He was setting them down, focusing on the one thing that truly mattered: his future.
He set a strict schedule for himself. Waking up at 4 a.m., he poured over his lessons, reviewing what he had missed during the months of illness. After school, he would dive into his textbooks, memorizing concepts, solving equations, and completing practice tests. There was no time for rest, no time for moments of reflection. It was just hours of study, day after day. His world became nothing but pages of notes, equations, and formulas.
At first, his friends, JD and Zee, noticed the change. JD scoffed, “You’ve gone crazy, Samu. It’s like all you care about now are these books. You’re burning yourself out.”
Zee, more understanding, warned, “This isn’t healthy. You’ve got to find balance. Don’t let it consume you.”
But Samuthiravel was resolute. This wasn’t about balance anymore. It was about doing more than just surviving. It was about proving something to himself. He was done with the comfortable numbness of mediocrity.
The following weeks were grueling. His body ached from sleepless nights, his eyes burning from hours of staring at his textbooks. There were moments of doubt, moments when he wanted to pick up his camera or write a new story. But he pushed those thoughts aside, reminding himself that now was not the time for distractions.
He began to excel. Slowly, his classmates noticed. Those who had once dismissed him now watched in awe. “He’s studying,” they whispered. “He’s serious now.” But Samuthiravel didn’t care about their approval. He didn’t care about the whispers or the mockery. He was no longer the boy who let life happen to him. He was taking control.
The day of the public exams arrived, and Samuthiravel entered the exam hall with the usual mix of anxiety and excitement. His hands trembled, his heart raced, but in the back of his mind was a sense of calm. He had done everything he could. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of failure. He wasn’t afraid of what others would think. He was only afraid of letting himself down.
When the results came, the shock was palpable. Samuthiravel had topped the state.
The teachers were stunned. Malini Ma’am, his math teacher, stood in disbelief, unable to hide her astonishment. “Samuthiravel, I never expected this. You’ve completely surpassed all of us.”
But Samuthiravel didn’t care for their praise. The ceremony, the congratulations, the crowd—they were all meaningless to him now. He didn’t need their validation. His success wasn’t for them. It was his own.
JD called him, brimming with excitement. "Samu, you did it! You’re a genius! Everyone’s talking about you!"
Zee messaged him, her words filled with regret. "I’m so sorry, Samu. I should’ve supported you more. Let’s catch up soon."
But Samuthiravel ignored them. His success had been a journey of self-discovery, a path that had always been solitary. He didn’t need to share it with anyone. It was his alone.
On the day after the results, as his phone buzzed with congratulations and his mother insisted that he attend the celebrations, Samuthiravel made his decision. He walked out of the house, leaving behind the world that had never truly seen him. He wasn’t running from his success. He was embracing it, on his terms. He had found something more important than the approval of others—he had found himself.
The end… for now.