THE TOPPERE'S SHADOW

Part I: The Ghost of Putalisadak

The notice board at Kantipur City College was framed by a sea of anxious faces, all jostling for position in the humid Kathmandu morning. I pushed my way through the crowd in Putalisadak, my eyes scanning the crisp white paper listing the successful candidates for the Master’s Degree in Journalism and Mass Communication. I knew I hadn't performed well on the entrance exam. Having taken it on a whim while still preparing for my Bachelor's final semester viva, I had arrived entirely unprepared. Still, a quiet thread of hope had kept me walking toward the campus that morning.

When my eyes finally caught my name, it sat near the bottom of the list, accompanied by a modest score. A wave of relief washed over me—I had passed—but my gaze instinctively drifted upward, straight to the top of the column. Positioned comfortably at the peak was a name that immediately caught my attention: Utsav Poudel.

Curiosity took hold instantly. Who was this person who had topped the entrance with such ease? I lingered near the administration block, hoping to spot someone who looked the part, but he was nowhere to be found. Throughout the remainder of the day and well into the night, my mind kept returning to that name.

By the time the orientation class arrived, my curiosity had evolved into a quiet obsession. I scanned the lecture hall, searching every face, but the seat reserved for the top scorer remained empty. In the absence of a real person, my imagination stepped in to fill the void. I pictured him effortlessly: tall, polished, fair-complexioned, perhaps with slightly longer hair that fell over his brow, riding a late-model motorcycle through the chaotic streets of the city. He became an idealized figure in my mind before we had even exchanged a single word.

Academic responsibilities soon forced a pause in my pursuit. The final viva for my Bachelor's degree demanded my full attention, keeping me away from lectures for a full week. When I finally returned to KCC, the morning sun was just beginning to cut through the Kathmandu haze. It was barely 6:30 AM, and the halls were still mostly quiet. Arriving at the department, a faculty member guided me toward the computer lab where the class had gathered for a lecture on web design.

I took an empty seat beside a workstation, but as the instructor demonstrated layout frameworks on the projector, my focus remained entirely elsewhere. I kept glancing around the room, surreptitiously evaluating every male student in the lab, wondering which one carried the identity of the top scorer. None seemed to match the grandiose picture I had built in my head.

Two weeks passed before the mystery finally unraveled. Sitting on a back bench during a morning lecture, I listened intently as the instructor began calling the daily roll. Name after name passed until the professor called out for Utsav Poudel.

A quiet "Present" came from a few rows ahead. I leant forward slightly, tracing the sound to its source.

The reality shattered the ideal I had carefully constructed. He was not towering, nor did he possess the striking features I had envisioned. He looked ordinary, dressed simply, without any of the dramatic flair I had imagined. Yet, as the initial disappointment faded, a different feeling took its place. There was an undeniable calm about him, a quiet composure that drew me in despite the gap between expectation and reality. The idealized crush was gone, replaced by a genuine intrigue that felt far more real.

In the weeks that followed, our interactions grew naturally. We discovered a shared love for literature, exchanging novels after class and spending hours discussing character motivations and themes over tea. Because our commute routes aligned, our conversations extended into the long walks home. Through these simple, daily routines, a solid friendship formed, grounding itself in shared interests rather than the illusions I had held at the start.

Part II: Dhulikhel and the Letter

By the end of the first semester, the class decided to organize an outing to celebrate the completion of our exams. Dhulikhel was chosen as the destination—a quiet town on the ridge of the Kathmandu Valley offering clear views of the hills. For me, the trip represented something more than a simple class picnic; it felt like the right moment to be honest about how my feelings had evolved over the preceding months.

Before leaving home, I sat down and wrote a simple letter, putting into words what I had hesitated to say in person.

When our group arrived at the scenic spot in Dhulikhel, the atmosphere was lively. Music played from a portable speaker, and classmates gathered in small groups to sing and dance. I stayed on the periphery, the folded paper heavy in my jacket pocket. My pulse raced as I watched Utsav talk with a few classmates nearby. Questions drifted through my head: What if this ruins the friendship we’ve built? What if he steps back entirely?

Eventually, I decided that clarity was better than uncertainty. While the rest of the group was distracted by a group dance near the viewing tower, I quietly walked over to where our bags were piled, found Utsav’s backpack, and slipped the letter inside.

Once the letter was out of my hands, the anxiety gave way to a strange sense of quiet relief. The truth was out, regardless of how he might respond.

When I returned home that evening around 8:00 PM, the quiet of my room felt overwhelming. I kept my phone nearby, checking the screen every few minutes, but the night passed without a message. A few days drifted by in the same silence, leaving me to wonder if he had simply overlooked the letter entirely.

Unable to handle the lingering suspense, I finally broke the silence with a brief text message.

"Hi," I sent.

The reply came almost instantly. "Hi."

"How are you? How are the holidays going?" I typed back, trying to keep the tone neutral.

"Good, thanks. Just back in Kathmandu now. How about you?"

"Good," I replied. I paused, staring at the screen, before deciding to ask directly. "I just wanted to know if you happened to read the letter I left in your bag at Dhulikhel."

The screen remained still. Minutes passed without the typing indicator appearing. Ten full minutes elapsed before his response finally arrived.

"Yes, I read it," the message began. "To be honest, I like you too. But you're two years older than I am. I don't think our families would accept that difference."

I stared at the text, relieved that the feeling was mutual, but frustrated by the hesitation. "Age is just a detail," I responded. "What matters is how we understand each other. Families adjust over time when they see that a relationship is genuine."

We messaged back and forth for hours that evening, working through his doubts and discussing what we actually wanted. By the time the conversation ended late that night, the hesitation had dissolved, and we agreed to step into a relationship together.

Part III: Unspoken Terms

The early months of the relationship brought a new rhythm to our daily lives. Away from the structure of the college campus, we spent time together in a quiet flat located near Chapeli Height, belonging to one of Utsav's friends who was frequently out of town. The space offered a sanctuary from the bustling city and the watchful eyes of classmates.

One morning, after spending the night at the apartment, I woke up feeling an unexpected weight in the air. Utsav was already up, searching through his bag for a clean shirt. I got up quietly and walked into the bathroom, trying to gather my thoughts. When I emerged, he looked over at me, sensing the change in my mood.

"Why are you so quiet today?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the frame. "Is something wrong?"

I sat beside him, looking away for a moment before turning back. "Nothing is wrong," I said softly. "It's just... I feel a bit uncomfortable today, though I can't quite pinpoint why."

"Did something happen?" he pressed gently. "Did I do something?"

"No, not at all," I replied, forcing a slight smile. "It's just a strange feeling. I'll be fine."

He looked at me for a moment longer, reassurance replacing the concern in his expression. Before we packed our things to leave the flat that afternoon, he stopped near the door, his demeanor turning serious.

"There's something we need to settle regarding us," he said, looking directly at me. "I want to keep this private for now. We shouldn't tell anyone at college or bring it up around friends until the timing is right."

His request caught me off guard for a second, but I quickly rationalized it. It made sense to protect our space from unwanted gossip, especially given the competitive environment at the college. I smiled, nodded in agreement, and agreed to keep our relationship entirely between the two of us.

Part IV: The Shift

The privacy we agreed upon slowly began to feel less like a mutual choice and more like a barrier. By the middle of the second semester, the contrast between our private time and our public detachment at college grew harder to navigate.

On a rain-heavy Friday morning, during the final lecture of the day, a growing sense of unease prompted me to reach out. Sitting two rows behind him, I pulled out my phone and typed a brief message.

"Please meet me after class near the gate. I need to speak with you about something important."

He glanced at his phone, turned slightly to look back at me, and sent a brief "Okay" before looking back toward the whiteboard.

When the lecture concluded at 9:30 AM, the hallway filled with students heading toward the canteen. We walked out of the main building in silence, heading past the gate to a quiet side lane away from the main flow of traffic.

"What is it?" Utsav asked, stopping near a quiet corner. "You seemed anxious in class."

My hands were shaking slightly. I took a slow breath, trying to find the simplest way to say what needed to be said. "I went to the clinic yesterday," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm pregnant."

The calm expression on his face disappeared instantly, replaced by a sharp, defensive recoil. "What? How did that happen?"

I stared at him, stunned by the immediate hostility in his voice. "We weren't careful enough," I said quietly.

"I can't deal with this right now," he said quickly, pacing a few steps away before turning back. "You need to take care of it. I'm not ready for a child, and I'm certainly not looking for a lifelong commitment right now."

The words hit with a cold precision that left me speechless. "What do you mean?" I asked, struggling to process his tone. "Are you saying you don't want to handle this together?"

"Look," he said, his voice dropping into a harsh, transactional tone. "You were the one who pursued me from the beginning. If this gets out, it ruins my standing at the college, my family's expectations, and my career plans. I cannot marry you. We need to end this here, and you need to move on."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back toward the campus gates, leaving me standing alone in the alley.

Over the next several days, I tried repeatedly to reach him. Every call went straight to voicemail, and my messages were left unread. When I saw him on campus, he deliberately altered his walking routes or remained surrounded by groups of classmates, ensuring I could never approach him directly. The person I had trusted turned out to be entirely indifferent when faced with a real crisis.

Part V: A Different Standard

The weeks that followed were marked by a quiet, deliberate withdrawal. I turned off my phone, missed lectures, and spent days inside my room trying to process the sudden collapse of my expectations. The emotional weight was heavy, but clarity eventually emerged from the confusion. I realized that keeping the pregnancy was not a viable path forward given the total absence of support and the reality of my situation. I made the decision to visit a local clinic alone and undergo the procedure.

It was a difficult process, but resolving it brought a clear, decisive end to that chapter of my life. I realized that holding onto resentment or seeking confrontation would only prolong the connection to someone who had shown his true character under pressure.

When I finally returned to Kantipur City College to resume my studies, the environment felt fundamentally different. Utsav and I passed each other in the hallways and sat in the same lecture halls without exchanging a word or making eye contact. The silence between us was complete.

Walking through the campus courtyard one morning, my eyes briefly caught the departmental notice board where this journey had begun months prior. I remembered how impressed I had been by a simple list of test scores, and how easily I had equated academic achievement with character and maturity.

The experience reshaped my understanding of what actually matters in a person. High marks and academic recognition were simply measurements of test performance, carrying no guarantee of integrity, empathy, or courage. The true measure of a person lay in how they handled responsibility when things became difficult. As I walked past the notice board and toward my classroom, I left the quiet illusions of the past behind, focused entirely on moving forward on my own terms.