Chapter 5: The Evidence Game

Slowly, I calmed down and began to sign the story behind the song.

The auditorium was silent, every hand movement louder than words. A few girls dabbed their eyes, emotion thick as pre-monsoon humidity.

Kabir’s voice grew stiff when translating the part about my original intentions. There was something almost reluctant in his tone.

I looked at him, confused, but he just raised his brows for me to go on.

The more Neha listened, the paler she got.

More people believed me as I described details: how certain lines changed, what I felt, what I fixed last-minute. Neha couldn’t explain any of it.

A girl in front whispered, “Toh Meera hi author hai?”

“Neha Sharma chor hai? Pagal ho gaye ho kya?”

“Pagal? Yeh toh chori hai. Seedhi chori.”

When I finished, Kabir said calmly: “Meera wants an apology from Neha, her song back, and withdrawal from the competition.”

Neha clung to denial: “Main nahi! Yeh mera song hai!”

She sobbed, making people feel sorry for her.

Finally, the authorities stepped in. The principal—strict, bespectacled, hair in a bun—said, “Bring all the drafts. We’ll check handwriting, notation, everything.”

I tugged Kabir: “Drafts hostel room mein hain.”

He nodded, “Main chalta hoon.”

But before he could move, Arjun handed a stack of papers to Neha on the side.

“These are my drafts. Arjun was with me when I wrote this. He’ll vouch for me.”

She waved the pages, and I saw the handwriting: Neha Sharma’s.

Arjun wouldn’t meet my eyes—he only looked at Neha on stage.

A lump rose in my throat, hot and bitter.

“Why?” I cried, though no words came. Arjun knew what I meant.

He looked away.

I trusted him. I’d shown him my draft.

Only one possibility—he took photos, gave them to Neha.

This was all planned. From start to finish.

My hands curled into fists, nails digging in. I tasted betrayal—salty, sour, burning.