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?Introduction Of Protagonists?

My sister always got the headlines.
The likes, the love, the life everyone wanted to copy.
And me? I was her stand-in, the "Other Roy Girl" when she wasn't around.
Even when I carved out a name in Mumbai’s school circuit, it couldn’t hold a candle to the way Kolkata loved me.
Here, I’m their Ishita. The girl who smiles with her eyes and doesn’t need to shout to be heard.
The girl they call “koto mishti meye.”
Yes. That line. That ever-sweet, sugar-dipped line.
I act like I hate it. I roll my eyes. But… maybe I like it.
Just a little. Maybe I like being seen.

And maybe… I like attention. Sue me.

Now here’s the real drama: I could’ve stayed in luxury. My parents?
Oh, they’ve got money. Capital-M money.
Trillionaires if you count their egos.
But did they ever give me a rupee to spend on myself?
N.E.V.E.R.
Nada.
Not even a “beta, here’s 500 for coffee.”
So yeah, I’m living in this tiny dorm room. One flickering bulb, one leaky tap, and a heart stuffed with secrets.

But here’s the plot twist: I chose this.
I chose freedom.
I chose me.

And you know what?
Even if I’m back in Kolkata with heartbreak packed between my books,
I think this is where the story really begins.

Now, as for my relationship with Aryan… tense is the polite way to put it.

We were enemies since kindergarten. Mortal rivals since daycare. Nemeses before nap-time.

Well, not exactly since birth—we were actually friends once. Like, besties-who-built-sandcastles kind of friends.

But then came her.

My sister. Ishani Roy.

The soft-spoken angel with big eyes and bigger expectations placed on her head. And just like that, the spotlight shifted. Suddenly, Aryan wasn’t just Aryan—he was hers. Their future husband. Their perfect match. Their love story written in parental prophecy and gold-lettered wedding cards.

And me? I became the footnote.

Little me—jealous, hurt, forgotten—picked fights. Started wars. Called him names, snapped at him, anything to break that perfect picture.

And he… oh, he snapped right back.

We stopped being friends. Started being flame and friction. And our fights? They weren’t the cute kind with blushing cheeks and lingering glances. They were sharp. Dark. We dug where it hurt. And somehow, no matter how much distance I tried to put between us, we always ended up back in the same emotional battlefield—arguing over a girl who never wanted us to.

But I’m not here for pity.

I’m here to write my own story. I’m no longer the background extra in someone else’s fairytale. I’m the girl with scalpels in her hands and fire in her eyes. I’m done letting other people write my ending.

So if you’re still with me… buckle up. Because this isn’t a love story.

This is a storm.

And speaking of storms…

You’re about to meet another protagonist.

One who doesn’t speak unless he has to.

One who hides emotions like scalpel blades—sharp, sterile, and deadly quiet.

One whose name you already know, but whose heart?

That’s still under dissection.

(End of Ishita’s POV)