adoniis

Lv14

just some boring guy

2017-12-05 JoinedGlobal

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adoniis7 months ago
Replied to Alextrash164
"...has never been given anything just because she deserved it."
2 Broke Girls x 1 Rich Man [2 Broke Girls TV series x Hollywood]
TV · UnknownMaster
adoniis7 months ago
Replied to Deswes_Angelson
Movie name
She exhaled sharply. "You're gambling with your career."
2 Broke Girls x 1 Rich Man [2 Broke Girls TV series x Hollywood]
TV · UnknownMaster
adoniisa year ago
Commented
After all, Gilbert had earned the nickname Hollywood's Son of God, the younger brother of Jesus Showquan.
Director in Hollywood
Celebrities · Anobody
adoniisa year ago
Replied to Anadown
Who is she?
Lisa asked, "Would you... ever consider being with both of us?"
Two and a Half Men: Waking up as Charlie Harper
TV · UnknownMaster
adoniisa year ago
Commented
Her name is Melissa cooper
"My name is Missy Cooper. You can just call me Missy!"
I'm in the world of Young Sheldon TV series
Movies · sneipy
adoniisa year ago
Replied to Bryan_Nulsen
I think you mean demon alien emperor Nijima Haruo
"And get Coulson to re-train his Japanese. I want him to be in contact with Ryozanpaku within a month and I want to know why do they get information first instead of us" Fury ordered
Rebirth Of The Mightiest Disciple (Reboot)
Anime & Comics · shashank_bhatt
adoniisa year ago
Commented
Another kid, Ray-Ray, went for a layup, but his foot hit a crack in the pavement, and instead of shooting, he launched the ball straight into the sky.
2pac: greatest rapper Alive
Urban · ilesh
adoniisa year ago
Replied to All_knowing_Reader
Your mom
"Chat, you're seeing this, right?" Jamie whispered. "It's… it's massive."
India: The Legend of Aritra
Urban · noob_writer77
adoniisa year ago
Commented
What's up with the air conditioning, not that he's a multimillionaire?
The house had long fallen into silence. The faint hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound accompanying the dim glow of the city lights outside. Aritra stepped onto the balcony, a warm night breeze brushing against his face as he leaned on the railing, his mind still wired from the conversation with Ishita earlier that day.
India: The Legend of Aritra
Urban · noob_writer77
adoniisa year ago
Commented
What are you 15 or 40
The first light of dawn barely brushed the horizon, casting a faint bluish hue across the dusty corners of Aritra's small room. The ceiling fan creaked softly, spinning with a rhythmic groan that mirrored the restless churn in his mind. Aritra stared at the cracked plaster above, his thoughts tangled in knots tighter than the old mosquito net balled up in the corner.Today was the day.The day numbers would define him. Again.The ticking clock mocked him from the wall—every passing second a reminder that life, for all its complexities, often boiled down to marks on a sheet of paper. The board exam results were out today, and with them, the verdict on months of sweat, sleepless nights, and silent battles fought within the pages of textbooks.But Aritra wasn't nervous because he doubted his effort.He was nervous because he knew effort didn't always translate to fairness.He sat up abruptly, the thin mattress creaking under his weight. His gaze drifted to the pile of notebooks stacked neatly on his desk—the silent witnesses of late-night study sessions fueled by cheap tea and stubborn determination. His Legendary System sat dormant, its soft glow absent, as if respecting the gravity of this day.Downstairs, the familiar clatter of utensils broke the morning's fragile silence. His mother was already up, preparing breakfast with the efficiency only years of routine could teach. The comforting aroma of fried luchi and aloo torkari floated through the thin walls, but Aritra's stomach churned too much to appreciate it.7:00 AM – Breakfast TableAritra sat at the wooden table, mechanically tearing pieces of luchi, his appetite lost somewhere between anxiety and resignation. His father sipped his tea quietly, glancing over the newspaper with indifferent calmness—a calmness Aritra envied."So, results today," his father remarked casually, not looking up from the paper.Aritra nodded, his throat too dry to respond.His mother placed a glass of water in front of him, her eyes soft but sharp, as if she could see through the brave face he wore. "Don't stress too much. Whatever the result, you've done your best."Your best—the most comforting yet crushing phrase. Because sometimes, your best wasn't enough.9:00 AM The walk to school felt longer than usual, though the path hadn't changed. The dusty roads of Dakshin Barasat were alive with the buzz of daily life—tea stalls bustling, autos honking, and shopkeepers shouting to attract customers. But for Aritra, the world felt distant, muted under the heavy blanket of anticipation.His heart raced with every step closer to DBSA High School, where the notice board would soon display the marks that would define his standing not just in school, but in life—or so it felt.As he approached the school gates, he saw clusters of students gathered like anxious bees around the large bulletin board. The "Result Sheet" was pinned under glass, the names and numbers glaring under the harsh morning sun.10:00 AMAritra squeezed through the crowd, ignoring the cacophony of voices—some excited, some devastated, and some simply numb. His eyes darted across the sheet, scanning the neatly typed names, each line holding a story.Anirban Roy – 461/500Aritra Naskar – 460/500His breath caught.460.A whisper rippled through the crowd, recognition spreading like wildfire."Isn't he the second ranker?""Anirban beat him by one mark!"Aritra's vision blurred, not from tears but from the weight of disappointment pressing against his chest. His mind raced, dissecting every exam, every answer—where did he lose that mark? Then he remembered. The practicals.Despite perfect theory papers, his practical scores were only 25/30. Not because he lacked knowledge but because he hadn't taken private tuition from the very teachers who graded the practicals. A silent penalty for choosing independence over favoritism.His fingers clenched the edge of the notice board, knuckles whitening.As he turned to leave, his path blocked by none other than Anirban Roy, the boy with the smug grin and freshly minted title of "topper." Rimi stood beside him, her laughter light and carefree—a sound Aritra hadn't heard directed at him in a long time.Anirban leaned in slightly, his voice low enough for only Aritra to hear."Once a loser, always a loser. Now even your girl is mine."The words hit harder than any mark on a paper ever could.Aritra didn't respond. He didn't punch Anirban, didn't argue, didn't defend himself. He simply stared, his expression blank, masking the storm raging beneath. Because words were easy. Success was louder.But it hurt.12:00 PM – The Walk HomeThe walk back home felt heavier. The streets were the same, the sky just as blue, but everything seemed dimmer. His marksheet felt like a brick in his bag—a symbol of both achievement and failure.He reached home, his mother's hopeful eyes searching his face for answers."How was it?" she asked softly."460." His voice was flat, emotionless.She smiled, proud despite the crack in his voice. "You've done well, son!"But Aritra didn't feel like he had.He went straight to his room, closing the door quietly behind him. The Legendary System flickered to life as he sat at his desk, the soft blue glow filling the empty space.For the first time in months, Aritra let himself feel it.The sting of failure.The ache of betrayal.The bitterness of second place.But as he stared at the glowing screen, the storm inside settled into something sharper—resolve.Because life wasn't a marksheet.And this was far from the end.The door clicked softly behind Aritra as he entered his room, the familiar creak of the old wooden frame echoing louder than usual in the stillness. The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty window, casting long streaks of light across the floor, illuminating the faded pages of forgotten notebooks piled on his desk. The air felt heavier today, thick with the residue of unspoken words and silent disappointments.He dropped his bag with a dull thud beside the chair, the weight of the marksheet still lingering in his mind more than in the bag itself. Pulling it out, he unfolded the crisp sheet, its stark black numbers glaring back at him like a verdict etched in stone—460/500. A number so close to perfection yet painfully distant. His fingers traced the digits slowly, as if trying to find meaning between the lines, some hidden code that could justify the gap between effort and outcome.The practical scores stared back mockingly—25 out of 30. It wasn't a mistake. It was deliberate, a quiet reminder from the system that without submission to their norms, even brilliance could be dimmed. He could almost hear the whispers of teachers in the staff room, their judgments masked behind polite smiles. "Aritra is smart, yes, but stubborn. Doesn't take tuitions. Thinks he knows better." And maybe he did, but knowledge wasn't enough when the scales were tipped before the game even began.His mother's voice floated faintly from the kitchen, humming an old Rabindra Sangeet tune as she prepared lunch. There was comfort in that sound, a warmth that tried to seep through the cracks of his crumbling pride. But he wasn't ready to face her again, not with the ghost of Anirban's words still lingering in his ears—"Once a loser, always a loser. Now even your girl is mine."The memory of that moment replayed in his mind, sharp and vivid. Anirban's smug grin, Rimi's laughter dancing like cruel background music, the casual flick of his collar as if he'd conquered the world with that single extra mark. Aritra's jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn't the words that hurt the most; it was the truth hidden beneath them. Rimi hadn't defended him. She hadn't even flinched. She just stood there, smiling, her eyes reflecting none of the memories they had shared.Aritra stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above his desk. The boy looking back wasn't the topper everyone once admired. He was someone else now—someone carved by disappointment, chiseled by betrayal. His eyes, dark and hollow, held the weight of unspoken rage, not at Anirban or the biased teachers, but at himself—for caring so much about people who didn't deserve that space in his heart.With a sudden burst of frustration, he crumpled the marksheet into a tight ball and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and bounced off, landing near the dust-covered corner where his old toys lay—remnants of a simpler time when life's biggest problem was deciding between cricket and video games. He wished he could go back, even for a moment, to that innocence, untouched by the bitterness of ambition and the complexities of human relationships.But life doesn't offer rewinds.His eyes fell on his laptop, the Legendary System waiting patiently as always, its soft glow a silent invitation. He powered it on, not because he needed distraction, but because it was the only thing in his life that made sense. The numbers there obeyed logic, the algorithms didn't judge based on personal biases, and success wasn't measured by who you smiled at in the hallway.The dashboard lit up, graphs and data streams flowing seamlessly. His investments were flourishing, numbers climbing with the grace and certainty that life outside the screen often lacked. It was a comforting contrast—the world saw him as the boy who lost the top rank, but here, he was the master of outcomes, untouchable and absolute.Yet, even as he scrolled through the stats, his mind wandered back to Rimi. He remembered their late-night calls, the shared notes, the whispered promises under the dim glow of streetlights after tuition classes. "We'll make it together," she had said once, her hand brushing against his. But now, those memories felt like echoes from a different lifetime, distant and distorted.Aritra closed the laptop abruptly, the silence that followed deafening. He got up, pacing the small confines of his room, his thoughts louder than his footsteps. The anger simmered beneath the surface, not wild and explosive, but cold and sharp, like the edge of a well-honed blade. He didn't want revenge. That would mean Anirban mattered. He didn't. Not anymore.What mattered was proving to himself that his worth wasn't defined by marks on a paper or by the validation of people who couldn't see beyond numbers. Success, he realized, wasn't about beating someone else. It was about being unshakeable, regardless of the scoreboard.As the afternoon faded into evening, Aritra sat back at his desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and started writing—not notes, not equations, but plans. Ideas that would outlive report cards, strategies that would make board results irrelevant. The bitterness was still there, a faint aftertaste of a lesson learned the hard way. But beneath it grew something stronger—resolve.Because in the end, numbers were just ink on paper.But determination? That was carved into the soul.The house was quiet when Aritra finally emerged from his room, the weight in his chest lighter but not gone. The evening sun filtered through the open windows, casting warm golden streaks across the faded blue walls of their small home. The air smelled of freshly cooked dal, fried brinjal, and the comforting aroma of steaming rice. His mother's presence in the kitchen was a constant, a pillar of stability that had held their home together through every storm.He stepped into the dining area, where his parents were already seated. His father, a man of few words but many unspoken expectations, glanced at him over his glasses. His mother, still in her faded cotton saree, smiled softly, her eyes reflecting the kind of pride that didn't need numbers to validate it."Bose por," his mother said, gesturing toward the empty chair. "Sit down. I haven't seen you since the afternoon. Were you worrying too much"Aritra sighed, pulling out the chair. He hadn't been worrying—not in the way they thought. The frustration had morphed into something else, something deeper. But explaining that to them felt unnecessary."No, Ma, nothing."His father put down the newspaper he had been pretending to read. His thick glasses reflected the dim tube light above, making his eyes unreadable for a moment before he leaned forward slightly."460. An excellent result. You've done well."Aritra looked at him, searching for sarcasm, for the inevitable comparison to the topper, but there was none. His father meant it."But… Baba, Anirban—"His father cut him off, shaking his head. "I don't want to hear about Anirban." His voice was unusually firm. "Remember this well—your talent and knowledge aren't smaller than any marksheet."Aritra's fingers curled slightly around the edge of the wooden dining table. His father had never been one for exaggerated praise. This was perhaps the closest he would ever come to an open acknowledgment of pride. But there was something else in his tone too—anger. Not at Aritra, but at the system.His father continued, his voice carrying the weight of quiet dissatisfaction. "Your school teachers… what is this? They gave you fewer marks in practicals just because you didn't take tuition from them?"His mother sighed, shaking her head as she placed the bowl of dal on the table. "I knew they'd do this. How many times did I tell you we should also send you for tuition? But your father…"Her words trailed off, unspoken arguments filling the silence. Aritra knew they had argued about this before—his mother had worried that he would be at a disadvantage without private coaching from the very teachers who graded them. His father had refused, saying that real education didn't come from bribes disguised as lessons. Aritra exhaled. "The marksheet makes it clear." His father scoffed, pushing his plate away slightly. "The school system has been completely ruined, do you understand? The teachers have turned education into a business. If a student doesn't take tuition from them, they will never get the highest marks. Is this what education is supposed to be?"His mother sighed again, rubbing her forehead. "That's why everyone is sending their children to private schools now."Aritra stirred his rice absently, his appetite lost in the conversation. His father wasn't wrong. This wasn't about effort or intelligence anymore. The system had rules, but those rules weren't written in textbooks. They were written in politics, in private coaching centers, in whispered agreements behind closed doors.His father's voice softened slightly. "You have your own mind, your own talent. You don't need to follow their rules. What you have done, no one else can do."His mother reached over and placed a warm hand on his. "You are your own person. Just because everyone follows the same road doesn't mean it's the right one."For a long moment, no one spoke. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows through the iron window grills. The sound of a bicycle bell rang somewhere in the distance, a soft reminder that the world outside still moved on, indifferent to individual victories or losses.Aritra took a deep breath and nodded. The sting of second place was still there, but for the first time since the morning, it didn't feel like a wound. It felt like a lesson. A lesson that marks could be manipulated, but knowledge was unshakable. That respect could be stolen, but self-worth could not. That first place could be rigged, but success was inevitable.His father cleared his throat and picked up his newspaper again. His mother got up to refill his plate, as if the conversation had never happened. But something had changed in the air, something invisible yet undeniable.Aritra wasn't the topper anymore. But maybe that didn't matter.Because today, he had learned something far more valuable.
India: The Legend of Aritra
Urban · noob_writer77

please reset the booktitle adoniis 20231218092329 41

An Austrian revival road, a history of the habsburg family !! neither sacred nor roman nor the empire's holy roman empire has revived

adoniis · History

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My steel coat

Captain america: " Commander! the roaring commando is in place!" iron man:"you are my godfather?!" wolverine:… underworld, avatar, etc in a science fiction the world of the movie shuttles, and at the same time quietly changes the real world. a dark mech slowly landing on the platform. "boss, the press conference is about to begin

adoniis · Movies

38 Chs