“Your handwriting is going bad, Niharika,” sir stated one afternoon, without looking up.
I nodded once.
That night, the handwriting died.
I didn’t try to fix it. I replaced it. Every curve, every stroke, every line mirrored his. I slowed my hand until the movement itself became conscious, deliberate. The page felt less like paper, more like a pattern to inhabit. I practiced until the lines felt natural, yet precise. The new handwriting was steady, controlled, disciplined.
Then I started giving answers.
Not all at once. Not eagerly.
I learned timing: when speed was admired, when silence was respected. I mimicked phrasing, structured explanations like he did. I placed conclusions where he expected them, pausing where he paused. I learned his reactions and measured mine against them.
I copied more than handwriting.
I copied posture. Vocabulary. Pauses. Inflections. The subtle shifts in tone that signaled attention or irritation. I tracked his mood the way others tracked weather. On tired days, I stayed brief. On animated days, I elaborated. On irritated days, I disappeared. On pleased days, I advanced carefully.
I began collecting affinity points at every chance.
Neat work. Correct timing. Familiar language. A question asked to make him feel understood. Each small, invisible gesture contributed.
It stopped feeling like learning.
It became a game.
Complex. Unwritten. Predictable only by careful study.
I played it seriously.
Every movement, every word, every thought was a calculation. I did not ask whether this was healthy.
Games are not questioned.
They are played to be won.
31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLEyqqF1dO5
and then Add to home screen.