A story, his mother used to say, is just a series of choices.

Rohan leaned back. His roommate, Anjali, was asleep across the hall. She owned the fifth edition. She’d offered to lend it to him days ago, but his pride—that clumsy, heavy thing—had refused. “I’ll find my own copy,” he’d said.

She blinked, then handed him the thick, saffron-covered volume without a word. The spine was cracked at “Autonomic Nervous System.” Her own highlights—pink, yellow, green—danced across the pages like tiny lanterns.

Now, at 2:51 AM, with the search bar mocking him, he realized the truth. The PDF he wanted wasn’t a file. It was the quiet privilege of asking for help.