It started with a comment.

Kabir had posted a drawing on the class WhatsApp group — a sketch of a superhero he had been working on for weeks, with lightning bolts on the costume and a cape that looked like it was actually blowing in the wind. He was proud of it. He had used Nandu's colored pencils and spent a whole Sunday afternoon getting the shading right.

A boy named Rohit replied: "Looks like a monkey in a bedsheet lol."

Three laughing emojis followed from other boys. Then a fourth. Then someone added a monkey sticker.

Kabir's face went hot. His fingers moved before his brain could stop them, and he typed back something about Rohit's face looking like a rotten potato. The group erupted. Insults flew back and forth, each one worse than the last, like a fire feeding on its own heat.

That was the anger. Link one.

By the time Kabir put the phone down, his hands were shaking. The world had narrowed to a small, hot tunnel with Rohit's laughing face at the end of it. He could not remember why he had drawn the superhero. The quiet Sunday afternoon, the satisfaction of getting the cape right — all of that was gone, buried under a red fog.

That was the delusion. Link two.

He did not study that night. He could not. Every time he opened his textbook, the words swam and rearranged themselves into Rohit's comment. He forgot to set his alarm. He forgot to pack his lunch. He forgot the math formula he had memorized just two days ago, the one about the area of a triangle, which he had known cold. Gone.

That was the loss of memory. Link three.

The next morning, sitting in front of the science test, Kabir stared at the questions and felt nothing — just a blank white wall where his knowledge used to be. He handed in a paper that was mostly empty. When the results came back, he felt an ugly certainty that he was stupid, that Rohit was right about everything.

That was the destruction of intellect. Link four.

He blamed the teacher. He blamed Rohit. He blamed everyone except the chain, because the chain was invisible, and by the time you reach the last link, you have forgotten there ever was a first one.

Nandu found him sitting behind the school building after class, pulling grass out of the ground one blade at a time.

"It was a good drawing," Nandu said quietly.

Kabir said nothing. But something in the red fog flickered — just for a moment — like a window opening in a dark room. Not enough to undo the chain. But enough to see that there was a chain.

That is always the first step back.

The following Saturday, Kabir opened his sketchbook again. He did not plan to. He was just sitting on the balcony, bored, and his hand found the pencil before his brain could talk him out of it. He drew another superhero — smaller this time, scrappier, with a slightly crooked cape and scuffed boots. No lightning bolts. Just a kid who looked like he had been through something and kept going. Kabir studied it for a long time. He liked it better than the first one. The chain was still there — he could feel its weight when he thought about Rohit's comment — but one link had loosened, and that was enough to breathe.