On a sweltering midsummer day in July, Rayhan stood in the thick of a protest, his voice hoarse from shouting, his shirt drenched with sweat.
Alongside thousands of university students, he was protesting the Awami League government's controversial quota system — a policy that, while designed to uplift marginalized groups, awarded 28% of government jobs to descendants of freedom fighters.
To Rayhan, this felt unfair. Why should someone inherit privilege because of their grandfather's past, while capable candidates like himself were left behind?
Rayhan came from an impoverished family.
A brilliant student, he had recently graduated from Dhaka University with an excellent CGPA and a dream of joining the civil service.
But when the BCS results were published, he missed the cut by just two marks. Others, with significantly lower scores, secured jobs thanks to the quota.
His ambition, dignity, and hopes were crushed under what he saw as a deeply flawed system.
For two weeks, Rayhan marched through Dhaka's streets, braving heat, tear gas, and police batons.
But today, the scorching sun was especially unforgiving.
He sat down on a sidewalk near Shahbagh, wiping sweat from his brow, trying to catch his breath.
Then came the gunshot.
Chaos exploded.
Screams. Running feet. Panic.
Rayhan tried to rise but stumbled.
A burning pain tore through his chest.
Blood soaked his shirt.
He looked down, wide-eyed, as the world tilted. Sirens wailed. The sky blurred.
And as his consciousness faded, only one bitter thought echoed in his mind:
"What kind of country shoots in a peaceful protest for demanding fairness?"
His life ended — not with justice, or triumph — but with anguish and regret.