u/akshaysharmaas1998

Hey, in Ather 450x, we have boot light, which if not closed properly keeps running.

Is there anything that can alert the user so that to indicate that the boot is open?

R and S were best friends. Everyone at school found it strange. R was brilliant — top of the class, star athlete, teachers' favourite. S was the opposite. Detention regular. Bully magnet. R always defended him, stepping between S and whichever kid had decided today was the day to make his life miserable.

The days passed. R kept rising. S kept sinking. He bunked classes to escape the criticism, the snickers, the way bullies would knock his books flying and call him worthless. The bathroom became his hiding place. Alone in the cubicle, he'd stare at his reflection and slap himself hard across the face, whispering, "I am useless. I am worthless. I do not deserve to be here."

One day, he bunked school entirely and trekked up the small mountain outside town. The air was sharp, the path empty. Near the top, in a rocky clearing, he found it. A circle of black candles, wax still warm. In the centre, a doll.

It was small, dressed in faded red. Its hair was black and coarse, hacked short. One bulging eye sat in the middle of its forehead. Its red lips stretched into an alarmingly wide smile that looked wet. S stared, his skin crawling, then shoved the doll into his backpack and trekked down.

He reached home past schooltime and went straight to the bathroom. Turning the doll over, he found a small chit of paper pinned to its back. He unfolded it with trembling fingers.

Face the doll to the mirror and see the magic!

S lifted the doll and faced it to the glass. Nothing happened. He laughed bitterly. "I'm such a jerk, thinking some miracle could—"

He stopped cold.

The mirror no longer showed what he was doing. His reflection stood frozen, arm raised, the doll clutched in its hand. But S had moved. He was crouching now, the doll against his chest. The reflection hadn't followed. It just stood there, smiling — a slow, horrible smile S himself was not making. And in the corner of the sink, reflected faithfully, the doll sat watching with that same bulging eye.

S fell backwards, heart hammering. He scrambled up and pressed close to the glass. "Who are you?"

The figure tilted its head. "I am you. But in the mirror world. Come inside and see. You would love it." Its voice was S's voice, but smoother, warmer.

S touched the mirror. His fingers sank through, the glass cold and yielding like thick jelly. He stepped inside.

The mirror sealed behind him with a soft click.

Inside, everything was reversed. His house, grey and cold, stretched out in perfect replica. S pressed his palms against the mirror. Solid as stone. Through it, he watched the other S pick up the doll and walk out.

Later, through the glass, he saw the other S doing his homework. The boy worked quickly, confidently. He held the completed book up to the bathroom mirror for S to see. S didn't know if the answers were right — he never did — but he mimed taking a photo. The other S understood, snapped a picture, and sent it to R.

R's reply lit up the phone: All the answers are correct. Where are you getting tutored?

The other S typed: I used my brains this time.

S, trapped behind the glass, felt a rush of happiness. This was it. The answer. He would send the figure to school. With this figure, he could achieve anything. Bringing the doll home was the best thing he'd ever done.

The next morning, the other S walked into school with R.

At lunch, a bully snatched the lunchbox from his hands. "What's in it? I'm sure it's a pile of turd!" The table erupted with laughter. The bully bit into the sandwich — and spat it across the floor, gagging. "It tastes like sh\*t!"

R took a bite. "It's fine. Very good, actually."

The bully shoved it at his sidekick. The sidekick chewed. "Boss, it tastes good."

The bully grabbed it back, bit again, and spat again, face red. "Why is it tasting like literal sh\*t?!" Now everyone was laughing at him. S, watching from behind the cafeteria glass, felt a strange, sharp thrill.

In class, the other S submitted his homework. The teacher beamed. "You've really done a good job. I'll request the principal cancel your detention." S, watching from a classroom tablet's dark screen, felt overwhelmingly happy.

In PE, the other S sank five basketball shots in a row. The coach's jaw dropped. "Would you mind representing the school for the inter-school competition?" The other S smiled. "I'd love to." S, behind the dressing table mirror, watched it all.

After school, R walked home with the other S.

"You've been different today," R said. "Good different. What's your secret?"

The other S replied, "I have a little animal inside me. It helped me improve in a day."

R found it strange, but kept quiet. Maybe S was just reluctant to explain.

The other S waved goodbye and went inside. R stood on the pavement, a knot tightening in his stomach. Something was wrong. He decided to check on S later.

Inside the house, the other S walked straight to the bathroom.

S pressed against the glass. "You come inside me. We both can be one. We can see the world together."

The other S made a creeping smile. "I am loving it here. I don't want the old me to destroy the new me. It's better you stay inside."

S's stomach dropped. He grabbed his phone — the mirrored one — and called R.

"R! Do not believe him! That is not me! I am trapped inside, please help me!"

But the other S spoke at the same time, calm and easy: "Hey R, sorry about earlier. I was joking. I've decided to let the old me go and start afresh."

R's voice crackled through. "Oh, okay. You sounded strange for a second."

"No, I'm fine. Same old S."

S screamed into the phone, but R heard nothing. The other S's voice had swallowed his completely. The call ended.

The other S turned to the mirror, smiling at S with pure, undisguised malice.

S panicked. He punched the bathroom mirror. Pain shot through his knuckles. Not a crack. He grabbed a broken metal handlebar from the door and swung. The glass absorbed the blow with a dull thud. Nothing.

He ran through the mirrored house. Grabbed a chair, threw it at the dressing table mirror. Glass shattered — but behind it was a flat, black wall. He threw another chair at the bathroom window. More glass exploded. Another black wall. He smashed every mirror in the house. Behind each one, the same dark nothing, pressing in. The hum in the air grew louder, rattling his teeth.

He stumbled back to the bathroom, gasping, hands bleeding. The original mirror was the only one left intact. The other S stood on the other side, watching calmly.

"You blew your chance to come out," he said. "The bathroom mirror was the gateway. Now the old me ends here. I will be the new me."

He picked up the doll from the sink, its bulging eye fixed on S, its wet smile wider than ever, and walked out.

The next morning, S watched through the bathroom mirror. His mother knocked on the bedroom door. "S! Breakfast!"

The other S walked out, hair combed, shirt pressed. He kissed her cheek. She beamed.

S beat the glass with his fists until the blood ran, screaming soundlessly into the cold, humming silence. No one heard.

He watched his life through windows, car mirrors, puddles of rain — always a step behind, always on the wrong side of the glass. The doll was always there, waiting in every reflection, its bulging eye fixed on him, never blinking.

Now S could only see the figure enjoy all the privileges while he was stuck inside the mirror, hoping to get out of it one day.

A was a boy who lived in a world he couldn't touch.

Severe allergies kept him indoors while other kids scraped their knees and chased footballs. At school, bullies called him Grumpy Bear, knocked his books flying, tripped him in the corridor. He hid the bruises under sweatpants and long sleeves. Every morning, his dad dropped him at the gate, waving, saying, "Have fun, my boy!" and A would shout "I will!" with a smile he didn't mean. The moment the car turned the corner, the smile died.

He wished, every day, for an end to his suffering.

On his birthday, he closed his eyes over a flickering cake and made the wish in his mind. Someone to knock the bullies down. An end to these allergies. Let me go outside and play like everyone else. He blew out the candles, and the smoke curled away like a secret.

That night, in the darkness of his bedroom, a noise came from under the bed. A soft scrape, then silence, then another scrape. A leaned over the edge and peered into the shadows. Two pale eyes stared back, set in a dark, shapeless face. A did not scream. He was too tired for fear. "Come out," he said quietly.

The creature crawled into the moonlight. It was thin and long-limbed, its skin the colour of old bruises. It could not speak. A handed it a piece of paper and a pencil. The creature wrote its name in jagged letters: Fazer.

"Can we be friends?" A whispered.

Fazer extended a hand. The skin was cold, smooth, and dry as paper. They shook, and A fell asleep with the creature crouched at his bedside like a shadow with bones.

In the morning, Fazer was still there, folded beneath the bed. A peered down and asked, "Will you come to school with me? Knock out my enemies?"

Fazer wrote: Yes.

The bullies struck the moment A stepped through the gates. One snatched his cap and tossed it into the mud, laughing. A turned, and Fazer was already moving. The bully's trousers unzipped and dropped around his ankles. He stood naked from the waist down in the middle of the yard, red-faced, while everyone howled. He ran, swearing revenge.

The next day was worse. Another bully tripped A, sending him sprawling hard onto the concrete. Blood welled on his palms. Fazer rose behind A like a black tide. The bully lifted into the air — an invisible grip hoisting him by the collar — and rose three storeys. He hung there, feet kicking, screaming. Then he dropped. Wind rushed. The ground raced up. And just before impact, Fazer caught him, inches from the asphalt. The bully's face was white as milk. Fazer wrote a note and held it before his eyes: Don't harm my brother. Else you will face me.

No one touched A after that. A walked the corridors with a new, strange weight at his back, and the other kids parted like water.

At home, A peeled off his shirt and Fazer saw the wounds — old cuts and yellowing bruises. The creature wrote: Who did this?

A thought of the bullies suspended in air, of the boy who'd nearly died. He said, "I fell down earlier. It's nothing."

Fazer reached out and pressed a cold hand to A's skin. The touch burned like ice. A whimpered. When the creature withdrew, the wounds were gone. The skin was smooth, unmarked.

But one problem remained.

"My allergies," A said. "They keep me indoors."

Fazer wrote: Inhale. Hold your breath. Ten seconds. Exhale.

A breathed in. Fazer dissolved into a dark smoke and poured into A's mouth like cold syrup. For ten seconds, A held the creature inside him — a weight in his lungs, a chill in his veins. Then he exhaled, and Fazer flowed out again, solidifying in the corner. A took a breath. Then another. Clear. Easy. The tightness that had shadowed his whole life was gone. He laughed, and the laugh sounded new.

A went out on his bicycle, the wind in his face for the first time. Fazer rode behind him, a dark smear at the edge of vision. But when A tried to talk to other kids, they saw what he could not hide. A long, black shape clung to his back, a shadow with the suggestion of eyes. They called him freak and ran.

"Please," A said to Fazer that evening. "Be invisible to them."

Fazer wrote a single word: No.

"Then leave me alone. Let me make friends."

The air thickened. Fazer's eyes narrowed. It did not write this time. It simply raised a hand — and A vanished. His body became nothing, a space where a boy had been.

Invisible, A watched his parents call his name. He saw his mother weep into the telephone. He saw his father drive the streets at midnight with a photograph taped to the dashboard. He stood in the corner of the living room while they filed a missing person report, and he could not touch them, could not speak, could not tell them he was right there.

He found Fazer under the bed, a shape in the darkness, and begged. "I won't make any new friends. I'll be your best friend. Only yours. Please. Make me visible again."

Fazer wrote on the paper, slow and deliberate: If you try to befriend anyone else, or if you ask to be free of me, it will cost you one of your eyeballs. Do you agree?

A thought of his mother's red-rimmed eyes. Of his father's voice cracking on the phone. "I agree."

A was visible again. His parents wept with relief and held him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack. He never told them the truth.

He never made another friend. The shadow at his back stayed with him through every corridor, every meal, every silent, lonely evening. He grew used to the cold hand that sometimes rested on his shoulder, the scratch of pencil on paper in the dark.

Fazer was his buddy till the end. And A knew, every time he closed his eyes, that the creature was watching him — waiting, patiently, for the moment he slipped. The eyeball condition hung over him like a blade on a thinning thread.

A was a boy who lived in a world he couldn't touch.

Severe allergies kept him indoors while other kids scraped their knees and chased footballs. At school, bullies called him Grumpy Bear, knocked his books flying, tripped him in the corridor. He hid the bruises under sweatpants and long sleeves. Every morning, his dad dropped him at the gate, waving, saying, "Have fun, my boy!" and A would shout "I will!" with a smile he didn't mean. The moment the car turned the corner, the smile died.

He wished, every day, for an end to his suffering.

On his birthday, he closed his eyes over a flickering cake and made the wish in his mind. Someone to knock the bullies down. An end to these allergies. Let me go outside and play like everyone else. He blew out the candles, and the smoke curled away like a secret.

That night, in the darkness of his bedroom, a noise came from under the bed. A soft scrape, then silence, then another scrape. A leaned over the edge and peered into the shadows. Two pale eyes stared back, set in a dark, shapeless face. A did not scream. He was too tired for fear. "Come out," he said quietly.

The creature crawled into the moonlight. It was thin and long-limbed, its skin the colour of old bruises. It could not speak. A handed it a piece of paper and a pencil. The creature wrote its name in jagged letters: Fazer.

"Can we be friends?" A whispered.

Fazer extended a hand. The skin was cold, smooth, and dry as paper. They shook, and A fell asleep with the creature crouched at his bedside like a shadow with bones.

In the morning, Fazer was still there, folded beneath the bed. A peered down and asked, "Will you come to school with me? Knock out my enemies?"

Fazer wrote: Yes.

The bullies struck the moment A stepped through the gates. One snatched his cap and tossed it into the mud, laughing. A turned, and Fazer was already moving. The bully's trousers unzipped and dropped around his ankles. He stood naked from the waist down in the middle of the yard, red-faced, while everyone howled. He ran, swearing revenge.

The next day was worse. Another bully tripped A, sending him sprawling hard onto the concrete. Blood welled on his palms. Fazer rose behind A like a black tide. The bully lifted into the air — an invisible grip hoisting him by the collar — and rose three storeys. He hung there, feet kicking, screaming. Then he dropped. Wind rushed. The ground raced up. And just before impact, Fazer caught him, inches from the asphalt. The bully's face was white as milk. Fazer wrote a note and held it before his eyes: Don't harm my brother. Else you will face me.

No one touched A after that. A walked the corridors with a new, strange weight at his back, and the other kids parted like water.

At home, A peeled off his shirt and Fazer saw the wounds — old cuts and yellowing bruises. The creature wrote: Who did this?

A thought of the bullies suspended in air, of the boy who'd nearly died. He said, "I fell down earlier. It's nothing."

Fazer reached out and pressed a cold hand to A's skin. The touch burned like ice. A whimpered. When the creature withdrew, the wounds were gone. The skin was smooth, unmarked.

But one problem remained.

"My allergies," A said. "They keep me indoors."

Fazer wrote: Inhale. Hold your breath. Ten seconds. Exhale.

A breathed in. Fazer dissolved into a dark smoke and poured into A's mouth like cold syrup. For ten seconds, A held the creature inside him — a weight in his lungs, a chill in his veins. Then he exhaled, and Fazer flowed out again, solidifying in the corner. A took a breath. Then another. Clear. Easy. The tightness that had shadowed his whole life was gone. He laughed, and the laugh sounded new.

A went out on his bicycle, the wind in his face for the first time. Fazer rode behind him, a dark smear at the edge of vision. But when A tried to talk to other kids, they saw what he could not hide. A long, black shape clung to his back, a shadow with the suggestion of eyes. They called him freak and ran.

"Please," A said to Fazer that evening. "Be invisible to them."

Fazer wrote a single word: No.

"Then leave me alone. Let me make friends."

The air thickened. Fazer's eyes narrowed. It did not write this time. It simply raised a hand — and A vanished. His body became nothing, a space where a boy had been.

Invisible, A watched his parents call his name. He saw his mother weep into the telephone. He saw his father drive the streets at midnight with a photograph taped to the dashboard. He stood in the corner of the living room while they filed a missing person report, and he could not touch them, could not speak, could not tell them he was right there.

He found Fazer under the bed, a shape in the darkness, and begged. "I won't make any new friends. I'll be your best friend. Only yours. Please. Make me visible again."

Fazer wrote on the paper, slow and deliberate: If you try to befriend anyone else, or if you ask to be free of me, it will cost you one of your eyeballs. Do you agree?

A thought of his mother's red-rimmed eyes. Of his father's voice cracking on the phone. "I agree."

A was visible again. His parents wept with relief and held him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack. He never told them the truth.

He never made another friend. The shadow at his back stayed with him through every corridor, every meal, every silent, lonely evening. He grew used to the cold hand that sometimes rested on his shoulder, the scratch of pencil on paper in the dark.

Fazer was his buddy till the end. And A knew, every time he closed his eyes, that the creature was watching him — waiting, patiently, for the moment he slipped. The eyeball condition hung over him like a blade on a thinning thread.

R and S were best friends. Everyone at school found it strange. R was brilliant — top of the class, star athlete, teachers' favourite. S was the opposite. Detention regular. Bully magnet. R always defended him, stepping between S and whichever kid had decided today was the day to make his life miserable.

The days passed. R kept rising. S kept sinking. He bunked classes to escape the criticism, the snickers, the way bullies would knock his books flying and call him worthless. The bathroom became his hiding place. Alone in the cubicle, he'd stare at his reflection and slap himself hard across the face, whispering, "I am useless. I am worthless. I do not deserve to be here."

One day, he bunked school entirely and trekked up the small mountain outside town. The air was sharp, the path empty. Near the top, in a rocky clearing, he found it. A circle of black candles, wax still warm. In the centre, a doll.

It was small, dressed in faded red. Its hair was black and coarse, hacked short. One bulging eye sat in the middle of its forehead. Its red lips stretched into an alarmingly wide smile that looked wet. S stared, his skin crawling, then shoved the doll into his backpack and trekked down.

He reached home past schooltime and went straight to the bathroom. Turning the doll over, he found a small chit of paper pinned to its back. He unfolded it with trembling fingers.

Face the doll to the mirror and see the magic!

S lifted the doll and faced it to the glass. Nothing happened. He laughed bitterly. "I'm such a jerk, thinking some miracle could—"

He stopped cold.

The mirror no longer showed what he was doing. His reflection stood frozen, arm raised, the doll clutched in its hand. But S had moved. He was crouching now, the doll against his chest. The reflection hadn't followed. It just stood there, smiling — a slow, horrible smile S himself was not making. And in the corner of the sink, reflected faithfully, the doll sat watching with that same bulging eye.

S fell backwards, heart hammering. He scrambled up and pressed close to the glass. "Who are you?"

The figure tilted its head. "I am you. But in the mirror world. Come inside and see. You would love it." Its voice was S's voice, but smoother, warmer.

S touched the mirror. His fingers sank through, the glass cold and yielding like thick jelly. He stepped inside.

The mirror sealed behind him with a soft click.

Inside, everything was reversed. His house, grey and cold, stretched out in perfect replica. S pressed his palms against the mirror. Solid as stone. Through it, he watched the other S pick up the doll and walk out.

Later, through the glass, he saw the other S doing his homework. The boy worked quickly, confidently. He held the completed book up to the bathroom mirror for S to see. S didn't know if the answers were right — he never did — but he mimed taking a photo. The other S understood, snapped a picture, and sent it to R.

R's reply lit up the phone: All the answers are correct. Where are you getting tutored?

The other S typed: I used my brains this time.

S, trapped behind the glass, felt a rush of happiness. This was it. The answer. He would send the figure to school. With this figure, he could achieve anything. Bringing the doll home was the best thing he'd ever done.

The next morning, the other S walked into school with R.

At lunch, a bully snatched the lunchbox from his hands. "What's in it? I'm sure it's a pile of turd!" The table erupted with laughter. The bully bit into the sandwich — and spat it across the floor, gagging. "It tastes like sh*t!"

R took a bite. "It's fine. Very good, actually."

The bully shoved it at his sidekick. The sidekick chewed. "Boss, it tastes good."

The bully grabbed it back, bit again, and spat again, face red. "Why is it tasting like literal sh*t?!" Now everyone was laughing at him. S, watching from behind the cafeteria glass, felt a strange, sharp thrill.

In class, the other S submitted his homework. The teacher beamed. "You've really done a good job. I'll request the principal cancel your detention." S, watching from a classroom tablet's dark screen, felt overwhelmingly happy.

In PE, the other S sank five basketball shots in a row. The coach's jaw dropped. "Would you mind representing the school for the inter-school competition?" The other S smiled. "I'd love to." S, behind the dressing table mirror, watched it all.

After school, R walked home with the other S.

"You've been different today," R said. "Good different. What's your secret?"

The other S replied, "I have a little animal inside me. It helped me improve in a day."

R found it strange, but kept quiet. Maybe S was just reluctant to explain.

The other S waved goodbye and went inside. R stood on the pavement, a knot tightening in his stomach. Something was wrong. He decided to check on S later.

Inside the house, the other S walked straight to the bathroom.

S pressed against the glass. "You come inside me. We both can be one. We can see the world together."

The other S made a creeping smile. "I am loving it here. I don't want the old me to destroy the new me. It's better you stay inside."

S's stomach dropped. He grabbed his phone — the mirrored one — and called R.

"R! Do not believe him! That is not me! I am trapped inside, please help me!"

But the other S spoke at the same time, calm and easy: "Hey R, sorry about earlier. I was joking. I've decided to let the old me go and start afresh."

R's voice crackled through. "Oh, okay. You sounded strange for a second."

"No, I'm fine. Same old S."

S screamed into the phone, but R heard nothing. The other S's voice had swallowed his completely. The call ended.

The other S turned to the mirror, smiling at S with pure, undisguised malice.

S panicked. He punched the bathroom mirror. Pain shot through his knuckles. Not a crack. He grabbed a broken metal handlebar from the door and swung. The glass absorbed the blow with a dull thud. Nothing.

He ran through the mirrored house. Grabbed a chair, threw it at the dressing table mirror. Glass shattered — but behind it was a flat, black wall. He threw another chair at the bathroom window. More glass exploded. Another black wall. He smashed every mirror in the house. Behind each one, the same dark nothing, pressing in. The hum in the air grew louder, rattling his teeth.

He stumbled back to the bathroom, gasping, hands bleeding. The original mirror was the only one left intact. The other S stood on the other side, watching calmly.

"You blew your chance to come out," he said. "The bathroom mirror was the gateway. Now the old me ends here. I will be the new me."

He picked up the doll from the sink, its bulging eye fixed on S, its wet smile wider than ever, and walked out.

The next morning, S watched through the bathroom mirror. His mother knocked on the bedroom door. "S! Breakfast!"

The other S walked out, hair combed, shirt pressed. He kissed her cheek. She beamed.

S beat the glass with his fists until the blood ran, screaming soundlessly into the cold, humming silence. No one heard.

He watched his life through windows, car mirrors, puddles of rain — always a step behind, always on the wrong side of the glass. The doll was always there, waiting in every reflection, its bulging eye fixed on him, never blinking.

Now S could only see the figure enjoy all the privileges while he was stuck inside the mirror, hoping to get out of it one day.