I slam the books and piles of papers onto the table, letting out a groan of frustration. Nothing is making sense. It's like trying to decipher an alien language, incomprehensible and jumbled.  I can't even memorize the dates or places. The whole thing feels like a cruel joke, and I'm the punchline.

What was I thinking, choosing history as my major? What kind of madness possessed me to dive headfirst into this mess? 

"Vikramaditya," my subconscious blurts out, and I slump in resignation.

Fine, I'll admit it—I was downright obsessed and crazy to know about him. I jeopardized my own career for it. But now what? What do I do? I've got a massive report on the Mauryan Empire staring me down and I haven't the faintest idea where to start. How am I supposed to gather evidence? It'll take months just to track down authentic books and wade through them.

I'm literally at the end of my rope with this history obsession. Maybe it's time to abandon this pursuit. History clearly isn't for me. Perhaps I should let go of Vikramaditya too, forever because at this point, it feels I'm chasing shadows in a dark, endless corridor.