Chapter 3

The boundary wall is warm against my back.

I’m standing right outside our house, near the pillar where the paint is always peeling no matter how many times Dad swears he’ll fix it. My bag hangs from one shoulder like it hasn’t figured out what kind of day this is either. I keep shifting my weight, heel to toe, toe to heel, like I’m waiting for something to change if I don’t stand still long enough.

The morning sun is already awake and way too confident. It spills over the road, catches on windshields, makes everything look forgiving. Like this is just another school morning and not me stepping back into the world after months of hiding inside my own room.

Scooters pass. A dog trots by with the kind of purpose I wish I had. Someone laughs down the street.

Across the street.

My eyes drift there without asking me first.

Amit’s house sits exactly the same. Cream walls. Balcony rail with the chipped corner. Curtains half-drawn like they always were because his mother hated “direct sunlight” but loved complaining about vitamin D. The gate is shut. Locked. Quiet. It has been quiet for months now. No music leaking out. No Amit yelling something stupid from the balcony. No shoes thrown carelessly near the door.

Empty.

I stare longer than I should.

So… does that mean you’ve probably joined a new school, Amit?

The thought slips in like we’ve always talked this way, like I’m not standing alone outside a gate pretending my chest isn’t tightening. Maybe you’re already sitting in some classroom, legs stretched out, bag half-open, not listening. Maybe it was easy for you. Maybe you walked in and didn’t feel like every eye had a memory.

Or was it just as hard?

I imagine him shrugging, careless as ever. “Hard for like five minutes. Then boring.”

You must’ve felt at least a little relieved, right? Not having to drag a pushover like me along everywhere.

I swallow and focus on the crack in the pavement near my shoe. It looks new. Fresh. Like it happened recently.

Bright Future Academy.

The name flashes in my head like a bad joke waiting for a punchline. The name of my new school.

Yeah, you would’ve loved that one. You would’ve squinted at the board, fake-serious, and said, “Bright future for who? Because I didn’t consent.”

Or, “Sounds like the kind of place where they smile while destroying your soul.”

I almost smile.

Almost.

They said it was academically driven. Structured. Disciplined.

You would’ve leaned in and whispered, “Translation: no fans, no mercy.”

But you’re not here, Amit.

That’s the thing I keep forgetting until it hits again. The privilege of having someone beside me, commenting on everything, making it lighter by refusing to take it seriously. I had that.

And I lost it.

And maybe that’s good for him.

The thought feels sharp but necessary, like pressing on a bruise to remind yourself it’s real. If Amit had stayed, if he’d kept choosing me, I would’ve dragged him down with me, with my fear, my mess. I would’ve made him smaller just by standing next to him. He deserved better. A life not shaped around my damage.

A car horn breaks through my head.

Once. Short. Familiar.

I step away from the gate automatically, heart jumping like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. Mom pulls the car forward, her timing impeccable as always, like she knows exactly how long to give me before I start drowning in my own head.

I open the door and get in.

She looks at me like she’s been looking at me a lot lately. Soft eyes. Alert. Pretending not to inspect every inch of my face.

“Excited?” she asks, too casually.

I snort before I can stop myself. “You’re looking more excited than me.”

She chuckles, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Of course I am. It’s my baby’s first day.”

“Midyear,” I mutter. “Like a freak.”

She hums, pulling the car into the road. “Midyear, endyear, Tuesday. First days are still first days.”

I look out the window as our house slides past, then Amit’s. The balcony disappears from view. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag before I notice. I loosen them slowly, like it’s a habit I’m trying to unlearn.

Fresh start.

That’s what they call it, right?

They say it everywhere. In movies where people cut their hair and suddenly become brave. In books where the chapter ends neatly, the page turns, and everyone knows where the next sentence begins. After every major setback, after every heartbreak, after every disaster, people apparently just restart.

They say it like it’s easy. Like you close one door and open another and the space in between doesn’t matter.

But how do you start a new chapter when you never closed the last one properly?

How do you even write a beginning when the last part of your life wasn’t written by you at all? When all this time someone else held the pen, made the decisions, chose when things happened and how badly they’d hurt.

How do you write anything when you don’t even trust your hands anymore?

The road blurs a little as I keep staring outside. Shops I don’t recognize yet. A tea stall with steam rising like it’s breathing. A boy on a cycle wobbling dangerously close to a pothole. My brain latches onto these things like they’re safer to hold than the questions piling up in my chest.

Mom clears her throat softly.

It pulls me back like a string.

“You know,” she says, trying very hard to sound like she’s talking about the weather, “you don’t have to today. If you don’t want to…if you’re not ready yet.”

I don’t look at her. I keep watching the road.

Yeah. That sounds easy, doesn’t it?

Just turn around. Go back home. Drop the bag in the corner of my room. Lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling fan as it spins like it always has. Or stare across the street at Amit’s balcony and remember the days when someone used to look right back at mine.

Wouldn’t that be easier?

No corridors. No eyes. No pretending. No rehearsing my name in my head like it belongs to me.

But then what?

Will I ever be ready?

And what does being ready even mean?

Does it mean forgetting what happened? Like it was just a bad dream and not something that lives under my skin now. Does it mean making them forget? Every look, every clip, every pause before someone decided whether to laugh or stare. Does it mean rewinding time, dragging Amit away from the fair that night, or forcing myself to stay glued to his side instead of trusting that five minutes wouldn’t change everything?

Or does being ready mean never falling for him at all?

The thought lands ugly and sharp and I look away from the window for a second, blinking hard.

What does this ready even look like? What shape is it supposed to have?

Mom waits.

I don’t answer. I just shake my head, small and quick, like if I keep it minimal it won’t invite more questions.

She nods, like that’s enough. Like it always is.

She doesn’t push. She just smiles that same careful smile she’s been wearing for months now. The one that says I’m here without saying I know.

I watch her hands on the steering wheel. Steady. Familiar. Like they haven’t been holding my life together with invisible thread lately.

How does she even do that?

One evening, her baby came back from school soaked. Not from rain. From toilet water and someone else’s cruelty. Clothes ruined. Skin burning. Words still clinging like dirt. And she didn’t scream or interrogate or demand names. She just wrapped her arms around me and asked if I was okay. If I wanted to change schools.

That was it.

Then she waited.

And waited.

For me to speak. For me to be ready. For me to explain what happened, what I lost, why I flinch at sudden laughter now.

I never did.

And she’s still waiting.

The car takes a turn and I can see the school building ahead, too clean, too confident in itself. My stomach tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to warn me.

The car slows near the curb.

Outside, the school is already alive. Kids pour in through the entrance in loose, careless groups. Someone’s laughing too hard at something that wasn’t that funny. Two girls walk shoulder to shoulder, sharing one pair of earphones like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A boy trips over his own shoelace and swears under his breath while his friends lose it.

They move like the day belongs to them.

Like school is still just a place and not a test of survival.

My stomach tightens. Not sharply. Just enough to warn me. Like my body tapping me quietly and saying, hey, we’re here now.

Mom eases the car to a stop but doesn’t turn it off. The engine hums softly, patient. I can feel her looking at me before I actually look back.

When I do, she’s already turned toward me.

She opens her mouth, then pauses. Closes it. Tries again. I can see her deciding what not to say. All the big sentences she’s been saving and shelving and never using.

Finally, she sighs, small and tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

She reaches out and cups my face.

I lean into it without thinking, my cheek pressing into her palm. It’s embarrassing how immediate it is. Like my body’s been waiting for permission to rest.

She smiles, soft and crooked.

“God,” she says quietly, “you still look like you did on your first day of nursery. Like you’re about to cry and bite someone at the same time.”

A breath slips out of me. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

She strokes my cheek with her thumb.

“Listen,” she says, gentle but real. “These people don’t know you. Not the you you’re scared of. They just see a boy with a bag who’s late for class.”

My throat tightens. She notices. Of course she does.

“Whatever happened in the past is in the past. And whatever happens now… will one day become your past too.”

I close my eyes.

She squeezes my hand. “So, Dev… what kind of past do you want to look back on?”

My throat tightens. I don’t answer.

She leans forward then, pulls me into a hug that’s solid and unapologetic. Not fragile. Not careful. Just hers. She presses a kiss to my forehead like she’s sealing something there.

“I’ll be right here,” she murmurs. “You know that, don’t you?”

I nod into her shoulder. Once. Then again. I can’t trust my voice.

She pulls back, gives me that small, brave smile she’s been wearing for a while now. The one that says I’ll hold this for you until you can.

I open the door.

The noise hits immediately. Voices, footsteps, laughter that doesn’t know my name. I step out, adjust my bag, and turn toward the entrance.

The gate stands open.

New start.

I take a breath.

Then I walk in.

***

The school is… a lot.

Not just big. Big in the way cities are big. Too many blocks stitched together with walkways and staircases and glass corridors, all confident in their own importance. There are buildings branching off in directions that feel intentional, like everyone else got a map in their bloodstream and I missed that day.

Dad’s voice from last night echoes faintly in my head.

Just go to the principal’s office. I’ve spoken to them. Everything’s arranged

Right.

Great.

Where the hell is that supposed to be?

I step through the main entrance and slow without meaning to, like my body’s stalling for time. The lobby opens up in front of me, wide and loud and unfinished in my head. Corridors branch off in different directions, students pouring through them like they know exactly where they’re going.

Everyone moves with purpose. Dodging each other. Calling names. Complaining. Laughing. Living.

I keep my face neutral.

Eyes forward.

Shoulders loose.

My pulse is everywhere. In my throat. In my hands. A restless, uneven rhythm that won’t settle.

Too many halls.

Too many doors.

Too many places to disappear in.

I tighten my grip on my bag.

Just find the principal’s office. That’s it. One thing. One place. Dad said it was arranged.

I take a step. Then another.

I lower my head slightly. Not enough to look suspicious. Just enough to feel smaller.

The weight of invisible eyes presses in anyway. Even though I know no one is actually looking. Even though I know this is just my head doing what it always does.

Old voices curl at the edges of my thoughts. Not words. Just tone. Just memory.

I don’t see her until I hit her.

Hard.

“Ow—hey.”

The voice is sharp, irritated. Close.

I stumble back a step, muttering an apology that barely makes it out of my mouth. The girl in front of me plants her feet, hands on her hips like she’s gearing up for a fight.

“Jesus, are people in this school blind or—”

She stops.

I freeze.

Her expression changes mid-thought. Brows pulling together. Eyes scanning me too carefully, like she’s recalibrating. Her gaze lingers on my shoulders, my grip on my bag, the way I’m standing too stiff for someone who just walked into a building.

Something in her face softens.

“Oh,” she says. Then quieter, “Oh my god.”

I don’t move. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.

“I was fully about to yell at you,” she says, almost to herself. “But now I feel like I’d be committing a crime.”

She tilts her head, studying me like she’s found something injured on the side of the road.

“You look like a beaten-up puppy,” she adds, not unkindly.

My mouth opens. Closes.

She sighs, dramatic. “Great. Now I can’t even be mad.”

“…Sorry,” I manage.

She waves it off. “Don’t be. You’ll cry and then I’ll feel worse.”

I blink.

She squints at me. “You’re new.”

I nod.

“Lost.”

Another nod.

Her lips curve into a grin, quick and bright. “Fantastic. I love this. My savior era begins.”

Before I can ask what that means, she turns and starts walking.

“Wait—” I say.

She doesn’t slow. “Principal’s office, right?”

I hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Thought so. You have that look.”

What look?

She glances back at me. “The ‘please don’t perceive me’ look.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, and she clearly doesn’t need one, because she keeps going.

I follow. Mostly because stopping feels worse.

She moves like she owns the place. Fast, confident, barely checking where she’s going. Her words come just as quickly.

“Welcome to Bright Future Academy,” she says, sweeping a hand around like she’s presenting a stage. “Where dreams are built and crushed in equal measure. Teachers are mostly tolerable. Some even remember students’ names.”

I listen without really processing, my attention snagging on the way she doesn’t look at me like I’m fragile. Or careful.

“The principal’s a mystery,” she continues. “Some people think he was born in his office and never left. Others think he’s a ghost who feeds on paperwork.”

I blink. “What?”

She laughs, sharp and unfiltered. “Relax. Mostly joking.”

Mostly.

We stop in front of a heavy wooden door. The plaque beside it reads: Principal’s Office.

My stomach tightens.

She leans against the wall, crossing her arms, still smiling. “There you go. Final boss room.”

I swallow.

“You look like you’re about to walk into a war,” she says, tilting her head.

It feels accurate.

“I’ll wait,” she adds lightly. “In case you run out screaming.”

Her tone shifts, just a little. “You’ll be okay.”

I nod, even though I don’t feel fine. My fingers twitch at my side, the urge to stall fighting with the need to get this over with.

I reach for the handle.

The door feels heavier than it should.

I knock.

“Come in.”

I push the door open before I can think too hard about it.

And I stop just inside the door.

“Uh—”

My voice cracks immediately. I hate it. “M–may I—”

The man behind the desk looks up from his papers.

“You’re already inside,” he says, not unkindly. Just factual.

Right.

I nod. Once. Then again, like my head’s on a delay.

“Dev Sharma?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sit.”

I do. Too straight. Hands folded in my lap like they’ve been told not to embarrass me.

The office smells faintly of old books and furniture polish. There’s a small crack in the wall behind him, running diagonally, like it tried to escape and failed. I focus on that instead of his eyes.

He flips through a file. Papers rustle. Somewhere outside, a bell rings, distant and sharp.

“Your father called yesterday,” he says. “Mid-year transfer.”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods once. “Not ideal timing, but not a problem.”

Something in my chest loosens, just a little. I hadn’t realized I was bracing for the opposite.

“Documents?”

I fumble for the folder, nearly dropping it. My fingers feel thick, unreliable. I slide it across the desk and pull my hands back quickly, like they’ve done something wrong.

He reads. Turns a page. Makes a small sound in his throat.

“You were at St. Mary’s before this?”

“Yes, sir.”

He hums. “Good academic record.”

I don’t know what to do with that. I stare at the edge of the desk instead.

He sets the file down and finally looks at me properly. Not sharply. Not suspiciously. Just… looking.

“Yout health is better now?” he asks.

The question lands softer than I expect. It throws me off.

Right, that must have been the official excuse.

“Yes,” I say automatically. Then quieter, because lying loudly feels worse. “I’m better now.”

He nods like that’s enough of an answer.

“You’ll be in 11B,” he says, sliding a printed schedule toward me. “Science section. Class teacher is Mrs Shalini. She’s strict, but fair.”

I nod.

“If you feel lost,” he adds, already reaching for another file, “ask someone. Don’t wander. This building has a habit of swallowing new students.”

That almost sounds like a joke. Almost.

“And Sharma?”

I look up.

“First weeks are strange for everyone,” he says. “Even when they don’t look it.”

I don’t reply. I don’t trust my throat.

He inclines his head slightly. “You’re dismissed.”

I stand too fast, chair scraping loudly against the floor. Heat floods my face. I mumble a thank you and turn for the door before my body can do anything else embarrassing.

Outside, the noise hits again. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter that doesn’t know me.

She’s still there.

That girl.

Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Watching people pass like she’s cataloguing them.

When she sees me, her mouth quirks up.

“Well?” she asks. “Did you survive?”

I nod. My grip tightens around the schedule.

“Impressive,” she says. “He didn’t sacrifice you to the administration gods.”

I huff a breath before I can stop myself. It’s not quite a laugh. It surprises both of us.

She notices.

Her grin softens. “See? Told you. School’s not that bad.”

She straightens, then tilts her head, studying me again. Less like a joke this time. More like she’s actually checking.

“You okay?” she asks, casually, like it doesn’t matter either way.

I nod. Then add, “Yeah.”

She doesn’t call me out on it. I appreciate that.

Her eyes flick to the paper in my hand. “What class did you get?”

“11B.”

Her face lights up. “No way.”

She steps closer, peering at the schedule without touching it. “That’s my class.”

I stiffen, just a little.

She notices that too. Of course she does.

“Relax,” she says quickly. “I’m tolerable. On good days.”

I nod. Again.

“I’m Arya,” she adds, sticking her hand out like this is normal.

I hesitate half a second before shaking it. Her grip is warm. Firm. Confident.

“Dev,” I say.

“Dev,” she repeats, testing it like a word she wants to get right. Then she nods, satisfied. “Cool. Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

She turns and starts walking, already talking, her voice carrying easily through the hallway. I catch pieces of it as I follow. Classrooms. Teachers to avoid. Which stairwell smells like damp shoes when it rains. Who’s loud. Who’s harmless. Who pretends not to care.

I don’t answer much. Just nod when it feels expected.

The corridor stretches ahead of us, tiled floor scuffed in places where too many feet have dragged themselves forward. Lockers line the walls, dented and mismatched, names scratched into the metal like people needed proof they existed here.

I watch everything.

The way two boys argue about something stupid and then laugh like it never mattered. A girl leaning against the wall, scrolling on her phone, backpack at her feet like she belongs exactly where she is. Someone calls a name from down the hall. Someone else answers without looking up.

It all feels practiced. Easy.

If Amit were here, he’d already have a running commentary. He’d make fun of the motivational posters peeling at the corners. He’d point out which teacher looked like they hadn’t slept since 2003. He’d lean in and whisper something unhelpful about the guy with the too-loud laugh just to see if I’d crack a smile.

I don’t.

I imagine him glancing at me instead. Taking in the way I walk half a step behind now. The way my shoulders fold in on themselves without me noticing. The way I keep my eyes moving so I don’t have to meet anyone’s for too long.

What would he say?

Probably something light. Something careless. He was good at that. Good at pretending nothing stuck to him. Good at making things feel smaller than they were.

Or maybe he’d notice the parts I don’t want anyone to see. The pauses. The way my throat tightens when someone laughs too suddenly. The way I flinch, just barely, when bodies get too close.

Would he recognize me?

The thought lands heavier than I expect.

I used to talk without thinking. Used to argue, joke, complain. Used to fill silences instead of drowning in them. Now every word feels like it has to pass through something sharp on the way out.

Pathetic. That’s what he’d think of this version of me, right? The one who can’t even introduce himself properly. The one who needs someone else to lead him down a hallway like he’ll vanish if left alone.

He’d hate it. Or worse, he’d look at me with that careful expression he got when he didn’t know how to fix something.

The shame curls low in my stomach. Quiet. Persistent.

We stop outside a classroom. Noise spills through the door. Laughter. Desks scraping. Someone complaining loudly about homework.

This is it.

Arya gestures toward the door, still talking, still normal. Still unafraid.

I stare at the handle. At my reflection warped faintly in the glass panel. I look thinner somehow. Smaller.

I swallow.

If Amit were here, he’d push the door open without hesitation.

He’d roll his eyes at the noise, mutter something about how none of these people look real, and drag me in like this was just another place we were allowed to exist.

But he isn’t.

And that’s the point, isn’t it?

This is what a new start looks like. A chapter without the character who carried most of the story. Without the one who knew how to fill space, who made scenes feel lighter just by being in them.

A chapter even the writer isn’t interested in writing.

If this were a book, I’d skim it myself. Flip the pages faster. Wait for something better to come back. Something familiar. Something that knows how to talk.

But the book doesn’t stop just because a chapter is boring. Or empty. Or hard to sit through.

As long as it exists, something has to be written. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it doesn’t know where it’s going. Even if it’s just a boy standing in a hallway, pretending he isn’t missing someone every second he breathes.

The bell rings. Final. Unavoidable.

I take one last look at the door handle. At my reflection, warped and smaller than I remember being.

Then I step forward.

The door opens. Noise spills out. Voices, laughter, lives already in motion.

I walk in anyway.

Not because I’m ready.

Just because the page is blank, and someone has to write the next line.