Chapter 9

Sunday morning used to mean something.

Plans made a week in advance, then abandoned last minute for something completely different. Movie nights that turned into long walks. Study sessions that ended with chaos in a fast-food joint. Back then, weekends stretched out full of possibilities, shifting and reshaping themselves until they felt just right.

Now, they’re just… here.

I turn, stretching my arm blindly reaching for my phone. The screen lights up.

No notifications.

Obviously.

It’s not like I expected anything. I changed my number when I left, cut off the last ties to that life. And since I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to build a new one… well.

I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling for a while. The fan spins slow, the blades humming their usual lazy rhythm. The light filtering through the curtains is soft, golden. Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Almost haunting.

I finally drag myself out of bed.

The house is quiet when I step downstairs. No clatter of dishes, no faint hum of the TV. The living room is empty. So is the kitchen. I glance at the clock—already past nine.

I step toward the back door, pushing it open.

She’s there.

Kneeling in the garden, hands deep in the soil, dirt streaked along the side of her forearm where she’s brushed her hair back. She’s humming something under her breath, a tune I don’t recognize, but the rhythm of it feels familiar.

I step onto the porch, rubbing my eyes. “You’ve been at this since morning?”

She glances up, squinting against the sunlight. “Some of us wake up before noon, you know.”

I hum in response, dropping onto the steps. “Couldn’t be me.”

She shakes her head, amused. “You used to be an early riser.”

“I used to be a lot of things.”

She snorts. “Dramatic.”

I shrug, watching as she scoops more soil into a pot, patting it down with practiced ease. The garden looks different than it did a few weeks ago—more green, more alive. Small things growing where there used to be nothing.

“You could help, you know,” she says, not looking up.

I groan, stretching my legs out. “I could.”

A beat of silence. Then, dryly: “You won’t.”

“Absolutely not.”

She sighs, shaking her head again.

I lean back against the step, letting the morning settle around me. The earth smells warm, the sun isn’t too harsh yet, and for a moment—just a moment—it feels okay to just be here.

She keeps working, hands moving through the soil like she’s known it her whole life. I sit there, stretching my legs out, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“So,” she says, casually, like she’s been waiting for the right moment. “How’s school?”

I yawn, scratching my head. “Still standing. Unfortunately.”

She shakes her head, amused. “That bad?”

“Not bad, just… school.” I wave a lazy hand. “Same hallways, same teachers pretending to care, same students pretending to listen. Nothing groundbreaking.”

She hums, pressing a seed deeper into the soil. “Made any friends yet?”

“Didn’t I just say it’s the same people pretending to care?”

She pauses, finally glancing up at me. “And you? Are you pretending too?”

I blink. Not expecting that one.

I rub my arm, looking away. “I don’t know. Probably.”

She watches me for a second, then just goes back to her plants. She never pushes. She just lets her words sit, like seeds thrown into the air, waiting to land where they may.

I exhale, stretching back on my hands. “What’s with that plant murder today?”

She scoffs. “Changing its pot.”

“Looks aggressive.”

She picks up a small plant, cradling it in her hand, brushing a bit of dirt from the leaves. “Some things have to be uprooted to grow better.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, here we go. Life lesson time.”

She smirks. “Since you brought it up.” She gestures toward the pot. “See this? It was dying in its old soil. Not enough space, not enough nutrients. It stayed small, weak, struggling.” She pulls the plant free, roots tangled in a clump of dirt. “So, I move it. Give it a better chance. But you know what happens first?”

I yawn again. “It throws a tantrum?”

“Close,” she says, smiling. “It wilts. Looks worse before it gets better. It doesn’t understand it’s being helped—it only knows it’s been ripped from what’s familiar.”

I stare at the plant in her hands. Small, fragile. Struggling, even as she holds it with the gentlest care.

She carefully places it in the new soil, patting the dirt around it. “But after a while, if it lets itself settle… it thrives.”

I pick at a loose thread on my shirt. “Sounds exhausting.”

She dusts her hands off. “So is staying in the wrong place just because it’s familiar.”

I don’t answer.

She doesn’t expect me to.

She just sits there, letting the words settle like soil around roots. And I just sit there too, staring at the plant, feeling too much like it

***

The classroom is the same as always.

Four walls, a whiteboard smeared with half-erased notes, a fan that groans overhead like it’s debating whether to give up. The teacher drones on, words blending into the background like static. Someone is tapping a pen against their desk. Someone else is half-asleep, head propped on their arm. The usual.

I stare at my notebook, the lines blurring slightly. I haven’t written anything. I probably won’t.

Then—

That feeling.

A weight at the edge of my senses.

I blink, shifting slightly, but I don’t need to turn to know. I already know.

I glance to the side.

Raj is looking at me.

Not just looking. Watching.

His brows are drawn together, just slightly, in that way they always do when he’s thinking too much about something.

Like he’s trying to read something off my face.

Concern.

I know what this is about.

My chest tightens.

I turn back to my notebook, gripping my pen even though I’m not writing.

He saw me. That day.

And since then—

Since then, he’s been seeing me differently.

Not in the way people did in my old school. Not with whispers or second glances or barely-masked smirks. But different.

Like he’s looking too closely. Like he’s noticed something I don’t want noticed.

I swallow, tapping my fingers against the page.

He tried to talk to me. A few times. Slipped questions into conversations, kept pace with me when I walked too fast. But I dodged. Every time. Shrugged, changed the subject, acted like I didn’t know what he meant. And he never pushed.

That’s the worst part.

He never asked.

Not once.

Not what happened? Not why did you leave like that? Not why did you look like the world was ending?

Just this morning, on the way to school, he had only said, You okay?

And I had nodded.

That’s it. That’s all.

But his gaze hasn’t gone back to normal. His finger taps once against his knee—absently. Or maybe not. Maybe he knows he’s being seen too.

I force my jaw to unclench, scribbling.

I press my lips together, exhale slowly through my nose, and focus back on the lesson.

But my pulse is still too fast.

***

The bell rings, slicing through the monotony of the classroom.

Chairs scrape against the floor. Voices rise, overlapping as students shuffle toward the door, spilling into the hallway in clusters. The break begins.

I stretch slightly, rolling my shoulders. Maybe I should go outside. Sit somewhere on campus, put my headphones in, listen to something that drowns everything else out. The sun’s probably warm enough. The wind’s probably decent.

I push my chair back, ready to stand—

“Where you going?”

I pause and look up.

Raj is watching me again, head tilted slightly, gaze steady.

I blink. Shrug.

Anywhere.

Just not here.

Just away from people.

Just somewhere I don’t have to think about the way you’re looking at me.

Raj hums like he expected that answer. He leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “You haven’t been to the cafeteria, have you?”

I don’t answer immediately.

I should lie. Should say I have, should say I’ve been eating just fine, should say I just prefer eating alone. But that would require more effort than I have today.

So I just look away.

Raj nods slightly, like that’s his answer. “Then how do you eat?”

I glance at my hands, flexing my fingers slightly before resting them against my desk. “I don’t.”

Not during break, at least. Not in crowded spaces where conversations feel too loud and glances feel too sharp. I don’t want to sit there, pretending I belong, forcing myself to make space where there isn’t any.

Raj studies me for a second. Then—

“Alright. Let me show you our school’s finest place.”

I frown. “Which is?”

He stands, stretching lazily before slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Trust me.”

That doesn’t answer anything.

I hesitate.

Raj waits, but he doesn’t push.

And maybe that’s why I stand up.

We step out into the hallway, moving through the thinning crowd. Raj walks slightly ahead, keeping space between us—not too far, not too close. I notice it. Appreciate it.

“You’ll love the cafeteria,” Raj says, voice completely serious. “It has everything: overpriced food, watered-down drinks, and a mysterious samosa that could be either five days old or five years old—no one knows.”

I huff a quiet chuckle despite myself.

Raj continues, deadpan. “The chef is a man of mystery. No one’s seen him. No one knows where he comes from.”

We turn a corner. I shake my head slightly, pressing my lips together.

“The ambiance is five-star,” Raj goes on, deadpan. “Fluorescent lighting that makes you reconsider your entire existence, plastic chairs designed to break your spirit, and the distant sound of heartbreak as students check their grades mid-bite.”

A quiet chuckle escapes me.

It’s small. Barely there. But I hear it, and for a second—it sounds wrong.

Not because it actually is. But because it’s been so long since I’ve heard it from myself.

I blink. When was the last time I even chuckled at something? Not a forced laugh, not a hollow exhale of amusement, but something real, something unplanned?

Raj notices.

He doesn’t react immediately, doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers on me for just a second longer than before. His expression shifts, something subtle, something almost like—

Confidence.

Like he just confirmed something for himself.

“You really hate this place, huh?” I ask, still slightly thrown off by my own reaction.

“Oh, I adore it.” Raj sighs dramatically. “It’s where dreams come to die.”

And I chuckle again.

Softer this time, less foreign.

Raj doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t act like he’s accomplished something. He just keeps walking, talking, painting ridiculous, tragic images of the cafeteria, the vending machine, the soulless food.

Like he’s giving me the space to just… be.

And somehow, by the time we reacYh the cafeteria doors—I don’t feel like escaping.

The cafeteria doors swing open with a reluctant creak, th air inside is thick—part food, part sweat, part something vaguely industrial that I don’t want to think about too hard.

The room is huge, stretching out into a sea of plastic chairs, wobbly tables, and students crammed together in various states of mid-meal chaos.

“Welcome,” Raj says, spreading his arms grandly, “to the beating heart of our fine institution.”

I stare. “It smells like regret.”

Raj nods solemnly. “Congratulations, you’re one of us now.”

I don’t know where to look first. There’s too much happening at once—the clank of steel trays being slammed onto counters, the distant blare of someone’s phone speaker playing a song no one asked for, the deep philosophical debates happening at each table (read: someone loudly complaining about an assignment due in ten minutes).

And then there’s the counter.

More specifically—the girl at the counter.

She looks like she’s on her last thread of sanity, her face a picture of exhaustion as a group of boys loiters in front of her station, leaning against the counter with the energy of men who have never been told “no” in their lives.

They’re not buying anything.

They’re just… there.

Flirting. Hovering. Talking loudly with the unmistakable confidence of those who think they are God’s gift to women.

The poor girl nods absently at whatever nonsense one of them is saying, her hands still mechanically arranging plates, her soul visibly trying to exit her body.

From the side, the old man running the register clears his throat. Once. Twice. Then again, this time with more force, like he’s attempting to summon divine intervention via coughing.

The boys do not care.

One of them leans in closer, elbow on the counter, saying something that earns him an immediate, unimpressed blink from the girl.

I don’t know whether to feel secondhand embarrassment or admiration for her ability to withstand this level of testosterone poisoning.

Raj sighs, shaking his head. “It’s a natural phenomenon. Every year, this counter sees the rise and fall of men who think they have a chance.”

“Tragic,” I mutter.

“Deeply.”

We weave through the tables, stepping over scattered bags and dodging the occasional crumpled paper ball being lobbed across the room. A group of juniors are hunched over an assignment, clearly copying from a single notebook, their hushed voices growing increasingly frantic. Near the window, a trio of girls is engaged in a very serious discussion, their expressions grave as they pass around a phone like they’re examining evidence in a crime case. A fight over an empty chair seems to be brewing in one corner.

And, in the middle of all this, a table full of seniors is—

“Are they… making a vase?” I ask, squinting.

Raj follows my gaze. “The annual ‘Art Club Does Whatever It Wants’ tradition.”

Sure enough, a small huddle of students is gathered around a suspiciously large mound of clay, their hands covered in wet, gloppy streaks as they attempt to sculpt… something.

The something does not look promising.

“That’s not a vase,” I deadpan.

Raj places a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s move before you get recruited.”

I don’t argue.

We find a table near the middle, not too close to the chaos, but not too far either. Raj throws his bag onto the seat, plopping down with an air of absolute confidence, like this spot was waiting for him.

“Alright,” he announces. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t get lured into any pyramid schemes.”

I frown. “That’s an oddly specific warning.”

“You’d be surprised,” he says, already getting up. “Anyway, let me bring you my favorite thing.”

I don’t get a chance to ask what his favorite thing is before he disappears into the crowd.

So I sit.

And I watch.

The cafeteria moves—a constantly shifting current of conversations, of people slipping in and out, of laughter, of arguments over whose turn it is to pay for fries. It’s overwhelming, but in a distant way. Like watching something from behind glass.

My old cafeteria wasn’t this big.

Or was it?

I try to remember. Try to picture the tables, the counters, the way everything had been arranged. But all I can really see is them.

Amit, always claiming the same spot. Always picking the same damn thing from the menu, no matter how many times I begged him to please, for the love of all that is good in this world, try something different just once.

But no.

“I swear to God, if you buy that again, I’m filing a restraining order against your taste buds.”

And Amit, with that infuriating grin, holding up his tray like it was a trophy. “What can I say, Sharma? Some of us have class.”

Every single day—every single day—he’d sit down with the exact same order: two samosas (from the exact same stall, like the other counters were cursed), a bottle of sprite, and, if he was feeling fancy, a sad, slightly wilted chocolate muffin that was probably older than both of us combined.

“You know there are other food groups, right?” I had said once, staring at his plate in horror.

Amit had shrugged, completely unbothered. “Why mess with perfection?”

“Perfection?” I had gestured violently to the muffin. “That thing is literally decomposing before my eyes.”

He had smirked. “Adds to the experience.”

“Every single day? Aren’t you sick of them?”

“Some of us appreciate consistency, Sharma,” he had said, all smug and superior, like his weekly romance with expired cafeteria food was some kind of noble pursuit.

And then, inevitably, like clockwork, his eyes would flick to my plate—the actually edible meal I had carefully chosen after scouring the menu for something that wasn’t a death wish.

And, just as predictably, he would tilt his head and say—

“Okay, but let me try a bite of yours.”

I exhale.

The noise around me doesn’t change. The people don’t pause. The cafeteria is still here.

But Amit isn’t.

I grip the edge of the table, pressing my fingers against the cool surface.

I should stop thinking about this.

I should—

A plate clatters in front of me.

I blink.

Raj is back, dropping into the seat across from me, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I present to you,” he says, gesturing with both hands, “the greatest achievement of this cafeteria.”

I look down.

I look back up.

I stare at him, “A samosa?”

Samosa