Chapter 14

The chemistry test is over.

I survived.

Did I ace it? No.

Did I fail it? Hopefully no.

Did I stare at a question for five minutes, hoping the chemical equation would magically reveal itself to me like some divine prophecy? Absolutely.

Now, it’s done. The damage has been inflicted. Life moves on.

Arya, however, is not moving on.

“We were not prepared for this.” She slams her notebook on the cafeteria table like she’s testifying in court. “We were betrayed by the education system.”

Raj, leaning back in his chair with a stupid, smug smirk, takes a slow sip of his juice. “We were not betrayed. You just don’t study.”

Arya glares at him. “Excuse me? I studied. I—” she pauses. “I thought about studying.”

Raj hums. “Mm-hmm.”

“I opened my book,” she continues. “I looked at the words.”

“Revolutionary.”

Arya throws a napkin at his face. “Shut up, Raj.”

Raj, unfazed, plucks the napkin off his lap and tosses it back onto the table. “Listen, all I’m saying is, some of us prepared for this test.” He turns to me, smug. “Right, Dev?”

I blink.

I don’t answer immediately. Not because I don’t have an answer, but because my brain is moving just a little too slow today.

It’s not the test. Not even the usual post-exam exhaustion. It’s last night.

Dinner was—

No, actually. Dinner wasn’t anything.

It was quiet. Heavy. The kind of silence that settles in a house like thick dust, clinging to everything, making even the simplest movements feel too loud.

No one talked about anything.

Dad ate. Mom ate. I ate. And that was it.

Not a single word spoken about the fight. About the yelling. About the way she slammed the bedroom door. About the way Dad stood in the middle of the hall afterward, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

Nothing.

This morning wasn’t any different. When I came downstairs, Mom’s bedroom door was still closed.

Dad was on the couch. Sleeping. Like he never went to bed at all.

I didn’t stop. Didn’t wait. Just got in the car, let the driver take me to school, and that was it.

And now, I’m here. Sitting in the cafeteria. Staring at Arya and Raj like I’m lagging two seconds behind reality.

Raj waves a hand in front of my face. “Sharma?”

I blink again.

“Huh?”

Arya narrows her eyes. “Are you okay? You look dead inside.”

Raj hums. “Maybe he saw his chemistry marks in a vision.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, rubbing my face.

Arya crosses her arms, still staring at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” The lie is automatic. “Just tired.”

Arya looks unconvinced. But Raj, thankfully, just leans back, stretching his arms. “Anyway. Enough about exams. We are free now. We have bigger things to focus on.”

Arya raises an eyebrow. “Like?”

Raj smirks. “Like our upcoming intellectual combat.”

Arya groans. “Oh my god, not this again.”

Raj gasps, dramatically clutching his chest. “Blasphemy! The debate is in six days, Arya. Do you have no respect for the art of verbal annihilation?”

“Absolutely none,” Arya deadpans. “Verbal annihilate these nuts.”

Raj chokes on his juice. I stare at them both.

And finally a tiny, exhausted laugh slips out. It’s small. Weak. But it’s there.

***

The day is over.

The hallways are packed, students spilling out of classrooms, shoving past each other, voices clashing into a chaotic mess of conversation, complaints, and the occasional death threat about incomplete homework.

I’m moving through it, but barely.

It’s not exhaustion—not in the physical, I need sleep kind of way. It’s the kind that sits behind your ribs, pressing down, making everything feel distant. Like I’m watching the day end from behind glass.

Arya is talking beside me, her voice cutting through the noise, animated as ever.

“—and then he had the audacity to tell me my handwriting was unreadable. Mine. Like, excuse me? If anyone here writes like an ancient witch cursing a scroll, it’s him.”

I hum vaguely, not fully processing.

She doesn’t notice. She’s already moving on to another topic, waving her hands around, mid-rant—

And then she gasps.

Not a normal gasp. Not an oh my god, look at that cute dog gasp.

A the world has shifted, the skies have parted, something groundbreaking is happening gasp.

I blink, sluggish, as she suddenly grabs my arm, yanking me toward the bulletin board like I’m a human-sized handbag.

“Dev! LOOK!”

I look.

At first, I don’t register anything. Just a mess of printed pages pinned to the board, some half-torn posters, the usual clutter of school announcements.

Then I see it.

A fresh white sheet, neatly centered, bold letters across the top:

INDEPENDENCE DAY FEST – EVENT PROPOSALS OPEN!

Arya vibrates beside me. “It’s time.”

I blink. “Time for what?”

Arya spins to face me, grabbing both my shoulders. “The Fest, Dev.”

I stare blankly.

“THE FEST.”

Raj sighs, strolling up behind us. “Oh no. We’ve entered Arya’s Broadway Era again.”

Arya ignores him. “Last year, our class did the Play, remember? And guess who played Queen Lakshmibai?”

I rub my temples. “You?”

“ME.” She gestures grandly at herself, as if expecting applause.

Raj hums. “Ah, yes. And that’s also why we lost.”

Arya gapes at him. “Excuse me?!”

Raj sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Tragic. Truly. The fall of a queen—”

“I did not fall!”

“You did, in fact, fall.”

“That was a tactical fall!”

“You rolled off the stage like a collapsing sandbag.”

“I WAS GIVING CINEMATIC REALISM!”

“You were giving a full-blown safety hazard.”

“SHUT UP, RAJ.”

I huff out a small laugh, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder.

It’s nice. The banter. The noise. The energy.

It almost distracts me from—

And then Raj glances at me.

It’s subtle. Barely a shift in his expression, just the slightest flicker in his eyes. But I feel it.

Like he’s noticing.

Like he’s seeing something I didn’t want seen. Like he’s been noticing the entire day. The change in my posture. The lack of enthusiasm. Me zoning in and out of conversations.

He always notices.

And that’s bad.

I panic—just a little.

Plaster a smile. “Yeah, yeah, Arya. I’m sure your acting was life-changing.”

She scoffs. “Oh, it was.”

Raj’s gaze lingers for half a second longer. Then—

He doesn’t say anything.

He just moves.

Not away. Not ahead.

Closer.

Not in a big, obvious way. Just enough that his arm brushes mine as we walk. Just enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him, solid and steady.

Just enough to make the hallway feel a little less cold.

***

The evening sun stretches long and golden across the campus, casting everything in that soft, warm haze that makes the world feel quieter. Slower.

I walk toward the library building, my steps unhurried, my bag slung loosely over one shoulder.

I had texted home earlier. Gotta stay late. Assignment.

That was a lie.

The truth? I just don’t want to go back yet.

Not to the house where silence sits like furniture. Not to the weight in the air that no one acknowledges. Not to the closed doors and the too-loud absence of conversation.

The library gate creaks slightly as I push it open.

Inside—

The space swallows me whole.

The ceiling is high, arched, lined with wooden beams that stretch across like the ribs of some giant, ancient creature. Large windows flank both sides of the hall, letting in the last bits of sunlight, casting long, sleepy shadows on the tiled floor.

It’s mostly empty.

A few students are still scattered across the wooden tables, some hunched over notes, some half-asleep on textbooks. But most of them are leaving, packing up their bags, whispering their way out.

I breathe in—

Old paper. Polished wood. The faintest trace of dust hanging in the air.

I’ve never spent much time in libraries. Never had the patience for it. Books were Mom’s thing.

She had always tried, though. Pushed novels into my hands, recommended something light, something fun, something I’d definitely like.

I’d read a few pages. Drop it somewhere. Never pick it up again.

Reading never hooked me. Music did.

Mom used to say I had no patience for stories. I disagreed. I just liked my stories with sound.

I let my feet take me through the shelves, aimless.

Fiction.

History.

Biographies.

Science.

I glance at a few spines, skimming the titles, but nothing holds me. My fingers trail across the wooden edges of the shelves as I keep walking, letting the quiet settle around me.

Then—

I stop. At A small section near the back.

Bright covers. Bold titles.

Comics.

I stare for a second.

Then step forward.

Amit used to love this section.

Used to drag me here, flipping through pages like it was urgent, like he was on some divine mission to convert me into a fan.

“Come on, Sharma. You’ll like this one.”

“I don’t do comics.”

“That’s because you have shit taste.”

“Excuse me—”

“Just try it. It’s got everything you like—cool fight scenes, good dialogue, existential crises—”

“That last one was unnecessary.”

“It was accurate.”

He had tried.

Every single time we stepped into a library, into a bookstore, into any place with shelves of anything—he’d shove something into my hands.

“Just read the first page,” he’d say.

“Just the first chapter,” he’d bargain.

“Just give me a chance, you idiot,” he’d insist.

And I—

I never did.

Not really.

I’d skim. I’d pretend. I’d listen to him talk about them instead, because that was always the best part—watching his face light up, his voice animated, alive.

Amit loved stories and I just liked listening to him tell them.

I exhale, fingers brushing over a spine—one of the ones he used to talk about.

I don’t pick it up.

I don’t open it.

I just stand there for a moment, staring at the rows of comics, at the shelves stacked with things he would have read, things he would have shoved into my hands, things he would have sat cross-legged on the floor with, flipping through like the world outside didn’t exist.

And for a second—just a second—

It almost feels like he’s here.

A sharp, irritated groan cuts through the silence.

I blink.

Did I imagine that?

Another groan. Louder. Frustrated. Like someone is physically fighting the laws of the universe and losing.

I glance toward the corner of the library.

There.

Someone is hunched over a table, rubbing a pen against a notebook like they’re trying to summon a demon with sheer friction.

I squint.

The pen isn’t working.

But that’s not stopping him from aggressively violating the page with it.

I step closer, almost absently.

And then—

Oh.

Of course.

It’s Aman.

Because who else would sit in the most isolated corner of the library, trying to obliterate a notebook with a dead pen?

His expression is locked in his usual perpetual state of disdain, his jaw tight as he keeps scribbling, like he’s personally offended that the ink won’t obey him.

The light catches on his glasses, reflecting red from the evening sun. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t notice me.

Which is fine. Because I should definitely walk away.

I don’t.

Instead, I sigh. Loudly. “Jesus Christ.”

Aman finally glances up, eyes flicking toward me, but he doesn’t say anything.

I reach into my bag, unzip the back pocket, pull out my extra pen, and drop it on the table in front of him. “For the sake of that poor notebook’s life.”

Aman stares at it.

Then at me.

Then back at it.

And then—nothing.

He doesn’t take it.

Doesn’t even move.

Just blinks, like I just handed him a live grenade.

I sigh, exasperated. “Oh my god, take the damn pen.”

Silence.

Still nothing.

“Aman.”

Nothing.

I groan dramatically, dropping into the chair across from him, flopping onto the table like this entire interaction is physically draining me. “Fine. Keep your pride. I’ll just take one of your kidneys in return.”

Aman’s lips twitch. Barely.

But I see it.

The faintest, smallest shift in his expression.

For the first time, with the sun filtering through the windows, casting soft reflections on the table, I realize—

His features soften when he’s amused.

It’s barely there, but it happens.

Not as sharp. Not as rigid.

Just—softer.

I stare.

Aman raises an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”

“No I’m not.” I immediately look away.

A beat.

Then—

“You’re still staring.”

“Shut up and take the pen, Aman.”

The chemistry assignment betrays me.

I unzip my bag, reach for my water bottle, and—bam. The thick stack of papers slides out and flops onto the table like it’s mocking me.

I stare at it.

It stares back.

Aman doesn’t react.

Which somehow makes this worse.

“Of course,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “Of course, the worst subject in existence has to ruin my day again.”

I groan in my hands.

“You know,” I continue, “I have never hated anything more in my life. Like, I don’t like physics either, but this? This is personal. This is a war crime.”

I glance at the most uninterested face in the history of mankind before muttering. “I’ll fail, won’t I?”

A pause. Then—

“Yes.”

I blink. “Sorry?”

Another long, empty silence.

Then—

“You’ll fail.”

My head snaps down. “Wow. Okay. Not even a little faith?”

Aman is still reading his book. Still expressionless. Still completely unbothered. “You don’t study.”

I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me, I—” I look down at my assignment. “I—” I frown. “—Okay, fair.”

Nothing.

Just the faint scratch of a turning page.

I sigh, flipping through the assignment, trying to make sense of the mess of equations. “God. I don’t even know where to start.”

Aman exhales. Closes his book.

Then—he takes my pen.

I watch as he pulls my notebook toward him, scans the first problem, and—without hesitation—starts writing.

No unnecessary movements. No wasted words.

His hand glides across the page, pen strokes neat, deliberate.

I blink. “Wait—are you helping me?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t look up.

Just keeps writing.

I glance at the equation he’s balancing. Then at his expression. Then back at the page.

“…Why are you helping me?”

Aman finishes writing, taps the pen against the final answer, then pushes the notebook back toward me.

“It was painful to watch.”

I stare at him. “That’s it?”

He doesn’t respond.

He just goes back to his book.

I blink at the assignment. The steps are all laid out, neat and clear. The equation actually makes sense.

I exhale. “Well, damn. Thanks, I guess.”

Aman doesn’t reply.

I glance at him, half-expecting some kind of reaction, maybe even the smallest nod of acknowledgment.

Nothing.

Like it didn’t even happen.

Like helping me was just a minor inconvenience, already forgotten.

The last bit of sunlight filters through the windows, casting warm, sharp shadows across the table. The library feels quieter now, the weight of the day settling into the silence.

Aman keeps reading.

I keep staring at my assignment.

Then—

I pick up my pen and start solving the next one.

The library is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels heavier in the evening, when the last bits of sunlight stretch across the floor, and the air turns still, waiting.

Aman and I are still at the table, notebooks open, pens scratching against paper.

And somehow—somehow—I am actually understanding chemistry.

Not easily. Not quickly. But it’s clicking.

Whenever I get stuck, I don’t say anything. I just slide my notebook a little toward Aman’s side of the table.

Aman, still reading his book, doesn’t react at first. Then, with a sigh—like I’m personally draining his life force—he takes the pen and silently writes out the next steps.

No comments. No explanations. Just the answer.

He slides it back.

I keep going.

And then, just as I’m starting to almost believe in my academic abilities—

A voice cuts through the air.

“Library closes in ten minutes, boys.”

I blink up. The librarian stands a few tables away, giving us a look—not impatient, not unkind, just the usual pack it up, nerds expression.

Aman is already closing his book.

I glance at my half-finished assignment, then sigh, shutting my notebook. “Guess that’s our cue.”

Aman doesn’t respond. Just gathers his things, smooth and unhurried, like he knew this was coming ten minutes ago.

We both stand. The librarian watches us for a second, then nods and walks off, probably to chase down any last stragglers.

As we step toward the exit, I adjust my bag. “How’re you getting home?”

Aman barely glances at me. “Auto.”

I pause.

Think.

And then—”I’ll join.”

Aman doesn’t respond immediately. Just pushes open the library door, stepping outside into the cool night air.

I follow.

He doesn’t ask why.

I don’t explain.

And somehow—that feels normal.