Chapter 24

The cafeteria is its usual disaster—too loud, too crowded, and somehow always one argument away from collapsing into complete chaos.

I pick at my food, not really hungry, while Raj sits across from me, flipping through a book with the least amount of interest I’ve ever seen. He’s not even turning the pages—just holding it open like he wants to look busy but can’t be bothered to actually read.

I frown. “You realize staring at a book doesn’t mean you’re reading it, right?”

Raj flips the page lazily, still not looking up. “You realize picking at your food doesn’t mean you’re eating it, right?”

I scowl. “Touché.”

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice casual.

I pause.

Raj doesn’t ask things like that. At least, not in a way that sounds… genuine.

I glance up, expecting his usual smirk, some sarcastic remark ready to go, but—his eyes are already on me. Steady. A little too steady.

It’s not obvious, not intense. Just… there. Like he was looking before I even realized it.

I exhale, grabbing my juice box. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Raj hums, like he’s still watching, like he’s filing that answer away somewhere.

Before I can respond, Arya drops into the seat next to me like a wrecking ball.

“BOYS, SHUT UP,” she announces. “We have important matters to discuss.”

“We really don’t,” Raj mutters.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” she huffs.

“And yet, I already regret existing in this moment,” Raj finally closes his book with a dramatic sigh. “So what fresh hell have you created?”

“A play. A masterpiece. A theatrical event that will be remembered for generations.”

Raj and I exchange a glance.

“You’re wrote a play for the fest?” I ask, half in horror, half in curiosity.

“Yes.”

Raj lets out a low chuckle. “That’s cute. You think you’re talented.”

Arya flips him off without hesitation. “That’s cute. You think your opinion matters.”

Raj smirks, eyes flicking toward me again. “And what about you? You signing up for this disaster?”

“No,” I say firmly.

“Yes,” Arya corrects.

“Absolutely not,” I repeat.

“Absolutely yes,” she sings.

Raj rests his chin on his hand, watching me like he’s amused. Like he already knows what I’m going to say before I say it.

“You know, I almost want to see you in a play,” he says.

I glare. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Too late.”

His smirk doesn’t change, but his gaze lingers a beat longer than it should. Like he’s actually imagining me play some disaster of a character on the stage.

Something in my chest to tighten. Just enough to make me feel like I missed something.

Arya pats my hand. “I knew you’d support me.”

I get up. Immediately.

“DEV COME BACK HERE.”

Raj laughs, shaking his head, and for some reason, that sound stays with me longer than it should.

***

I did not expect this.

I thought this would be a small thing. A handful of overly enthusiastic students, maybe a few teachers who got tricked into supervising.

Instead, the auditorium is packed.

More people than the debate day.

I blink at the crowd, taking a step back. “Why is this… serious?”

“Because people actually care about the fest here,” Arya says, dragging me forward. “Unlike you, a boring and miserable human being.”

“I just didn’t expect the entire student population to be here.”

“What can I say? People crave art.”

“They crave an excuse to skip class,” I correct.

Arya ignores me, gripping my arm as she scans the crowd. “Raj better not be acting like a pretentious ass right now.”

“He’s literally a judge.”

“Exactly. Who let him have that kind of power?”

“The student body committee?”

“Dumbasses, all of them.”

Before I can respond, a voice rings out from the stage.

“Alright, we’ll begin shortly! Judges, take your seats!”

And just like that, Arya’s entire demeanor shifts.

She straightens, eyes locking onto the stage like a warrior before battle.

“This is it, Dev,” she whispers, voice tense with pure, unfiltered determination. “This is my moment.”

“Please do not embarrass me in public.”

“At least pretend to have faith in me.”

The microphone screeches slightly before a senior—one of the committee heads—leans in and speaks. “Alright, everyone! We’re going to start by noting down who’s participating in which category. We’ll call them out one by one—if you’re interested, raise your hand, and one of our team members will come get your details.”

A few murmurs ripple through the auditorium. Some students are already hyping each other up, while others look deeply unbothered and are clearly only here to skip class.

I lean slightly toward Arya. “This is unnecessarily organized for a school fest.”

“It’s almost like people actually care about the arts, Dev,” she whispers back, not even looking at me. “Shocking, right?”

The first category is called—Makeup and Costumes.

A few hands go up. I glance at Arya, who’s watching the crowd like a hawk.

Next is Set Design.

More hands. Arya looks unimpressed.

Then—Script Writing and Direction.

Arya shoots her hand up so aggressively I’m surprised she doesn’t dislocate her shoulder.

One of the student coordinators heads our way to note her details, and while I’m busy not caring, Arya grabs my wrist and yanks my hand up.

I blink. “What the—”

“Trust me,” Arya mutters through gritted teeth. “Or you’ll be kicked out before you can support me.”

“What did you just sign me up for?”

The coordinator reaches us before she can answer. “Name?”

“Dev Sharma,” Arya answers before I can react.

The guy scribbles it down. “Category—props and set assistance.”

I turn to Arya, horrified. “Props?”

“Relax. It’s barely any work. Just carry stuff and stand around looking useful.”

“That sounds like someone buying a slave would say.”

“That sounds like someone supporting a friend would say,” she says with a grin.

I sigh, accepting my fate.

Meanwhile, Arya is still hyper-aware of everything happening around us, eyes flicking between the committee members on stage. She leans toward me again.

“Okay, so since you clearly have no idea who’s who—”

“Because I don’t care—”

“—let me educate you.”

She nods toward the guy in the center, the one organizing everything. “That’s Aditya, student body vice president. He actually takes his job seriously, which makes him a rare species in this hellhole.”

“And the girl next to him?” I ask, mostly to keep her entertained.

Arya smirks. “That’s Priya. Remember her? From the debate? The one who was defending Raj’s bullshit like her life depended on it?”

I squint, glancing toward Priya. She’s sitting up too straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, her attention locked on Raj.

And Raj? He’s not looking at her.

Not really.

He’s doing his usual lazy, half-interested expression, but something about the way he adjusts his seat, the way his fingers tap against his clipboard, feels like avoidance.

Still, I keep my tone light. “Oh. The one who has a thing for him?”

Arya grins, tapping her temple. “Ding ding ding. She’s also on the committee. Which is hilarious because it means she’ll have to work with Raj for weeks, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

I huff a laugh, but for some reason, the words don’t sit right.

I glance back at Priya—at the way her gaze lingers on Raj for a second too long before she quickly looks away.

Something weird flickers in my chest. Not irritation.

I turn my head slightly—and for just a second, Raj’s eyes meet mine.

It’s brief. So brief that I could pretend I imagined it.

But I didn’t. Because Raj’s gaze doesn’t just pass over me like it usually does.

It lingers.

Then he looks away, like nothing happened. And I do the same.

Before I can respond, Aditya’s voice echoes through the mic again. “Alright! Everyone who signed up for a category, stay back. The rest—out. Go back to your classes, do whatever you want, but you can’t be here.”

A collective groan sweeps through the students.

“What the hell, man?” someone yells from the back.

“This is oppression,” another voice calls.

“Go back to classes,” Priya says, crossing her arms. “Or don’t. Just don’t be here.”

A few students grumble loudly but start making their way toward the exit.

Arya nudges me, whispering, “See? Even the committee is tired of their lives.”

“And now I’m stuck with tired asses,” I mutter.

Arya grins, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “Welcome to hell, bestie.”

The auditorium is quieter now, filled only with the students who actually signed up. There’s a strange mix of excitement and exhaustion in the air—half the room looks like they’ve been waiting for this moment their entire lives, and the other half looks like they accidentally ended up here and are now wondering how to escape.

Raj and the other committee members settle into their seats in the front row, clipboards in hand, looking far too official for a school fest play selection.

And then—

“Alright, let’s get started,” Aditya announces into the mic. “We’ll go category by category, and first up—script writing. If you signed up, step forward when your name is called and pitch your idea. We’ll shortlist a few before selecting the final play.”

Arya practically vibrates next to me.

“Relax,” I mutter. “They’ll think you’re about to explode.”

“I am about to explode,” she hisses. “If they don’t pick my script, I’m committing arson.”

“Noted.”

Aditya starts calling out names, and one by one, students head up to the stage.

The first few ideas are boring.

One girl suggests a historical drama. A guy proposes some overcomplicated political satire that loses half the room in the first two sentences. Someone else pitches a play about climate change, which sounds important but also like it’ll put everyone to sleep.

Then—

“Arya Kapoor.”

Arya launches herself out of her seat.

I don’t know if she teleported or if I blinked, but one second she’s next to me, the next she’s on stage.

She snatches the mic, eyes gleaming with insane levels of confidence.

“Alright, listen up,” she says. “I have written something that will single-handedly make this entire fest legendary. If you reject it, you will regret it for the rest of your miserable lives.”

Raj sighs dramatically. “We’re off to a great start.”

Priya glares at him. “Let her talk.”

Arya grins like she’s already won.

“The play is about a forbidden love between an angel and a human.”

Murmurs ripple through the audience. People are paying attention now.

“The angel is bound by the laws of heaven, forbidden from forming any attachment to mortals. The human, unaware of their fate, keeps pulling them closer. It’s about two souls that should never meet, but can’t seem to stay apart.”

There’s something in the way she says it.

Something electric.

Even Raj looks slightly impressed, though he’s pretending not to be.

Priya leans forward. “And how does it end?”

Arya’s expression shifts.

The confidence is still there, but there’s something else now, too. Something a little sad.

“Not every love story gets a happy ending,” she says simply. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it.”

For a second—just a second—the room is silent.

Then Raj clears his throat. “That was unnecessarily dramatic.”

Arya glares. “You’re unnecessarily alive.”

“Can we move on?” Aditya interrupts before actual murder happens. “Next up—Asim Khan.”

A guy from the back rows stretches lazily and makes his way to the stage. Tall. Lean. That effortless, infuriating confidence that certain people just have.

And the moment Arya sees him—I see her soul leave her body.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

“Who?” I ask, highly entertained.

“Satan.”

“Satan has nice hair,” I note.

“Shut up, Dev.”

Asim reaches the mic, smirks, and leans slightly against the podium like he’s here to waste everyone’s time.

“My idea is simple,” he says. “A play about two rival gang leaders who fall in love. It’s dark, it’s dramatic, it’s violent—”

“—It’s Romeo and Juliet but with guns,” Arya interrupts.

Asim flashes her a lazy grin. “What, you don’t like a little bloodshed with your romance?”

“I don’t like you with my oxygen, but here we are,” Arya snaps.

I stifle a laugh.

Oh. This is going to be fun.

Raj raises an eyebrow. “So, basically, West Side Story but less singing and more stabbing?”

“Exactly,” Asim says, nodding. “More fun, less repetitive musical angelic tragedy.”

Priya writes something down on her clipboard. “And the message behind it?”

“That sometimes love isn’t about destiny—it’s about defying everything that’s trying to keep you apart,” Asim says smoothly.

Arya scoffs so hard I think she might implode.

“Oh, how poetic,” she deadpans. “Love and crime, the perfect combination. Maybe we should also do a play about tax fraud while we’re at it.”

Asim smirks. “You’re just mad because my idea is better.”

Arya’s eyes narrow. “Say that again. Slowly. So I can really appreciate your stupidity.”

“Kids,” Raj interrupts, sounding too amused. “Let’s keep it civil.”

Arya takes a deep breath, places a hand on her chest like she’s calming herself, and then turns to the judges.

“I will be taking this personally, just so you all know.”

Raj grins. “Duly noted.”

Aditya sighs. “Alright, we’ll take a vote. Give us a few minutes.”

The committee leans in, whispering amongst themselves. Arya keeps staring daggers at Asim, who looks completely unbothered.

After a moment, Priya stands and clears her throat.

“After some discussion, we’ve made our decision.”

Arya sits up straight.

“The final script for the Independence Day play is—”

A pause.

A breath.

And then—

“Arya Kapoor’s ‘Fallen’ wins.”

There’s a beat of silence—

And then Arya jumps up so fast I think she’s about to levitate.

“YES. SUCK IT, LOSERS.”

Raj shakes his head. “And there goes any chance of her being humble about it.”

Asim, still lounging casually in his seat, gives Arya a slow, mocking clap. “Congratulations, drama queen. Hope your little angel play is worth it.”

Arya glares. “I hope you step on a Lego and never recover.”

I watch them, fighting the urge to laugh.

This? This is going to be interesting and strangely… I’m interested.