Chapter 36

The rickshaw jerks to a stop, and for a second, neither of us move.

Aman pulls out a few crumpled notes, hands them to the driver, and steps out without a word. I follow, my foot hitting the uneven pavement, dust kicking up in the dim evening light.

The air is thick—humid, heavy, clinging to my skin. The last streaks of daylight stretch long shadows over the ground, the orange glow flickering against the rusted gates and cracked cement walls.

Aman doesn’t look at me.

Just shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking.

I take in the surroundings as I fall into step beside him. The buildings here are old, stacked close together like they’re holding each other up. Clothes hang from metal railings, swaying slightly in the evening breeze. Somewhere, a woman is yelling at her kid to come inside. A few men are sitting near the entrance, smoking, their voices a low murmur of conversation.

Aman moves through all of it like he’s invisible. Like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

He still won’t look at me.

And then it clicks. This isn’t just Aman being Aman.

He’s ashamed?

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this—so visibly closed off, so stiff in his own space. He wasn’t like this outside my house. That time, he had just been quiet, observant.

Now? He’s avoiding my gaze like it physically hurts to let me see him here.

I exhale, adjusting my bag, my fingers tapping against the strap. I don’t like this.

We turn into his building, and the stairwell is even darker. The walls are coated in layers of peeling paint, the railing rusted where the metal peeks through. The lights overhead flicker, buzzing faintly, barely enough to cut through the dimness.

Aman moves faster, like he wants to get this over with. Like if we walk quickly enough, I won’t see what’s around me.

I do, though. And I recognize it.

The close walls, the voices drifting from open windows, the smell of food from someone’s kitchen mixing with the scent of damp cement.

It’s different from my neighborhood now.

But not from the one I grew up in.

I let my fingers brush the railing, feeling the cool metal under my skin.

“You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, “we used to live in a place like this.”

Aman’s steps slow.

I don’t look at him. Just keep going, my fingers trailing against the chipped paint.

Aman is silent, but I feel the shift in his presence.

His fingers flex at his sides—just for a second, like he was about to clench them into fists but stopped himself. His shoulders, which have been stiff since we got here, loosen just barely, like my words cracked through something he was holding too tightly.

I glance at the flickering tube light above us.

“My dad never liked it. He used to say we’d leave that place one day,” I add. “But, honestly? I never really hated it. I still miss a few of my old neighbours.”

Aman exhales. It’s quiet, almost too soft to catch, but it’s there.

When I finally glance at him, he’s already looking at me. Not guarded. Not unreadable. Just… looking.

Like he wasn’t expecting me to understand—but now that I do, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

His jaw shifts, like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns back toward the stairs. His pace is slower now. Less rushed.

And when we reach his floor, this time, when he pushes open the door—

He doesn’t hesitate before letting me in. I follow, letting the door shut behind me.

The room is small. Cramped, even. The kind of space where everything has to serve a purpose because there’s no room for anything extra. A single bed tucked into the corner, a shelf stacked with neatly folded clothes, a small kitchen space on the far end with exactly two steel plates stacked near the sink.

And across from the bed, a study table.

The wood is old, scratched in places, but clean. A laptop sits open on top, an ancient model, the kind that probably wheezes every time it boots up. Books are stacked beside it, some school-related, others with their spines bent from too much use.

The walls are bare except for a few old posters—faded, their edges curling slightly—and a single shelf with a few framed photos.

I step closer.

The photos are old, their edges slightly worn, the glass of the frames smudged in places. They aren’t decorations—they’re memories that have been handled, moved, lived with.

All of them are of Aman and his mother.

No one else.

There’s one where she’s holding him as a kid, his tiny hands gripping the fabric of her sari. Her smile is wide, almost too big for the frame, her arms wrapped around him like he was the only thing that mattered. Maybe he was.

Another, more recent, shows them in front of a temple. Aman looks younger—thirteen, maybe—his face still softer, rounder than it is now. He’s standing slightly apart from her, his hands shoved into his pockets, but even in the faded print, I can tell. She was looking at him. But Aman? Aman was looking at the ground.

I swallow.

There’s nothing else. No father. No extended family. No school friends or festival pictures, no group photos with cousins or uncles or anyone else. Just them. Like a world that existed with no one outside its borders.

I don’t know why, but something about that sits heavy in my chest.

Because I recognize it.

Not in the way I should—my family, for all its faults, was never just two people trying to hold on to each other. But the silence in these frames? The way they feel so isolated, so untouched by anyone else’s presence?

Yeah. That, I know.

Aman moves past me, heading toward the kitchen. “She’s working,” he says before I can ask.

I glance at him. “She’ll be late?”

Aman nods, grabbing a steel glass and filling it from the water filter. He hands it to me without looking up.

I take the glass, the cool metal pressing against my palm. It’s heavier than I expect. “She works night shifts?”

Aman hesitates. “Sometimes.”

I don’t need to ask what that means. Sometimes isn’t really sometimes. It’s most of the time. It’s whenever she has to. It’s whenever there’s no other choice.

The silence stretches, something unspoken settling between us. Aman shifts slightly, glancing toward the study table, then back at the space between us—like he’s trying to figure out what happens next.

Right. He’s never had a friend over before.

I take a slow sip of water, setting the glass down beside me. Then I stretch, dramatic and deliberate, before slumping into the nearest chair like I belong there.

“Well, your place is missing something,” I announce.

Aman frowns, wary. “What?”

I tap my chin, considering. “A neon ‘Welcome to Aman’s Bachelor Pad’ sign.”

Aman blinks. Then—finally—his lips twitch, just a little. Like he didn’t expect to, like it caught him off guard. “Idiot.”

I shrug grinning.

Aman exhales, shaking his head. But the tension in his shoulders loosens. Just slightly. Like he’s letting himself believe that maybe—just maybe—this doesn’t have to be weird.

He moves to the study table, pulls out the old laptop, and flips it open. The screen flickers, slow and unsteady, like it’s struggling to wake up.

I watch as he reaches into the drawer, pulling out the USB drive, plugging it in, and the screen flickering to life. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble. Just works, like it’s second nature.

I stretch back in my chair, arms over my head. “You know,” I say, “I think we should officially document the fact that Ishan contributed nothing to this project.”

Aman doesn’t react, so I keep going.

“I mean, he didn’t even pretend to help. Not a single ‘Hey guys, let’s meet up’ or ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ Just radio silence. Impressive, really.” I tap the desk. “He’s the Houdini of group assignments.”

Aman doesn’t turn. But his voice comes, quiet.

“He’s avoiding me.”

That makes me pause.

Outside, the sky is shifting. Clouds, thick and grey, pressing in over the buildings. The sunlight that had been there earlier is gone now—buried under the weight of something heavier.

And I remember.

Aman, Ishan, Bullying, Silence

And for some reason, something in my chest twists.

Something I don’t want to name. Something like recognition.

Because I remember.

I remember the bathroom stalls. The laughter. The voices behind me, around me, inside me.

I remember the cold tile against my palms.

The hands grabbing at my shirt, the words like sharp edges against my skin.

“Fag.”

“Say something.”

“Come on, Sharma. Do something. We know you like that.”

I remember standing there, still, frozen, while they laughed. While they touched me like I wasn’t a person, like I was something to be played with, something meant to be humiliated.

I remember thinking, this is what it means to be helpless.

And I remember the people who were there.

Who saw.

Who looked away.

Aman didn’t do this to me.

But he did it to Ishan.

I exhale, shifting my gaze from the window back to him. My voice is softer this time. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Aman’s hands still on the desk.

For a second, I think he won’t answer. But then he turns—and his eyes meet mine.

And my heart stops for a second.

I’ve seen him quiet. I’ve seen him unreadable, distant, blank. But I’ve never seen him look vulnerable.

His jaw clenches, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, finally, he speaks.

“My mother worked fourteen-hour shifts to get me here.” His voice is quiet, even, but there’s something underneath it. Something raw.

I don’t say anything. I just watch him.

Aman swallows. Not like he’s nervous—like he’s bracing himself.

“She worked any job she could find. Morning shifts, night shifts. Whatever paid.” His fingers press against the table, knuckles paling. “She didn’t complain. She never asked for anything. She just worked.”

He exhales. “When I got into this school on a scholarship, she was—” His throat bobs slightly. “She was so happy.”

His fingers tighten.

“I can’t lose this, Dev.” His voice is steady, but there’s something in it now. Not desperation. Not fear. Something heavier.

“We can’t afford it. We can’t afford losing things.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m not like the others. I can’t get into fights.”

Aman’s words linger, settling into the silence between us like something heavy, something I don’t know how to lift.

His fingers tap the desk once, twice. Like he needs to keep moving or he’ll crack.

“I have to be something. For her.”

Outside, the faint hum of thunder vibrates in the distance.

Aman doesn’t look away.

His eyes meet mine through his glasses—dark, steady, hiding too much. But for once, I can see past that carefully built wall.

I see him.

Not the Aman who walks through school untouched by everything around him.

Not the Aman who answers questions in class without hesitation, who always knows the answer.

Not the Aman who people look at but never really see.

Just Aman. And he looks… tired.

I push off the chair before I think about it, stepping toward him. Aman doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch—just watches me like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

I stop when I’m close enough that I can see the faint reflection of the laptop screen in his lenses, the way his fingers are curled against the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

I exhale. “You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, “you’re the nerdiest guy I know.”

Aman blinks.

I shrug. “Seriously. You’re the kind of guy who could solve a physics problem in his sleep. You know every subject inside and out. I don’t think you’ve ever gotten less than full marks in your entire life.”

His jaw tightens. He looks away, a small scoff leaving his lips. Like I don’t get it.

I keep going.

“You’re doing everything you can.” My voice is softer now. “You know that, right?”

His breath catches for just a second.

I don’t think I was supposed to hear it.

And then—his eyes flick back to mine.

There’s something unguarded about them now, something bare in a way Aman never allows himself to be. And for the first time, I wonder how long he’s been carrying this alone.

How long he’s been trying to be enough.

I exhale, shifting slightly. “You’re already something, Aman. You don’t have to break yourself to prove it.”

Aman doesn’t answer.

But his fingers uncurl.

And when his gaze lingers on mine—behind the thin frame of his glasses, behind everything he never says—I know he heard me.

***

The sky is heavy.

Clouds rolling in, thick and swollen, pressing against the earth like they’re trying to smother it. The air hums—charged, waiting—like the moment before a storm isn’t silence, but something alive.

I walk.

The pavement is cracked beneath my shoes, the streetlights flicker weakly, and somewhere in the distance, thunder groans. The wind shifts against my skin, damp with the promise of rain, and I know I should hurry—get to the bus stop before the downpour starts. But my legs feel slow, my chest heavier than it should be.

Because something about this evening isn’t just air and sky and coming rain.

Something about it is sitting inside my ribs, pressing sharp against bone. I think it’s the way Aman looked at me.

Or maybe, the way he almost didn’t.

Like letting me see him, really see him, was an accident. A slip in his armor, a crack he hadn’t meant to reveal.

The old laptop. The smudged photo frames. The plates stacked in twos, because that’s all they need.

No father. No cousins. No safety net of relatives that stretch out in a mess of phone calls and festival invitations. Just them. A world with only two people holding it up.

And somehow, I never realized.

I think about the way he moved through the stairwell—fast, quiet, deliberate. Like he was trying to outrun the walls around him. Like he wanted to shrink into the cracks so I wouldn’t see.

But I do.

I see him now.

I see the way his mother worked herself to exhaustion so he could sit in a classroom next to people who never had to fight for it.

I see the way he’s spent his whole life trying to be enough.

And suddenly, every unanswered text, every quiet moment, every time Aman let me talk and never offered anything back—it all makes sense.

He doesn’t hold back because he’s cold.

He holds back because he can’t afford to break.