Chapter 37

The smell of rain clings to the air-wet earth before the storm, static before the break.

I walk faster. Not because I mind the rain-I don’t. But because I know what comes with it. The city changing, the roads drowning, the way everything slows down once the first drop hits.

I could’ve taken a rickshaw. Should’ve, maybe. But I want the walk. I want the space.

The bus stop is just ahead, empty except for a stray dog curled beneath the bench. I look up, watching the sky crack open above me, dark clouds unfolding like ink in water. And suddenly-it feels familiar.

Not just the sky. Not just the waiting

But this exact walk. This exact moment.

And before I even realize it, I’m not here anymore. Last year when I had taken the walk to the bus stop-

Amit was already there.

Standing outside the shelter of the bus stop, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at nothing. Or maybe at the sky. Or maybe at the road. Or maybe just at a future that didn’t have me in it anymore.

It had been months. Months of silence disguised as nothingness, of passing each other in hallways like we hadn’t once walked them with our hands on each other’s shoulders.

Months of avoiding, pushing, pretending.

I don’t know who started it. Maybe me. Maybe him. Maybe both of us in different ways. Maybe neither of us wanted to, but we still let it happen. Like a slow, mutual suicide of something that once mattered.

I should’ve turned back. Should’ve waited for another bus. Should’ve walked home in the fucking rain before standing next to him again and feeling like a stranger.

But I didn’t.

Because despite everything, some part of me still wanted to stand beside him.

So I did.

Not speaking. Not looking. Just existing next to each other like ghosts in the places we used to live.

And then-Amit smiled.

That same casual, careless smile. The one that used to feel effortless. The one that never needed permission before.

But now? Now it felt like something broken trying to pretend it wasn’t.

The tension sat between us like a wound neither of us wanted to touch.

Then he shifted. Just slightly.

I noticed immediately. I always did. Because Amit always did this-that small, almost imperceptible movement before he wanted to say something.

I don’t know why I said it. Maybe just to fill the silence. Maybe because the silence was saying too much.

“You can say it, you know.”

My voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t soft. It just-was.

Amit blinked. Met my gaze for the first time that day. And then-so quiet it barely existed-

“Happy birthday, Sharma.”

Something lodged itself in my throat. I hadn’t been expecting it.

I should’ve. But I hadn’t.

The bus jolted to a stop, but I barely registered it. The doors groaned open, the city stretching out in front of us, headlights reflecting in puddles, voices merging into the low hum of traffic.

I stepped off first. I should have just gone home.

Amit followed, his steps too close, too familiar, too wrong after all those months of distance.

We turned the corner, and my building came into view. My fingers twitched, ready to pull my bag tighter, ready to end the night before it could become something I’d regret missing later.

Then—his fingers wrapped around my wrist.

Not tight. But enough.

Enough to stop me. Enough to make my breath catch, my body tense, my pulse stumble over itself.

For a second-just a second-I let myself feel it.

The weight of his hand. The warmth of his skin. The way my body recognized his touch before my mind caught up.

I should have snatched my arm away. I should have snapped at him, should have demanded to know why he was doing this now-after months of empty hallways and stolen glances, after months of silence where there used to be everything.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because this? This was what I had been waiting for. And I hated him for it. I hated how much I wanted this.

Amit looked at me, his lips twitching like he was trying to find the right words, and my chest ached because I already knew what he was going to say.

“You aren’t going home.”

***

A horn blares in the distance. Headlights sweep over the wet pavement, reflecting in scattered puddles.

The bus pulls up, tires splashing against the curb. The door groans open, releasing a gust of warm, stale air into the cold night.

I step forward, gripping the metal railing. The bus is nearly empty. The seats are slick with humidity, the faint scent of rust and rain clinging to the air.

I drop into a seat by the window, resting my forehead against the cool glass.

The first drop of rain hits.

Then another.

And another.

The sky gives in all at once, releasing everything it’s been holding back. Water streaks down the glass in uneven trails, distorting the city beyond it-soft edges, blurred outlines, everything shifting but never settling.

I exhale, fingers tightening against my jeans.

And suddenly, I’m not here anymore.

***

“You aren’t going home”

It wasn’t a question.

And I should have told him to fuck off. I should have told him that he didn’t get to do this anymore-to disappear and reappear when it was convenient, to pull me in just to push me away again.

But his grip on my wrist tightened-just barely.

And I went.

The place was almost empty when we walked in. The kind of unnatural quiet that didn’t feel peaceful.

The kitchen light flickered once. Shoes were scattered by the door. A dull hum came from a fan somewhere in the house.

“Go to my room,” Amit said, already shrugging off his jacket.

I hesitated.

Because it had been months. Because this used to be normal. Because I didn’t know what it was now.

But my feet moved anyway, like they always fucking did when it came to him.

The door swung open, and the first thing I saw was the fairy lights.

Soft, golden, glowing in delicate strings across the ceiling. The kind that made everything look warmer than it was. The kind that belonged in places that felt like home.

And for a second, I just stood there.

Because I knew Amit. I knew he hadn’t done this for himself.

The lump in my throat was sudden and sharp.

Behind me, I heard his footsteps.

Then, his voice-quiet, right behind me.

“Turn around, Sharma.”

I did.

And he was standing there, a small lemon cake in his hands.

That fucking lemon cake.

The candle flickered, tiny and fragile, casting an uneven glow over his face. His expression was unreadable-something soft, something cautious, something like an apology without the words.

I couldn’t fucking breathe.

Because this was Amit. This was still Amit.

And maybe I should have been mad at him.

Maybe I should have shoved the cake out of his hands, demanded an explanation, made him say it out loud—why he left, why he let me think I didn’t matter anymore, why he only came back when I had finally convinced myself he was gone.

Maybe I should have asked him if he even understood what it had felt like to watch him walk away.

But I didn’t.

Because the second I saw him standing there, glowing in the soft, golden light of his own making, holding something so small but so fucking heavy-I broke.

I grabbed him.

Not a careful, hesitant touch. Not a question.

Amit stumbled back a step, startled, the cake tilting dangerously in his hands, but I didn’t care.

My fingers curled into the back of his hoodie, desperate, shaking, holding onto him like I had been starving for this and I finally got to taste it again.

And maybe I had.

Maybe I had been starving for this.

For him.

For the feeling of his body against mine-solid, warm, real.

For the way his breath hitched against my ear before he exhaled, shaky, slow, like he hadn’t expected this but wouldn’t let go either.

For the way his chest rose and fell against me, the steady rhythm of his breathing pressing into mine, syncing without trying.

He smelled the same. Like something fresh, something grounding, something home.

And I realized—this was the closest I had been to him in months.

That thought shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

Then Amit moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

One arm circled my waist, firm, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he wasn’t holding me right.

And then-then he lowered his head.

The weight of it rested against mine, his temple pressing into my hair, his breath fanning across my cheek.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing closer, chest aching, lungs full of something too big to hold.

I missed him.

God, I fucking missed him so much.

More than I should have. More than I wanted to admit.

So much that it was physically painful.

I sniffed, trying to pull back, trying to remember why I should still have been angry, why I shouldn’t have let him back in so easily.

But Amit just tightened his grip.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

Soft. Like an apology, like a confession, like something he wouldn’t say out loud.

I went still.

His heart beat under my palm, steady and familiar, and for the first time in months, I felt like I could fucking breathe.

Amit shifted slightly, his nose brushing my temple, his fingers digging into my back like he needed me as much as I needed him.

I didn’t think I could move.

I didn’t think I wanted to.

He was warm. He was here.

And for now, that was enough.

The rain came down in waves, soft against the balcony glass, the streetlights outside turning the droplets into golden streaks that slid down the pane.

We lay on Amit’s bed, wrapped in a silence that didn’t feel empty.

The only sound? Moulin Rouge! playing on his laptop.

He had set it up. Hadn’t even complained. Hadn’t mocked me for liking musicals, hadn’t made a single joke when I told him it was my favorite for the hundredth time.

He had just queued it up, pressed play, and pulled me into him.

We were close. Too close.

Amit’s arm curled loosely around my waist, his other hand resting on my arm. Every now and then, his thumb moved, absently tracing circles on my skin like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

And I had let him.

Because this was what I had wanted.

His warmth. The slow rise and fall of his chest. Him.

Outside, thunder rolled in the distance, low and tired, like it had been waiting for this night as long as I had.

I didn’t even register when his lips pressed against my hair. Once. Then again.

Soft. Familiar. Like breathing.

This was what I had needed.

The comfort. The feeling of belonging to someone without asking for permission. Him.

I let myself sink into it. Let myself close my eyes and press against him. Let myself need him.

And that was when it hit me.

This had always been what we were, hadn’t it? We had never been just friends.

Not when we had stayed up too late whispering things we never said in daylight.

Not when he had traced patterns on my palm absentmindedly.

Not when he had held me like this even before we knew what it meant.

So why—

Why had he pushed me toward Vikram?

I shifted slightly, just enough to loosen my grip on his hoodie. Amit stilled.

It was small-barely a movement-but he felt the difference immediately. His arm tightened around me for half a second-then it was gone.

I sat up. Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to breathe. Just enough to not drown in this. Amit didn’t say anything. But I felt his eyes on me, wide, watching, waiting.

Then he exhaled. And when he spoke, his voice was too careful.

“Sharma?”

Like I had just taken something from him.

And he didn’t know how to get it back.

“Why?”

It slipped out before I could stop it. Before I could swallow it down, bury it deep like all the other questions I had never gotten to ask. Before I could tell myself that it didn’t matter anymore. That I didn’t care anymore.

Amit exhaled, his head tilting slightly like he hadn’t expected this. Like he hadn’t thought we would actually do this tonight.

“Dev—”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared. Like he was searching for the right words. Like there was a right way to explain what he had done.

Then—

“Sorry.”

I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was so absurdly small. A four-letter apology for months of silence, for forcing me away, for making me feel like I had imagined our entire friendship.

“Sorry?” I repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign, like I didn’t understand what it was supposed to mean anymore. “That’s it? Sorry for ignoring me? For acting like we never existed? For disappearing and then—what? Showing up again like nothing happened?”

Amit pressed his lips together, watching me carefully. Like he was waiting for me to be done. Like he wasn’t going to fight back this time.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he finally said.

I blinked. “Oh? Really? Because from where I was standing, that’s exactly what it looked like.”

He huffed out a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t, I swear. I just—I had to. For work.”

“Work?” The word tasted foreign in my mouth. “What work?”

“Part-time jobs.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “My parents decided I should learn ‘responsibility’ or whatever. Which is their nice way of saying they stopped giving me money.”

For some stupid reason, that made me laugh. A real, achingly sad laugh. Because of course. Of course, Amit would give me a version of the truth that didn’t actually explain anything.

“They cut you off?” I said between quiet chuckles. “I always knew they’d get sick of your bullshit before I did. But that’s sudden.”

“Shut up.” But he was smiling, like he hadn’t expected me to take this well.

For a second, it felt like us again. Like before. Like everything in between had never happened.

But then the moment shifted. Slipped away. My chest tightened, and suddenly, I couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“You know that you have hurt me, right? And you know what hurt the most?” My voice was quieter now. Not broken, not weak. Just tired. “Not just you leaving. Not just you pretending like I didn’t exist anymore. It was when you started pushing me toward Vikram.”

Amit’s face dropped.

“Dev—”

“No. Let me say it. I need to say it.” I exhaled, staring at my own hands. “You knew I hated him. You knew I didn’t want him. I wanted you. I thought I already had you. But you kept doing it. Over and over. Like I was something to be handed off. Like you were done with me, so you needed someone to take your place. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

His whole body tensed, his jaw clenching like he was swallowing something back.

Then, softer than I had ever heard him-“I would never—God, Dev, I would never do that to you.”

“But you did.”

He flinched. Like I had hit him. Like he hadn’t realized how much it had actually hurt me.

His hands wrapped around mine, warm and solid and familiar in a way that made my throat feel tight.

His grip tightened around mine, like he was bracing himself for something. Or maybe trying to hold himself together.

“I was confused.” His voice was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it. “Not just about us. About everything. About what I felt, about what to do with it. About whether it even mattered, because…” He let out a soft, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Because you were always something too big for me to hold, Dev. Too much, too bright, too—”

He stopped. He didn’t need to finish. I knew.

“You were like the moon.” His fingers twitched against mine. “Always there, always pulling me in, but never mine to keep. And I—I didn’t know if I was supposed to reach for you. If I even deserved to.”

The words hit like an ache I had been carrying all this time but had never let myself feel. Like something I had been waiting to hear for so long that now that it was here, I didn’t know what to do with it.

I swallowed hard, my throat burning. “You could have just asked.”

Amit’s breath stuttered. “What?”

“You could have just asked me if I wanted to be held. If I wanted to be yours. If I wanted—” I inhaled sharply, willing my voice to stay steady, even as something inside me threatened to unravel.

“Because I did, Amit. I did. And it wrecked me when you left, when you acted like I was something to put down, like I was jus— just some chapter you were done reading. Like we were something temporary when we never were.”

Amit flinched, and suddenly, I hated that I had said it like that.

So I breathed through it and said the only thing that mattered.

“I missed you.” My voice was quieter this time, raw in a way I hadn’t meant for it to be. “I missed you so much, idiot. I thought I’d never stop feeling empty.”

Amit dipped his head slightly, like he was trying to hide whatever was in his eyes. But I didn’t let him.

“You thought you weren’t supposed to hold the moon?” I whispered, squeezing his hands, firm and certain, like I could force him to believe me.

I guided them—our joined hands—to my chest, right over my heartbeat.

“You’ve been holding it this whole time.”

Amit’s breath hitched, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Then-slowly, deliberately, he pressed his forehead against mine.

“Dev—” His voice shook.

I closed my eyes, holding him closer. “Don’t disappear on me again. My voice broke. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

“I won’t. Not ever.” His fingers clutched tighter, like he was making a promise. Like he meant it. “I promise.”