Chapter 43

The room is drowning in shadows. Only the moonlight cuts through, pale and silver, slipping through the balcony glass, stretching across the floor like a ghost that doesn’t know where to rest.

I still feel it.

The kiss.

The heat of Raj’s hands on me.

The way he pulled me closer, like he’d been waiting for it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I kissed him first.

Why the fuck did I do that?

My breath shudders as I press my palms against my face, as if I can scrub the memory off my skin. But it’s there—underneath my ribs, curling around my spine, rooted deep where I can’t reach it.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t you.

Amit.

I know you’re gone. I know that.

But will you never come back?

Never?

Ever?

I sit up, restless, heart hammering too fast. The silence is thick, pressing in, suffocating. I can’t stay in it, can’t sit in this feeling that I don’t even know how to name.

I stumble toward the closet, my fingers already curling around the handle before my brain catches up. The door creaks open, and there—on the top shelf, half-buried under clothes I never wear anymore—

The green stuffed turtle.

The one you won for me that night at the carnival. The one you shoved into my hands like a prize, like a joke, like something I was supposed to keep forever.

I pull it down, my fingers sinking into the fabric.

It’s smaller than I remember.

Or maybe I’ve just grown past the part of me that used to hold it at night.

Maybe I was supposed to.

I clutch it tighter anyway, pressing it against my ribs.

It doesn’t smell like you anymore.

It doesn’t smell like anything.

The pressure behind my eyes burns. I don’t know what I expected. That time would fold in on itself? That I’d press my face into this stupid thing and suddenly I’d be seventeen again, and you’d still be here, and none of it would’ve happened?

I squeeze my eyes shut. The breath I take is sharp, too sharp.

Then I see it. Your guitar.

Leaning against the back of the closet, untouched, collecting dust.

My hand moves before I can think. Fingers dragging over the wood, curling around the neck. The second I touch it—the second I feel the weight of it again, heavy, familiar, real—

Something inside me breaks.

I sink to the floor, pulling it against my chest, holding it the way I should have held you. The turtle is still clutched in my fist, crushed between my ribs and my arm, but the guitar—the guitar feels like you.

Like something I was supposed to keep safe.

Like something I lost anyway.

My throat tightens. I try to breathe through it. Try to swallow down whatever this is, but—

The first sob rips through me before I can stop it.

And then I’m breaking, completely.

Not just tears. Not just crying.

It’s gasping. It’s choking. It’s silent and violent and raw.

It’s grief and guilt and the kind of missing that never really goes away.

Because if you were supposed to stay, why did you leave?

Because if I let myself want again, will I just lose it all over again?

Because if I call your name now, will you hear me?

The ceiling stares back at me. The turtle is warm against my ribs.

The guitar doesn’t answer.

And neither do you.

***

The bus lurched forward, the old metal frame rattling, warm autumn air rushing in through the half-open windows. Laughter and excitement crackled in the air—everyone buzzing about the talent fair, talking over each other, but Amit? Amit was sitting next to me, acting like none of it existed.

Like the only thing he was interested in was me.

The second we sat down, he grabbed my hand. Not subtly. Not cautiously. Just wrapped his fingers around mine, warm and sure, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I stiffened, instinctively glancing around, but no one was looking.

He leaned in, voice lazy, teasing. “Why do you always look so scandalized when I hold your hand? You’re cute when you panic, Sharma.”

I shot him a glare. “I don’t panic.”

“Lies,” he said, grinning. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be asking me something important?”

I frowned. “Like what?”

He sighed dramatically, squeezing my hand like I was disappointing him. “Like why I’m not sitting with my team, obviously.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Shouldn’t you be with your team? Big, important, golden boy? The one who’s supposed to never let anyone down?”

Amit hummed, then—without warning—turned his head and kissed my cheek.

I froze.

The warmth of his lips lingered way too long. My stomach did something weird—somewhere between flipping and plummeting—and my brain? Fully short-circuited.

I whipped my head around. “What the hell—”

Amit just smiled. Too smug. Too comfortable. Too much.

“No,” he said, ignoring my meltdown completely. “I’m going to spend the day with my boyfriend.”

I choked. “Your what?”

“My boyfriend.” He shrugged, like it was obvious. “You know. cute like a bunny. Kind of grumpy. Blushes way too easily. Looks exactly like you.”

I stared at him. “I—You—I’m not—”

Amit tilted his head. “Wait.” He leaned in, eyes twinkling with way too much amusement. “Are you not my boyfriend?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “That’s not—That’s not what I meant.”

“So you are?”

I hated him.

I felt my entire face heat up. “I didn’t—That’s not—”

Amit grinned. “Sharma,” he said, voice all low and pleased, “you’re really bad at this.”

“I’m bad at what?”

“Denying things.”

He smiled, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to watch me lose my mind. His hand, still wrapped around mine, tightened just slightly.

Then, before I could react, he leaned in even closer.

Too close.

His breath brushed against my skin, lips hovering just over my jaw.

“You’re my moon, Sharma, remember?” he murmured, voice all low and smooth and terrifyingly confident.

I stopped breathing.

The bus jolted over a speed bump, and Amit barely moved—he just pressed in closer, like he was making sure I felt the warmth of him, the weight of those words.

His moon.

His.

I hated how my pulse stumbled violently in my throat.

I hated how I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t push him away, couldn’t say a single goddamn thing.

I hated how he was still so close, so warm, so unbearably smug.

I turned my head away, trying to breathe normally. “I hate you.”

Amit laughed, softly.

His lips barely brushed my ear when he whispered—

“No, you don’t, moon.”

The bus rattled on, the world outside rushing past in a blur of green and gold, but inside? Inside, everything felt still.

Amit’s fingers were laced through mine, his grip solid, steady, unshakable. His thumb traced lazy circles over my wrist, like he was committing every inch of me to memory.

And I let him.

I let myself sink into it—the warmth of his touch, the quiet hum of his voice, the way he looked at me like I was something worth keeping.

That day, I believed it.

I believed in him. In us.

I believed the world belonged to me.

That happiness was something I could hold in my hands and never lose.

That the future was something I could want.

I push off the floor, wiping a hand down my face, forcing in a breath. My eyes burn. My head feels heavy. I can’t stay in this room anymore.

It is too quiet.

I don’t know what time it is, but it’s late. Too late. The kind of late where sleep should’ve come hours ago, but it never does.

The house is dark when I step out. Everything feels still, untouched. Like the world is holding its breath. I should go back. I should try to sleep. Instead, my feet move toward the terrace door.

The air is sharp when I slide it open, cold against my skin, cutting through the heat still clinging to me. I step outside—

And stop.

She’s there.

My mother sits on the old wooden swing, slow and steady, rocking back and forth, lost in some thought I can’t see. The night stretches around her, silver and blue, the moonlight catching in the strands of her hair. She looks smaller like this. Not in the way that means weak—but in the way that means human.

She glances up when she hears me.

“You’re awake,” she says softly.

I huff out something close to a laugh. “So are you.”

She hums, tilting her head toward the space beside her. I hesitate—then step forward, sinking down onto the swing next to her. The wood creaks under the weight.

We sit in silence for a long time. The kind of silence that isn’t uncomfortable, but full.

Then—

“I used to come here a lot when you were younger,” she says, eyes on the sky. “Back when you had trouble sleeping. You’d come running out here, all frustrated, saying the night was ‘too loud.'”

I snort. “I was dramatic.”

She smiles. “Mm. Maybe. But you always calmed down once you sat here.” She glances at me. “Maybe it’ll work again.”

I look away. Because it’s not the same. Because the things keeping me up now aren’t just nightmares or bad dreams.

She must know. She always does.

“You’ve been somewhere else lately,” she says after a moment. “Even when you’re here, you’re not really here.”

I exhale slowly. “Just tired.”

She hums, but it’s the kind that says I don’t believe you, but I’ll let you have it for now.

The wind shifts, brushing against my skin, rustling through the plants lining the terrace.

Then she says, “Is it something you did?”

I go still.

She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t push, just waits.

I press my hands against my knees, curling my fingers slightly. “…What makes you think that?”

She sighs. “Because I have seen that look before.” She turns slightly, watching me. “The one that says you’re carrying something too heavy. And you don’t know how to put it down.”

My throat tightens.

I keep my eyes on the ground. “What if I can’t?”

She’s quiet for a moment, then—

“Then you learn to live with it.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “That’s it? That’s your advice?”

She doesn’t flinch. “That’s reality.”

The words settle in my chest, uncomfortable, pressing down. I shake my head. “It’s not that easy.”

“I never said it was.”

I look at her then. She looks back, steady and patient.

“Some things,” she says softly, “stay with you. No matter how much you want them to disappear. And some mistakes…” She exhales slowly. “Some mistakes feel impossible to forgive.”

Something in my chest twists, sharp and ugly.

I swallow. “So what do you do?”

She watches me for a moment, then reaches over—placing her hand over mine, warm and sure.

“You give yourself the chance to be more than the worst thing you’ve ever done. You welcome new things, you widen your world.”

My fingers twitch under hers.

She squeezes, gentle but firm. “You let yourself believe you’re still allowed to want good things.”

I exhale shakily, my head dropping slightly.

I think of Amit. Of how I ruined him. Of how I still can’t let go of him, no matter how much time passes.

I think of Raj. Of how I kissed him. Of how he kissed me back. Of how I pulled away like it wasn’t real, like it didn’t matter, like I hadn’t just cracked something open between us that I can’t take back.

I can’t want him. I can’t. I can’t do this to Amit— the guy who set everything of his everything on fire for me….the least I can do is burn in it.

My mother doesn’t say anything else. She just sits there, her palm resting over my hand, warm and steady, keeping me here.

And I let her.

***

Here’s the thing: if you avoid a problem long enough, it stops existing.

Right?

I mean, sure, it hasn’t technically worked for me in the past, but maybe that’s just because I wasn’t committed enough. But this time, I am dedicated. I am focused. I am a man with a plan.

Step One: Do not, under any circumstances, be in the same room as Raj.

Step Two: …That’s it. That’s the whole plan.

And it’s going great so far. I left my house like a criminal on the run, weaving through the halls like I was dodging lasers in a high-stakes heist movie. And now, I’ve made it to the safest place on campus: the library. Because let’s be honest—Raj? In the library? Yeah, right.

I push open the door, scanning the room for a seat. The morning light spills through the windows, casting everything in that quiet, golden glow that makes you almost believe the world is peaceful and kind.

And then I see him.

Aman.

Sitting by the window, bathed in that golden morning glow, his expression unreadable as he stares down at the open book in front of him. He’s completely still—no unnecessary movements, no wasted energy. Just existing in that quiet, self-contained way of his.

And that’s when it hits me.

Since this entire fest thing started, I haven’t seen Aman much.

Which is suspicious.

I make my way over, sliding into the seat across from him. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all.

I rest my chin on my hand, staring directly at him. “So. You do still exist.”

Aman finally lifts his gaze. His dark eyes settle on me, calm, impassive. “Yes.”

That’s it. Just—yes.

I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.

God, I forgot how much I love and hate talking to Aman.

I tap my fingers against the table. “Where have you been?”

Aman blinks once, slow and deliberate. “Here.”

“Here?” I frown. “Like, in the library?”

“Yes.”

I tilt my head. “So, let me get this straight. There’s been chaos happening all over school—fights, drama, people actually committing war crimes over who gets to be lead choreographer—and you’ve just been…” I gesture at the space around us. “Hiding in here?”

Aman exhales, flipping a page in his book. “I don’t like the fest.”

I stare at him. “You don’t like the biggest, most anticipated event of the year?”

“No.”

I blink. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances out the window, watching something I can’t see. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Too many people. Too much noise.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me pause.

I press my lips together, tapping my fingers against the table. “Okay, but… you could have at least come and found me. We’re friends. Remember?”

Aman looks at me then. And it’s different. Not just his usual, unreadable gaze. There’s something else there, something almost hesitant. His fingers tighten slightly around the edges of his book, like he’s holding something back.

“I didn’t think you’d notice.”

A beat.

And he adds quietly, “People don’t.””

My stomach does something at that.

Because that’s—

That’s a weird thing to say. I shift slightly, suddenly feeling… off-balance.

“Well, obviously I noticed,” I mutter, looking away. “It’s been too quiet without you.”

Aman doesn’t respond. But I can feel his eyes on me. Steady. Unmoving.

And then, softly—

“Are you avoiding someone?”

I freeze.

I take exactly one second to decide how to handle this. Then I do what I do best: I deflect.

“Wow. That’s crazy. I come all the way over here to check on my long-lost friend, and this is what I get? Accusations? Unbelievable.”

He doesn’t blink.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, what are you studying?”

Aman studies me for a long moment before answering. “Physics.”

I squint at his book. “This is thermodynamics.”

“Yes.”

I stare at him. “Aman.”

He doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

“Are you studying for fun?”

“Yes.”

I pull back, horrified. “What kind of psychopath—”

Aman finally looks up. “You’re being loud.”

I throw my hands up. “I should be loud! Who willingly studies physics when they don’t have to?”

Aman exhales. “It’s easier than dealing with people.”

Okay, yeah, fair.

“Fine,” I mutter. “If you’re going to hide in here, I’m staying too.”

Aman doesn’t even bother responding to that. He just shakes his head slightly, turning back to his book.

But he doesn’t tell me to leave. So that’s something.

I stare at the book in front of me. The words stare back, cold and lifeless, refusing to arrange themselves into anything that makes sense.

I blink.

Flip the page.

Blink again.

Nope. Still nonsense.

This is impossible.

I glance at Aman. He’s still reading, completely undisturbed, eyes scanning the page like he actually understands whatever ancient language these textbooks are written in.

God. I used to be like that too.

I tap my fingers against the desk, my eyes flicking toward him again. “Hey.”

Silence.

I nudge his book with my pen. “Hey.”

He exhales, finally lifting his gaze. “What?”

I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand. “Have you ever participated in the fest?”

Aman blinks at me. “No.”

I squint. “Never?”

“Never.”

I narrow my eyes. “Have you ever performed anything? Like, ever?”

Aman pauses. Just for a second. It’s barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I straighten. “Wait, wait, wait. Have you?”

Aman exhales. “It was in fifth grade.”

“WHAT?” I slap my hands on the table. “Aman, what do you mean in fifth grade? What did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it matters,” I say, fully abandoning my book now. “Was it a play? Did you do theatre? Were you—” I gasp. “Oh my god, did you sing?”

Aman looks at me, completely expressionless. “I was a tree.”

I blink. He stares back.

Silence.

I press my lips together. “You mean, like, metaphorically? Or—”

“No.”

I squint. “Like… with lines?”

“No.”

I process this. “So you just… stood there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you dance?”

No response.

“Oh my god, You did!”

Aman shuts his book. “Enough.”

Aman doesn’t move.

He’s looking at me, but not in the usual unimpressed, why are you like this, Sharma way. His expression is blank, carefully constructed, but his eyes—his eyes are not. There’s something there, something quiet and not okay.

Something that feels like a closed door with too much behind it.

Before I can think of what to say—

My phone vibrates violently against the table.

I sigh, already knowing who it is before I even look.

Arya.

I pick up. “Listen, I—”

“LISTEN TO WHAT, YOU USELESS SACK OF—”

I pull the phone away from my ear as Arya’s voice explodes through the speaker, rattling my eardrums.

“You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago! What part of ‘mandatory rehearsal’ sounds optional to you, huh?”

I rub my temple. “I was studying.”

A sharp silence.

Then, “You were—” she lowers her voice, like she can’t even say it out loud, “—studying?”

“Yes.”

“With who? Jesus?”

I roll my eyes. “No, Aman.”

Arya exhales. “Of course. Of course you’re with Aman. You know what? Drag him with you, I don’t care, just get your ass here before Priya starts making executive decisions about our costumes.”

She hangs up.

I lower the phone, looking at Aman again. He’s already picking up his book like he expects me to leave.

Something in me resists that idea.

Aman doesn’t look at me. Not fully. His eyes stay on his book, steady, unreadable, like nothing I say matters. Like I could leave right now, and he wouldn’t even notice.

But I know better.

I saw it earlier—that flicker of something behind his usual calm, something not okay. And now, he’s back to shutting me out, disappearing into the silence the way he always does.

I should let him.

I don’t.

I sigh, stretching dramatically. “Alright, let’s go.”

Aman flips a page. “Go where?”

“To rehearsal,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Come on.”

“I’m not in the play.”

“So? Sit in the back. Be judgmental. It’s your natural state.”

“I’m not going.”

I tilt my head. “You’re really gonna let me walk into battle alone?”

“You’ll survive.”

I narrow my eyes. “Doubtful. Arya’s gonna kill me, and you won’t even be there to witness it.”

Aman doesn’t react.

I hesitate.

If I leave now, he wins. He gets to sink back into whatever thought pulled him under, and I don’t know why, but the idea of that—of him sitting here alone with it—makes something in me itch.

So I do the only logical thing.

I reach out and grab his wrist.

And Aman—

Stops.

Like I’ve short-circuited something inside him.

His breath catches—small, barely noticeable, but there. His fingers twitch, and then he just… stares.

Not at me. At my hand.

Like he’s never had anyone do this before. Like no one’s ever reached for him without him having to ask.

I frown. “Come on, You need to touch grass.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

His skin is warm under my fingers, but his pulse—his pulse is too even. Too measured, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

And then, slowly—like he’s memorizing the moment, like he doesn’t want it to end too soon—he lifts his gaze to mine.

And his eyes—

They’re soft.

Not blank, not guarded. Just soft. Open in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

Something in my chest stumbles.

“Aman,” I say, quieter now.

His fingers curl slightly, like he’s about to hold on. But then, without a word, he stands up.

No resistance. No argument. Just silent obedience, like in that moment, he’d follow me anywhere.

I let go before I notice anything else.