Chapter 45

Raj starts driving again.

And I let him.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just sit there, feeling the car pull forward, feeling the weight of his words settle into my ribs like something permanent.

“No, I’m done, Sharma.”

He meant it.

I should let him go.

I should sit here, silent, let the car swallow whatever this was, let it disappear like it never happened.

But my fingers twitch against my jeans. My throat is closing. My chest is tightening around something I don’t have a name for.

I want to stop him.

I want to grab his wrist, yank him back, hold him close and tell him—

Tell him what?

What is there to say?

That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to ruin it? That I didn’t mean to run? That I—

I what? I want him?

That I’ve wanted him for longer than I can admit, longer than I can even understand? That every time he looks at me like I’m something worth chasing, I want to fall into it, let myself be wanted?

No.

No, I can’t.

Because wanting means taking. And taking means losing. And losing means—

Amit.

I squeeze my eyes shut, press my palm against my temple. My stomach is twisting, my hands feel numb, my heart is beating so fast it hurts.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

Raj is gripping the wheel too tightly. I can see it from the corner of my eye. His knuckles pale, his jaw locked, his throat moving like he’s swallowing down everything he didn’t say.

And I want to fix it. I want to reach over, press my hand over his, make him look at me again, make him see me again—

But what if he does?

What if he sees what’s actually there?

What if he realizes that I’m not worth it?

What if I break him, too?

I clench my fists in my lap, digging my nails into my palms, trying to ground myself, trying to breathe. But nothing is working. Nothing is fucking working.

“I can’t be the only one fighting for this.”

He wasn’t.

I was fighting too—I just didn’t know how.

The car slows to a stop.

I blink, disoriented, like I’ve been ripped out of something I wasn’t ready to leave.

The tailor’s shop. Right. That’s why we were here in the first place.

I exhale sharply, trying to steady myself, trying to remember how to exist outside of my own head. My hands feel numb as I reach for the fabric bags in the backseat, the rustling sound too loud in the quiet between us.

Raj doesn’t say anything.

He just sits there, staring straight ahead, hands still gripping the wheel like he doesn’t trust himself to let go.

I hesitate. Just for a second.

I don’t know what I’m expecting. A glance. A look. Some sign that this wrecked him as much as it’s wrecking me.

So I turn.

I look at him.

But Raj doesn’t.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t react, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m still here.

And it hurts.

It hurts so much I almost say something—almost force it out, almost grab his wrist and shake him, almost tell him I didn’t mean it, I don’t want you to go, I don’t know how to want you without ruining you but I want you anyway—

But I don’t.

I swallow hard, force my fingers to tighten around the bags, and step out.

The door shuts behind me.

It closes.

The door closes.

The tailor speaks. I don’t hear him.

Something about the order. A date. A time. Instructions I should remember. I nod, or maybe I don’t. I think my hands move to take the receipt, but it barely feels real.

I step outside.

I should go back to school.

I should go to the auditorium, grab my bag, sit through the rest of the day like nothing is wrong.

I should be fine.

But my legs don’t take me back to school.

I don’t remember hailing a rickshaw, but suddenly, I’m in one, the world blurring past in smears of color and sound. My chest is tight, my throat burns, and my nails dig into my palms like I can keep something inside, keep something down, keep something from breaking out of me entirely.

I should go home. But I don’t.

Instead, I walk.

One foot in front of the other, like muscle memory, like instinct, like I already know where I’m going before my brain catches up.

And then I’m here.

Amit’s house.

Or—what’s left of Amit.

It looks smaller than I remember. Like the air has been drained from it, like something in its bones collapsed the day he left.

The yard is overgrown, weeds stretching through cracks in the pavement, vines creeping up the walls like nature is trying to swallow it whole. The porch is filthy, dust layered so thick it looks like it’s been abandoned for years not just eleven months.

I step up onto it anyway.

The house is dead.

It’s been dead for a long time, but today it feels wrong. Like I shouldn’t be here. Like I don’t belong in this place anymore.

But I step onto the porch anyway.

The wood groans under my weight. There’s dirt everywhere, dust clinging to the railing, cobwebs tucked into the corners. The wind kicks up a stale breath of something rotting, and I swallow against the nausea clawing up my throat.

I should be thinking about Amit.

That’s why I’m here, right?

But my head is a fucking mess.

I press my palms against my temples, squeeze my eyes shut, try to pull something from my memory—his voice, his laugh, the way he used to lean against me, warm and familiar and safe.

Nothing comes.

No, that’s not true. Something comes. But it’s not Amit.

It’s Raj.

It’s his hands—too rough, too firm, too fucking real—gripping my jaw, tilting my face up, making me look at him when all I wanted to do was run.

“I know you want me, Sharma.”

I let out a shaky breath, dig my nails into my scalp, furious with myself.

I should be missing Amit.

I should be drowning in him.

I should be thinking about the way he used to touch me.

But I’m forgetting it.

It’s slipping.

I can’t feel his hands anymore. I can’t remember the way his fingers curled around mine, the way he held my face, the way his lips felt when they brushed against my cheek. I try—fuck, I try—but it’s not there. It’s getting buried under something new, something wrong—

Raj’s hands on my skin.

Raj’s breath against my lips.

Raj saying I can’t do this anymore like I wasn’t the one ruining him.

I choke on the memory of it. It makes my stomach turn, makes my hands shake, makes my entire body curl in on itself because this is not what I came here for.

Amit is supposed to be the one. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I still believe.

But why is it Raj’s voice I hear in my head?

Why is it Raj’s touch I can still feel?

Why is it his absence that’s making me fall apart?

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, my breathing ragged, furious with myself, with him, with everything.

I want to tear this feeling out of my chest.

I want to fucking burn it down.

But I can’t.

Because Raj is still there, lodged under my skin, curling into every space Amit used to fill.

And I don’t know how to stop it.

I can’t do this.

I can’t do this to Amit.

I grip my hair, fists tightening, breath shaking, everything in me screaming that this is wrong. That I’m wrong.

Amit loved me. He loved me.

And what the fuck am I doing? Sitting here, in the house that should have been his, thinking about someone else? Wanting someone else?

I press my forehead against my knees, squeeze my eyes shut, try—desperately, hopelessly—to pull Amit back.

But he’s fading.

I am forgetting him.

I can’t forget him.

My throat tightens. I dig my nails into my arms, grounding myself in the sharp sting of it, punishing myself for even letting this happen.

Amit deserved better. He deserved so much fucking better than me.

I suck in a sharp breath, shaking, guilt curdling in my gut like something rotten.

Amit is supposed to be my loss.

So why does it feel like I’m grieving Raj instead?