Chapter 50

By the time I walk in the auditorium, the set is mostly done—fabric wings hung from scaffolding, soft amber gels rigged over the spotlights, a makeshift “heaven” platform on stage left that definitely does not pass safety regulations. Someone’s spray-painted clouds on foam boards. Arya’s touch, no doubt—dramatic, excessive, impractical.

God, I’m tired.

I roll up my sleeves anyway and head toward the prop area behind the curtains. Jasir and Aditya are already there, cross-legged on the floor with a bag of chips and the kind of gleam in their eyes that only appears when gossip is fresh and smoking.

“Morning, Sharma,” Jasir says, tossing a chip into his mouth. “You missed out on everything. The tea was boiling hot.”

I blink. “What tea?”

Aditya makes a dramatic ooooh face. “Arya and Asim had a full-on screaming match after rehearsal.”

“They were this close to throwing a fake sword at each other.”

“It was beautiful,” Jasir says reverently.

I grunt and keep walking, heading toward the box of hammers and screwdrivers near the edge of the stage. I can feel their eyes still on me.

“But you know what’s wild?” Aditya says, stage-whispering like he’s in a goddamn telenovela. “Asim’s totally in love with her.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” Jasir agrees, already halfway through another chip. “He covers it up with passive-aggressive notes on her blocking, but that boy is suffering.”

I don’t bother looking at them. “I’m not in the mood for tea today, thanks.”

“Wow,” Aditya says, mock offended. “Even Dev the Disinterested usually gives us at least one dry roast per session.”

“He’s not roasting. He’s brooding,” Jasir says, elbowing him. “It’s different. More tragic.”

I ignore them and move to the platform where a junior is holding up part of the backdrop for me to drill in. I tell him, calmly, “Hold it steady, please.”

He nods like he understands, but the board is already tilting before I even pick up the hammer.

Behind me, Jasir goes, “Okay wait, but plot twist—what if Arya isn’t into Asim? What if she’s in love with the tech guy?”

Aditya gasps. “The one who made her wings light up last week?”

“Exactly. Their eye contact was unholy.”

“Unholy for a play about angels, too. That’s diabolical.”

I tighten my grip on the hammer. “Can you guys take your fan fiction somewhere else?”

They ignore me. Obviously.

Aditya: “I’m just saying. If she ends up with Asim, it’s boring. Too obvious.”

Jasir: “So you’re saying Arya deserves a situationship?”

Aditya: “No. I’m saying she deserves angst. There’s a difference.”

I line the board up again. The kid holding it adjusts his grip, but the left corner keeps dipping.

“Dude,” I say, without looking up, “hold it flat.”

He mutters a soft “Yeah, sorry,” but the backdrop shudders as soon as I press the nail in.

Clack. The hammer hits off-center. The board wobbles.

Behind me:

“Okay, five bucks says they make out in Act Two during the ‘You Were My Heaven’ monologue.”

“No way. Act Three. Post-wing-loss trauma kiss. Classic Arya pacing.”

I inhale slowly through my nose.

The kid shifts again. My hand nearly slips.

“Can you just hold it straight for five seconds?” I snap.

He blinks at me. “I–I am—”

“You’re not.”

“Sorry, I just–”

Clack. Another bad hit. I jolt back before the hammer nails my thumb.

Jasir: “Dev is in his anti-romance arc today.”

Aditya: “He always is. It’s his brand.”

“Shut up,” I mutter. Not loud enough to register.

The board shifts again. I steady it myself. My arms are starting to ache, the weight of the set and the weight in my chest competing to see which collapses first.

The hammer slips again. Nails clatter to the floor. The kid flinches. I drop the hammer with a clang.

And that’s it.

“Are you actually stupid, or do you just not listen?”

My voice comes out louder than I expect. Sharp. Final.

Silence.

Jasir drops his chip bag.

Aditya’s mouth is slightly open.

Arya looks up from her stage blocking, one eyebrow raised.

Even Asim turns.

And Raj; of course Raj; is standing near the wings, arms folded, eyes already on me.

Not shocked. Not smug. Just still.

The kid stares at me, wide-eyed, like I’ve just kicked a puppy. Which, honestly, maybe I have.

My stomach drops. Heat crawls up the back of my neck.

“I–sorry,” I choke out, stepping back. “I didn’t—”

But the silence is already too thick.

I don’t wait for anyone to say anything. I don’t wait for Arya’s interrogation or Raj’s unreadable silence or Jasir’s slow-burn “Damn.”

I just grab my bag that I left here yesterday, duck under the stage arch, and walk out.

No—storming.

Off the stage. Out the door.

Away from the props, the stage lights, the weight of Raj’s gaze. Away from the version of me I didn’t mean to show.

I shove the door open and stumble out into the corridor, breath catching in my throat, heartbeat still slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“What the fuck is wrong with me today?”

It comes out under my breath, but it’s venomous. Like I’m sick of myself. Like my own voice is trying to crawl back inside and slap me across the face.

The hallway is half-lit, buzzing with the kind of electricity that only shows up before a fest—the pre-fest chaos where people move like ants on sugar highs. Glitter on floors. Paint-streaked uniforms. Costumes half-worn, lines half-memorized, egos half-exploding.

And me? I’m the idiot who screamed at a kid over a set piece.

I don’t go far. I just walk around the corner and drop onto the concrete steps outside the auditorium, where no one usually comes unless they’re hiding. So… perfect.

I sit down, hard. Elbows on knees. Palms over my face. Not crying. Not breaking. Just—done.

Can’t I just hold it together?

For one rehearsal? One hour? One fucking moment?

Everyone’s doing their jobs. Arya’s doing her three main character arcs in one play routine. Jasir and Aditya are thriving on chaos. Raj’s existing like nothing phases him.

And me?

I can’t even hold a hammer without emotionally imploding.

The steps creak slightly beside me, someone settling down.

I look up—just barely—and see Ishan.

Oh.

He’s in that ridiculous pink oversized hoodie he always wears when he wants to make a point without speaking. His legs are crossed, his expression unreadable until he looks at me with one of those signature “bitch, I see you” looks.

I groan. “Please don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.” He shrugs. “Yet.”

I close my eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Bored. Thought I’d watch some theatre chaos. Caught a full Greek tragedy instead. Congrats.”

I wince. “Cool. Now I get to be the main character and the cautionary tale.”

He laughs, quiet, not cruel. “You really told that junior he was stupid?”

“Apparently.” I sigh, running my hands down my face. “Didn’t plan on it. Just… happened.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. And I think—okay, maybe he’ll leave. Maybe I’ll get to sit here and hate myself in peace.

But then his voice softens. Just enough to crack something open.

“You ever feel like you’re holding together a glass you already dropped?”

I blink. Look sideways.

He’s not looking at me. He’s staring straight ahead, arms wrapped around his knees, resting his chin lightly on them.

“You try so hard to make it look like nothing’s wrong. Smile on command. Say the right things. Keep walking like your bones aren’t made of sand. And then one tiny thing goes wrong…”

He flicks his fingers in the air. “And suddenly you’re screaming at a junior in the props team.”

I huff a laugh that’s more pain than humor. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“It’s not about the hammer, Dev.” He says it like it’s obvious. “It’s about the board, we try to steady it but in the end— it just wobbles right before the strike.”

We sit in silence for a beat. The kind that isn’t awkward, just heavy. Full.

I glance at him. “You ever… get tired of pretending you’re okay?”

His mouth pulls into something that’s almost a smirk, but doesn’t make it all the way there.

“I got tired of it the day those boys pushed me into the sink and laughed like it was choreography.”

My chest tightens. I look down.

I ask quietly. “Are you still mad at Aman?”

He hums. “I guess no.” He doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. “We all survive however we can. Sometimes it means running. Sometimes it means yelling. Sometimes it means sitting on steps like emotionally repressed drama side characters.”

I huff out a laugh. “You’re not a side character.”

He finally smiles, small and real. “Neither are you.”

I breathe. In. Out. The shame doesn’t go away, but it settles. It stops chewing at the edges of me.

We sit there a little longer, in the corner of a world that keeps spinning.

I don’t feel better. Not exactly.

But I don’t feel alone.

***

I stayed after Ishan left. Just sat there—headphones in, hood up, pencil moving—until the sky started to dim into that soft lavender that makes everything look like it belongs in a slow indie movie about feelings no one talks about.

My sketchbook’s balanced on my knee, legs stretched out over the steps. I’m not really thinking, not exactly. My hands are just doing the thing—lines, shadows, small details I’ll probably erase later. Drawing’s the only time my brain isn’t screaming over itself.

The campus has that pre-fest tension like everything’s holding its breath. You can feel it in the air. In the frantic rustle of scripts, the smell of hot glue guns, the way seniors yell across courtyards about “missing props” and “where the hell are the backup fairy wings.”

And then—

“RAJ MEHTA, YOU ABSOLUTE WALNUT.”

I flinch.

Arya’s voice explodes through the quiet like it owns the whole damn atmosphere. I glance up, and sure enough—there she is, storming out of the auditorium in all her chaotic glory. Behind her? Raj. Of course. Hands in his pockets. Casual. The picture of unapologetic nonchalance.

“Let me get this straight,” Arya is saying, stalking backward to glare at him. “I told you. At 4 PM. To pick up the costumes. You said ‘Chill, I got it.'”

“I did get them,” Raj says, shrugging like the concept of time doesn’t apply to him.

Arya’s eyes narrow. “Where are they then? Materializing from another plane of existence?”

“They’re at home,” he says, not even blinking. “Didn’t want to wrinkle them.”

Arya lets out a sound like a dying kettle. “WE NEED TO FIT THEM, RAJ. THAT IS THE ENTIRE POINT.”

He raises a brow. “And I’m saying I protected them. You’re welcome.”

“You’re the reason I need caffeine on a drip,” she mutters, turning sharply—only to freeze when her eyes land on me.

I try to bury deeper into my hoodie, like maybe she’ll walk away if I just… disappear.

No such luck.

“You,” she says, pointing at me. “Go with him.”

“What—?”

“To his place. Get the costumes. Make sure he doesn’t forget them on the way back, or decide to reinvent his identity as a scarf model halfway through. I don’t trust him.”

“I’m right here,” Raj deadpans.

“Exactly,” Arya says.

“I’m not going,” I mutter, going back to my sketchbook.

“You are, because I know something is going on between you two—” she waves a hand between us vaguely, “—some weird sexual Cold War, and I do not have the bandwidth for it right now.”

Raj actually chokes. I look up, blinking. “What?”

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look. I’m three days away from the play night. My lead actor and I hate each other, my sword props are literally made out of cardboard and hope, and if one more person tells me they’ve ‘lost their lines,’ I’m committing stage homicide.”

There’s a silence.

Then softly she adds, “Let my play happen. Please. Have your emotional breakdown-slash-awkward love confession after. I will personally hand you both fake swords and cry at your funeral.”

She looks wrecked. Not dramatic-wrecked. Not Arya-screaming-for-show.

Just… tired.

Me and Raj exchange a glance; accidental, brief, but there.

“…Fine,” I mutter, standing and grabbing my bag.

Arya waves us off like we’re already dead men. “Try not to kill each other. Or do. Just bring my costumes back first.”

And with that, she disappears inside leaving me and Raj in the fading evening light, standing side by side like two ticking bombs.

No words. No plan. Just a hallway, a walk to his place, and a silence that already feels too full.

***

The car is too quiet.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind that means peace.

The kind that presses down on your lungs and makes every breath feel like guilt.

I sit stiffly in the passenger seat, hands in my lap, hoodie sleeves pulled over my fingers like I’m trying to disappear inside them. The city blurs past the window—trees, streetlights, scattered shop signs—but I don’t see any of it. All I see is him.

Raj.

Driving like he doesn’t even notice I’m here.

His jaw is tight. Both hands on the wheel. His eyes—God, his eyes—don’t move from the road, not even for a second. Not even to glance at me.

He used to look at me.

Even when I pretended not to notice, he always looked.

Teasing. Curious. Like I was something he couldn’t stop watching.

Now? I might as well be air.

And that should make it easier. It should make it better.

But it doesn’t.

It makes me want to scream.

It makes me want to reach over, grab his hand off the gear shift, and hold it until he looks at me. Until he says something. Anything.

It makes me want to shake him and yell “You don’t get to stop caring first. You don’t get to move on while I’m still stuck here.”

It makes me want to say “I like you too, okay? I like you in a way that terrifies me. And you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.”

But I don’t say anything.

Because the last time I touched him, I kissed him like I meant it.

And the last time he touched me, I flinched.

And then I called it a mistake.

And now we’re here.

Two people in the same car.

Not speaking.

Breathing in silence that’s louder than shouting.

I glance at him again, quick and quiet.

His face is unreadable. Not cold. Just… gone.

And it hurts. God, it hurts.

It hurts that I’m the reason he looks like that.

It hurts that I care this much.

It hurts that I still want to be close to him when I’ve done everything to push him away.

I press my thumb into my palm. Hard. Dig.

You don’t get to want this.

You don’t get to miss him.

You don’t get to look at him like that when you’re the one who broke it.

But I do.

And I hate myself for it.

Raj’s hands are steady on the wheel. His expression never wavers.

Eyes only on the road ahead.

Like I was never there.

Raj doesn’t wait for me to get out of the car.

He just kills the engine, slams the door shut, and walks ahead—like I’m not there, like I’m not supposed to follow.

Like I haven’t been following him in one way or another since the day he looked at me like I was something worth noticing.

I trail behind him quietly, hoodie still wrapped around me like armor that doesn’t work. The gate swings open with a groan, and Raj doesn’t hold it for me. He doesn’t even glance back.

His house is quiet. Big and perfect and cold in all the ways that matter. I don’t say anything when we step inside. I don’t have to. This place never feels like it belongs to him anyway.

He heads upstairs without a word. I follow.

It feels wrong. Like I’m trespassing.

Like I’ve already been kicked out and I’m still hovering in the hallway, hoping he’ll change his mind.

He’s already rifling through his closet when I reach his room. The costume bags are in the corner, neatly stacked.

I force a smile, light and shaky.

“You always keep your drama costumes hung up like sacred robes, or is this just a Raj Mehra thing?”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch of his mouth.

He zips open a garment bag. The sound is sharp in the silence.

I try again, voice softer this time.

“Pretty sure your villain cape deserves its own spotlight. Maybe a rotating platform?”

Still nothing.

I swallow, the smile dropping. “Raj, come on—”

He spins so fast I flinch.

“What?” he snaps. Loud. Too loud. “You think this is funny?”

I freeze.

His chest is rising and falling like he’s been holding something in too long. His hands are clenched at his sides.

“You think you can just walk in here, joke around, like nothing happened?” His voice cracks halfway through. “Like you call us a mistake, and now you’re what? Cute again?”

I blink. “I wasn’t–”

“You weren’t what?” he cuts me off, eyes burning. “You weren’t trying to make me forget? Or make yourself forget?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know how.

He laughs. Bitter. Short. “You know what’s worse than someone not liking you back? Not knowing why.”

He looks at me then. And God, I wish he wouldn’t.

His eyes are glassy. His voice shakes, barely above a whisper, as if he is too afraid that I’ll hear it—

“Why can’t you just…why can’t you just admit it Sharma that you like me. Or just say that you don’t like me?”

And it’s not an accusation.

It’s a plea.

The kind of question people only ask when they’ve already decided they’re the problem.

Raj looks at me like he’s standing in the middle of a burning house he built with his own hands—like he knows every match, every crack, every reason this is collapsing, and he’s still praying I’ll walk through the smoke and tell him it’s okay.

Like if I just said yes, he’d believe he was still worth something.

And the worst part is–I do.

I like him so much it’s sickening.

I like him in a way that doesn’t leave room for breathing.

I like him in the way people in stories always regret like ruin, like fall, like crash.

But I can’t.

Because to love him would be to let go of Amit.

To want Raj would be to admit that someone after Amit could still mean something.

And that is happiness.

And I don’t deserve it.

I can’t have it.

I have destroyed someone, and all I deserve is grief.

But to want Raj would be like taking a knife and carving out the one thing I’ve had left of Amit—my grief.

Raj’s fists clench at his sides. His voice drops to a whisper, cracked open at the edges.

“Was it all in my head?”

I shake mine, but I don’t speak.

Because anything I say will be too much or not enough.

“I tried so hard,” he says, breath hitching. “You have no idea how hard it is to want someone who keeps making you feel stupid for it.”

He looks down, blinking fast. “I thought—fuck, Dev—I thought if I just waited, you’d meet me halfway. Even once. Just once.”

And now he’s crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quietly breaking apart in front of me.

The way strong people do when they finally let themselves feel it.

I take a step forward. Stop. My hands shake.

Because I want to reach for him.

I want to say all the things I never let myself believe.

That I’ve been thinking about him every second since the kiss.

That I can still feel his hands on my face, the press of his mouth against mine, the way it made me want to live again—for a second.

That if I were someone better, someone braver, someone less destroyed—I would choose him.

But I’m not.

I’m still stuck in that moment at the fair.

In the blood and the silence and Amit’s eyes before everything went wrong.

I’m still the boy who destroys everything he touches.

So I stand there. And I say nothing.

While Raj cries in front of me.

And I do what I do the best again—

I hurt someone who deserved more.