Chapter 54

The library steps are cold but not uncomfortable—stone cooled by the night, just enough to ground me. I’m sitting cross-legged, Tupperware in my lap, slowly eating the brownie my mom packed like it’s some sacred artifact I have to ration bite by bite.

Below me, the fest is in full swing.

Stalls glow under golden strings of fairy lights, kids are laughing too loud at stupid games, someone’s playing the acoustic guitar near the art club station, and two science club boys just accidentally set something mildly on fire, but they’re pretending it was part of the demonstration.

It’s chaos.

But it’s the good kind.

The kind that hums in the air like music. Like something alive.

I lean back on my palms, chewing slowly, the sweetness spreading across my tongue.

For a moment, everything feels still.

And then—

My eyes catch on a familiar silhouette.

Raj. By the central quad, talking to Priya.

He’s wearing his student body badge like it actually matters, nodding at something Aditya’s saying in the distance, clipboard in hand, sunglasses tucked into his collar like he’s starring in a movie no one else got the script for.

Sunglasses at night? I roll my eyes in my mind.

And Priya—

God. She’s laughing at something he said, leaning in too close, her hand brushing his arm.

I pause mid-bite.

She has a boyfriend. A very public, very tall, very captain-of-the-football-team boyfriend named Sid who literally got her name embroidered onto his jersey like this was High School Musical.

So why the hell is she laughing like that?

Touching him like that?

Looking at him like he’s the human version of a slow-mo shampoo commercial?

What could Raj Mehta possibly have said to make Priya cackle like a Disney villain mid-evil monologue?

Was he out there just whispering tax benefits and limited-time shopping discounts into her ear?

Was he flexing his moral compass?

Reciting Rumi?

Her hand brushes his bicep again. Her smile is radiant. Too radiant. And he—he’s just standing there, looking tragically unaware that he’s the exact type of boy parents warn their children about.

Hot. Charming. And somehow deeply allergic to staying out of trouble.

I glare from my seat on the library steps like I’m the overworked romantic subplot in a teen sitcom.

And then—he looks up.

And of course—of course—his eyes find me.

Pauses like he’s reading my expression.

Then his eyes turn to Priya’s hand.

And then he smirks. Like he’s only realising something now.

Not a soft, sheepish, oh-no-have-I-done-something-wrong kind of smirk.

No. This is a full-blown, devil-grinning, I-saw-that-jealousy-explosion-on-your-face-and-I’m-thriving kind of smirk.

I immediately pretend to be very interested in the pebble near my shoe. It is, I decide, the most emotionally stable thing in my life right now.

Seconds later, there’s a shuffle beside me, and Raj collapses onto the step with all the drama of someone who’s just carried the emotional burden of being too attractive all evening.

“Good evening, O Watcher from the Heights,” he says, dramatically brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “May I sit beside you, or will your royal glare banish me into the void of undeserving mortals?”

“You’re such an idiot,” I mumble, refusing to look at him.

“Correction,” he says, leaning closer, “I’m an idiot you’re jealous about.”

I whip my head toward him. “I wasn’t jealous.”

“Right,” he says, nodding like I’ve just confirmed the sky is green. “So your death stare at Priya was… concern for her spinal health?”

“She has a boyfriend!” I hiss. “Sid! You know—human football tank? She literally wore his jersey like a cape last week!”

“She also has arms,” Raj replies, biting back a grin, “and she used them to touch me. I was merely existing.”

“She was laughing.”

“I’m very funny.”

I groan and drop my head into my hands. “God, I hate you.”

“Do you though?” he sings. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be staring at me like I flirted with someone else and now your inner dragon is awake.”

I lift my head just enough to glare at him. “You’re so full of yourself it’s physically painful.”

“Well,” he says, leaning in until his voice is low and teasing, “you haven’t said you like me yet, so technically… I’m single.”

I freeze.

And he grins. Like he’s waited days to drop that one.

“You–”

“Which means,” Raj continues, voice all fake innocence, “technically, Priya touching my arm is a free play in the field of flirtation. You want to change that?”

I blink.

“You want to…claim the arm?”

“What are you—”

“THE ARM IS AVAILABLE, DEV.”

“I will kill you.”

Raj laughs so hard he nearly falls backward off the step. I shove him. He doesn’t even fight it—just grins at me like I’m the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You’re so annoying,” I mumble.

“You’re so jealous,” he says, nudging my knee with his.

We sit there for a second, surrounded by the golden buzz of fairy lights and campus chaos.

Music from a nearby stall drifts into the night; something soft, all synth and honey, stitched with the kind of melody that makes you want to fall in love or fall apart, or maybe both.

Laughter bursts somewhere near the food court, a flash of sound like a sparkler. The fairy lights above us hum like they’re listening in.

And then Raj says it.

Quieter.

Real.

The kind of voice he uses when he stops performing and just—is.

“But I like it when you get jealous. Means you care.”

My ears burn.

I shoot up so fast it’s a miracle the brownie tin doesn’t go flying. “We should—uh—we should go. Curtain call’s in like ten. Come on.”

I don’t wait for a response.

I’m already walking too fast, like I can outpace my own heartbeat.

Behind me, Raj follows.

Laughing.

God, he’s laughing.

“I knew you were blushing,” he calls. “Should I take it as confirmation that you want me all to yourself?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, gripping the auditorium’s back door handle with sweaty fingers.

“Oh, c’mon, Sharma,” he purrs, catching up. “You’re the one looking at me like you’d fight a girl with perfect nails and a nicer report card just to hold my hand.”

I turn to snap something back, something rude, something scathing but I don’t get the chance.

Because in one breath, Raj steps forward.

Closes the distance.

The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world narrows.

No music.

No footsteps.

Just the low buzz of stage lights humming above and the echo of my own breath in my ears.

Raj moves fast. Smooth. Like he’s done this a hundred times before—

But I know he hasn’t.

One hand slides around my waist, slow and deliberate, until I feel his palm settle, fingers curling slightly at my side like he’s grounding himself—or daring me to stop him.

The other comes up, brushing my jaw with a softness that shouldn’t belong to someone who looks like him.

My heart is slamming against my ribs. My body lights up with heat, nerves flaring beneath skin.

And I hate—hate—how quickly I melt into it.

Because I’ve spent months building walls.

Spent years telling myself this kind of closeness is a trick, a trap, something I’ll ruin the second I reach for it.

But right now?

With Raj’s thumb brushing my lip—

His voice, low and wicked, curling around my throat like smoke—

I want to be ruined.

“Dev,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, the kind of tone that curls behind your ribs and refuses to leave.

My knees almost buckle. He Just took my name and my body already gave up.

“You don’t even know what you look like right now, do you?” he whispers.

His breath hits my face, warm and close, and I forget how to stand.

I bite the inside of my cheek because

“You’re looking at me like you want to be kissed until you forget your own name.”

My heart stutters…actually stutters.

I can’t let him see how much I want this.

But my body is starved for it: this heat, this pressure, this attention.

And I hate that I’m shaking. I hate that my chest is rising too fast.

I hate that I’m standing here pretending I’m not already his.

“You’re jealous,” he says, and it’s not a tease now; it’s reverent. Like he’s discovering it in real time.

“And God, it’s so fucking hot.”

His lips are almost brushing mine now. Almost. But not touching.

Because he’s waiting.

He always waits.

“You want me to be yours, don’t you?” he whispers, thumb still resting against my mouth.

His hand presses firmer at my waist and it burns. My skin is on fire under his fingers.

My pulse is loud in my ears.

And I do.

I want him so much it’s unbearable.

But I can’t.

Because if I take this… if I take him… I’m betraying everything I buried.

The version of me that swore I’d never feel this again.

He leans in even closer. His nose grazes mine. My back hits the wall.

My hands are clenched at my sides like if I touch him, I’ll fall apart.

Like if I don’t, I’ll die.

His voice drops again, just a breath:

“Say the word, Sharma…”

“Say the word, and I swear I’ll kiss you like you’ve been mine this whole time.”

And I almost do.

Almost.

But I can’t move.

Because fear is louder than longing.

Because I’m still holding the ghost of another boy in my chest.

And Raj sees it.

He pulls back just an inch. Not rejection—just resignation.

His smile falters. His eyes dip.

And then, softer than I’ve ever heard him—

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice cracked open.

“I won’t kiss you.”

Raj leans in again; but this time, he presses his forehead to my shoulder.

And when he speaks, his voice is wrecked.

“But God, Dev…”

Raj’s voice is so low it barely makes it through the space between us.

“I like you so fucking much it hurts….it actually fucking hurts.”

And just like that—

My heart caves in.

It clenches so tight I swear I feel it in my spine, in my throat, in the back of my eyes.

Because I want to say it back.

I want to reach for him.

I want to let my body forget the years of silence and shame and kiss him like I was never broken.

Raj stays there, forehead pressed to my shoulder, and I can feel his breath catch.

Like he knows.

Like he feels the walls I’ve never said out loud.

His fingers curl at the hem of my shirt, his voice tighter now—raw and breaking.

“Dev.”

He pauses. Swallows.

“I know you like me too.”

I don’t move.

“I know you want me.”

His voice cracks—not loud, but like it’s falling from somewhere high.

“Just say it. Please.”

His head presses harder against me, like he’s trying to bury himself into the space I keep closed off.

“Just say it back. Just once—and I promise—”

His voice drops to a whisper.

“I’ll take care of it all. I know you’re holding onto something. I know you’re in pain. I know you’re hurt. And I promise, I’ll take it all.”

“The guilt? the fear? the past? I’ll carry it all. I swear….just say the word, please.”

And God, I believe him.

But

I can’t say it.

I can’t risk him like that.

He deserves better than this—than fear, and silence, and whatever twisted mess I’ve buried under my ribs.

He deserves someone who can look at him and not see warning signs.

Someone who doesn’t mistake kindness for a countdown.

But I can’t let go of him either.

I can’t walk away from the only thing in my life that feels like warmth.

I want to be better for him.

But all I am right now is this:

A boy who’s too afraid to reach.

Too selfish to walk away.

Too broken to give him what he deserves.

So I stay.

Quiet. Frozen. Cowardly.

Because loving him would mean risking him.

And I don’t think I could survive breaking someone else.

Not again.

But Raj—

He doesn’t pull away.

But he stops waiting.

He exhales; quiet, wrecked and I feel the shake of it in my bones.

I know I’m not the only one hurting.

I know he’s bleeding too.

And maybe this silence isn’t protecting anyone.

But it’s all I have left to give.

So I give him that.

And let him hold me in the quiet.

Because I don’t know how to say yes.

But I can’t say no either.

So I hurt him again.

***

The stage lights heat the back of my neck even though I’m nowhere near the spotlight. I’m crouched behind one of the fake stone pillars we dragged in for the second act, Jasir and Aditya flanking me on either side, whisper-arguing about the cue sheet.

“Scene four set change was supposed to happen two minutes ago,” Aditya hisses, jabbing his finger toward Jasir’s clipboard.

“I know, but Arya skipped a monologue… again, so I had to adjust,” Jasir mutters, breath shallow, eyes wild. “You want to argue or move the fucking bench?”

I lift the prop off the ground before either of them combusts. My body’s running on too little sleep, too much caffeine, and the persistent hum of emotional whiplash.

From backstage, I can see the audience—the edges, the front rows. My mom and dad are sitting in the third row, straight-backed, hands clasped, eyes glued to the stage like they don’t quite believe I helped build this.

They look… proud.

My hands tighten on the edge of the prop. I let my gaze drift past them.

And then I see him.

Raj. Sitting near the aisle, just far enough back to not be noticed. But I see him. Of course I do.

My eyes find him like they were wired to.

His arms folded, his jaw tense. He’s watching the stage but he’s not seeing it, not really. Then, like he knows I’m looking—

His eyes shift. They land on mine. And for one suspended second, the noise backstage drops away.

His smile is small. Fragile. Tired. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

But he offers it anyway.

Like he’s saying, I’m still here. Even after everything.

My heart aches. Physically.

I can’t even smile back. I just nod. That’s all I have left in me. And then the moment breaks.

The actors on stage finish their dialogue, and we shuffle like ants into motion, resetting the props for Act 3.

Voices buzz around us. Whispered updates, frenzied movements, headset commands from Arya echoing in short clipped bursts.

Then—

“Wait, wasn’t Arya planning to end the play with a song?” someone murmurs beside me.

Another voice answers, low and confused, “Yeah… she said Mayank was supposed to sing live for the final scene.”

Pause. A longer beat.

“Wait, where is Mayank?”

I freeze mid-step.

“What do you mean where is he?” Jasir asks, voice going sharp.

“Like… he’s not here. He didn’t show up for mic check either.”

The information starts to ripple like a shockwave.

“What the hell? We close in fifteen minutes.”

“Is he even backstage?”

“He always comes early, what–”

Then Arya storms in from the wing, dress unzipped halfway, eyes wild.

“Where’s Mayank?” she demands, looking like she’s ready to kill someone.

Everyone freezes.

Silence.

“Where. Is. He.”

No one answers.

Her breath quickens. Her hands curl into fists. Her whole body’s trembling, not just with rage, but panic.

She looks like a general whose army just abandoned her in the middle of war.

And we’ve got fifteen minutes until the curtains fall.

***

There’s chaos. The kind that makes your stomach churn and your heart beat faster even if you’re not the one in charge. Arya’s voice is slicing through the panic backstage, people are running, sets creaking, someone drops a mic and it thuds like a gunshot. We’re ten minutes from curtain fall and the final scene, the one everything’s been building toward, is imploding.

Then Raj jogs in from the side door, slightly out of breath, holding his phone up like he just sprinted through bad news.

“I just got a message from Mayank,” he says, voice clipped. “He’s not coming.”

Arya spins toward him like a storm. “What?”

“He ate something from the fest stalls. Says he’s throwing up his soul somewhere behind the art block.”

A pause. The kind that sinks. Arya’s eyes widen, and I can see her entire vision crumbling behind them.

“No. No-no-no. The song is the climax. The entire bridge scene is built around it. What are we even supposed to do now?”

No one answers her.

And then Raj looks at me.

Just once.

And I feel it hit me before I even know what it is.

That look.

Like he already knows. Like I already know.

My mouth opens. Then shuts.

There’s a sound behind my ribs I don’t know how to name. It might be grief. Or fear. Or whatever it is that’s left after too much silence.

I step back. Hands shaking.

I haven’t touched a guitar since—

Since him.

Since the last time I sang and thought I might have a future that didn’t end with a note left on my doorstep.

Since every note started sounding like guilt.

Arya’s voice sharpens, cutting through again. “We’re out of time.”

Someone calls her name for a mic check. She doesn’t move.

I don’t know what pushes the words out.

But they come.

“I’ll do it.”

They barely register at first.

Then Arya turns, slowly. “What?”

“I can sing the final song.”

It doesn’t even sound like me.

Jasir stares like I’ve sprouted wings. Aditya mutters something that might be “holy shit.”

Raj doesn’t flinch.

Just says, “Let him.”

***

I don’t move. Not yet.

Inside, everything is shaking. Because this isn’t just singing.

This is opening the door to a room I boarded shut.

This is picking up the thing I used to love more than anything and asking it not to hurt me this time.

This is letting the music back in and hoping it doesn’t echo like Amit’s laugh.

It’s been more a year.

And the guitar is already onstage. Waiting. Like it remembers me. Like it’s asking if I remember it back.

Lights go down.

Act Three begins.

I watch from the wings.

Arya steps out, dressed in white and silver, the angel who fell. Asim meets her halfway on the bridge, tears in his voice, his hands trembling as he holds her. The world is ending behind them. Angels and humans clash in shadow and fire.

And still…

They hold each other. Even as everything breaks.

The bridge splinters.

The light fades.

And then—

It’s just me. My cue.

One spotlight.

One guitar.

One thousand ghosts behind my ribs.

I step out.

I feel my breath stutter, and for a second I think maybe I’ll just collapse. Right here. In front of everyone.

And then I see him.

Raj.

Sitting near the front. He doesn’t smile like he did before. Not big. Not proud. Just soft. Like hope. Like I’m still here.

And next to him, My dad.

Watching me like I’m doing something important. Like he’s proud.

I kneel, pick up the guitar.

My fingers hesitate. I can’t remember how I used to hold this. How I used to feel safe here.

But then I strum.

Just once.

It’s off-key. And it hurts. But now it’s mine.

I close my eyes.

And I start to sing.

Even if my voice shakes.

Even if it breaks.

Even if I remember him in every note.

Because maybe I want to remember him a little.

And maybe I want to remember me too.

The me before.

Before the pain rewrote every verse. Before love meant grief and music meant memory.

Before Amit.

The nine year old me, holding the first guitar. It was too big for me, the strings cut into my fingers, and I couldn’t tell an A chord from an alien language. But I remember my mother sitting beside me, her hand guiding mine, her voice soft and certain—like music wasn’t something you learned, it was something you returned to.

She bought it for me on a Tuesday. I remember that.

My father hadn’t come home the night before. Again.

She didn’t say anything about it.

Just placed the guitar on my bed, kissed my temple, and said, “Maybe you need something of your own.”

And I did. It was our thing.

Me and my mother.

Before it became someone else’s.

Amit’s

Us.

Until it didn’t.

Until every time I picked up the guitar, I remembered how he looked at me when I played. How he called me moon. How he said I made sad songs sound like lullabies.

And when I lost him, I lost the sound too.

The notes dried up in my throat. The strings turned sharp.

And music stopped feeling like mine.

Now—

I glance at the crowd.

And I see her again

My mother.

Sitting beside my dad. Her hand over her mouth, eyes glassy, like she’s watching a version of me she thought was long gone step back into the light.

And suddenly I remember.

The boy who sang for joy.

The boy who played under fairy lights in a too-quiet home.

The boy who didn’t know what he’d lose yet.

But who sang anyway.

And I want to find him again.

Just for a moment.

So I sing.

For the boy she raised.

For the boy who used to believe that music could make anything softer.

For the silence that never belonged to me.

And for the sound that always did.

Me. A guitar. A voice that still trembles.

And finally….

finally, a song that doesn’t hurt to sing.