Chapter 56

The car ride home is dead quiet. Like the air’s too full to hold words. Like if anyone said anything, the whole thing would crack wide open.

Mom stares out the window, arms wrapped around herself like she’s bracing for something. Dad grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Neither of them asks what happened. Neither of them asks why Raj is in the car, why I haven’t let go of his hand since we left that godforsaken courtyard.

And I don’t let go.

Not even when we pull into the driveway. Not when we step out of the car. Not even when my dad unlocks the door and flicks the lights on like we didn’t just live through a war.

“We’ll be downstairs,” my mom says gently. “If you need anything.”

“I won’t,” I reply. “I just… want to sleep.”

I don’t mean it. But I can’t explain what I do want.

I still haven’t let go of Raj’s hand.

We walk upstairs like ghosts.

My room is dim and too clean. Like the kind of place you come back to after surviving something that should’ve killed you.

The door clicks shut behind us. And suddenly the silence feels different. Less full. More dangerous.

Raj’s lip is split.

His knuckles are raw.

There’s blood dried into the collar of his shirt, and a shadow blooming over his cheekbone.

I can’t look at him.

Because the second I do, my hands are on him.

Not rough. Not scared. Just… desperate.

I pull him into me. Arms tight. Tighter.

Like if I let go, his body will collapse into smoke. Like if I blink, he’ll vanish too.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t wince. Just presses into the hug like he needs it just as badly.

And I whisper it before I can stop myself.

“You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.”

I don’t even know if I’m saying it for him or for me.

***

When I finally step back, he’s blinking fast, jaw set, like he doesn’t know what to do with my softness.

I go to the drawer. Pull out the first-aid box. My fingers shake when I open it. Not from fear. From everything else.

Raj sits down on the edge of my bed without being asked. His hands fall into his lap, open, waiting.

We still don’t speak.

Because what is there to say?

He bled for me.

And I let him.

Now I patch the wounds and pretend I still know how to be gentle.

Because I think—I hope—if I keep my hands steady enough, maybe he won’t see how wrecked I am. Maybe he’ll believe I’m someone worth bleeding for.

He winces when the antiseptic touches his skin. Just a sharp inhale through clenched teeth, but it slices through me like a blade.

“Sorry,” I mumble, but my voice comes out raw. Like it’s scraped against glass.

He shakes his head, shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

Of course he does. Raj never makes a scene unless it’s for a joke. He’s bleeding down his collarbone and still trying to make it easier for me.

I dab at the dried blood near his temple, trying to be careful, but his face twitches again. Another hiss of pain. And I just—

I can’t.

I stare at the purpling bruise under his eye, the gash on his lip, the red swelling along his jaw.

His face. His beautiful, stupid, arrogant face.

The one that used to smirk at me across classrooms. The one that leaned in too close and made my lungs forget how to work.

And now it’s ruined. Because of me.

My fingers freeze, still holding the cotton pad. My other hand is bracing his chin, and suddenly I realize I’m shaking.

It’s not just my hands. It’s my whole goddamn body.

Raj blinks. “Dev?”

And then I’m sobbing.

Like something inside me finally gave out. Like I’d been holding my breath since the courtyard and it finally snapped loose in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and then again, louder. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Raj is stunned. I feel it in how still he goes.

“This is my fault,” I choke out. “You wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for me. They did this because of me. You—your face, Raj—”

He reaches for me, arms moving instinctively, and pulls me in. Hard.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he says, voice low but firm. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” I cry into his shoulder. “You’re not. You’re not supposed to look like this. And it’s my fault. I ruin everything I touch. Everyone who gets close—”

“You don’t ruin things,” he snaps, gripping the back of my neck, pressing his forehead against mine like he’s trying to force the truth into me. “You don’t. Look at me. I chose to be there. I’d do it again.”

I shake my head. “Don’t say that.”

“I would,” he says, quieter now. “Because it’s you.”

That’s when I finally look at him.

Really look.

And something twists inside me.

Because Raj is trying to be steady. Trying to be strong. But his hands are trembling. His lip is bleeding again where the cut split open. His shirt is stuck to his shoulder where blood dried. And even now, even now, he’s holding me together.

When I’m the reason he’s falling apart.

“Sorry,” I whisper again.

“Dev—”

But I’m already pulling away, standing up, pacing the room like if I move fast enough maybe the guilt won’t catch me. But it always does.

“You don’t get it,” I snap, voice cracking. “You think this is just a fight? You think this is about tonight?”

I stop by the balcony door, arms shaking. “You’re bleeding. You’re hurt. And it’s because of me.”

Raj is quiet. Watching.

“I’ve seen this before,” I say, barely breathing. “Someone loves me, and they pay for it.”

He opens his mouth—but I cut him off.

“He got expelled. Do you know that? He fucking got expelled. He got in a fight because someone hurt me—and he lost everything. They took him away, his family. Away from me. One second he was mine, and the next he was gone. City. School. Life.”

Raj’s eyes narrow slightly in confusion, just for a second, and then soften as if something clicks to him.

I look into them. Really look into them.

I try to bite my tongue but couldn’t stop–

“And now you’re standing there. Lip bleeding. Shoulder bruised. Just because you cared.”

“Don’t—”

I laugh—ugly, hollow.

“You don’t get it, Raj. I ruin people. That’s what I do. I pull them in. I make them care. And then they burn for it.”

His voice is soft. “Dev—”

“I’m a poison.”

He stands, slow, careful. Wincing. One step. Then another.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says.

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I always do.”

He’s in front of me now. He doesn’t touch me yet. Just stands there, blood on his lip, bruise darkening on his cheek, eyes soft like he’s looking at something fragile.

And then he says—God, he says it so quietly—

“You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

I laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it hurts.

“You don’t know me.”

“I do,” he says, voice firm but shaking. “You’re the boy who stayed outside my door the whole night—just to make sure I was still breathing. Who held me like you were afraid I’d disappear if you didn’t. Who understands me better than I’ve ever understood myself.”

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving mine like he means every word of it, “Who flinches every time I blame myself for my father’s mistakes, because you feel that kind of guilt like it’s your own., and you don’t want me to go through that pain.”

One more step.

“You’re the one who touched my wrist like it meant something. Who checked every bruise like it was on your skin. Who broke down in front of me because the idea of someone else hurting was more than you could carry.”

He finally stands close— too close and places a hand against my chest. Over my heartbeat.

“I don’t care what they said. What they made you believe. You are not poison. You are not broken. You are not hard to love.”

Then soft, too soft—

“You’re just Dev”

My breath shatters.

And maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s all I needed.

Because suddenly I’m falling into him. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Just collapsing into his arms like my legs can’t hold this weight anymore.

He catches me. Of course he does.

And he holds me like he’s trying to rewrite every time I thought I wasn’t worth being held.

He’s bleeding. He’s bruised. And he’s still here.

Still choosing me.

I bury my face in his neck.

And for a moment, there’s only the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the press of his lips against my temple like a promise he hasn’t put into words yet.

But then it happens.

The breath I try to take doesn’t come all the way in. It catches—sharp, jagged—and everything I’ve been holding, everything I’ve packed into neat, numb corners inside me—erupts.

It’s not a sob at first.

It’s a crack.

Like my ribs split open.

Like the grief has claws and it finally found a way out.

And then I’m crying. Hard. Ugly. The kind of crying that shakes your entire body, that makes your throat raw and your lungs burn and your stomach hurt like you’ve been punched from the inside out.

And Raj—

Raj doesn’t flinch.

He just holds me tighter. One arm around my back, the other around my head, pulling me in like if he squeezes hard enough he can keep the pieces from falling everywhere.

My fists curl into his shirt. I’m gripping him like I’m afraid he’ll disappear. Like Amit did. Like everyone always does.

“I’m sorry,” I sob. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” he whispers, voice already breaking, “you have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I have,” I gasp. “for being like this. Being—me.”

Raj shakes his head against my temple. His voice is low, wrecked. “If being you is something to be sorry for… then the world owes you a thousand apologies.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me—really look at me.

“Because if the way you care, the way you feel everything like it’s stitched into your skin—if that’s wrong? Then I don’t want right. Because this wrong is a thousand times kinder than any right the world has to offer.”

My breath stutters. He presses his forehead to mine.

Soft.

Steady.

His voice drops to a whisper, like the truth is too big for full volume.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone braver.”

And that breaks me.

I sob harder. Choked. Gutted.

And Raj’s arms only get tighter.

Every time I break, he pulls me closer.

Every time I shake, he anchors harder.

Like he’s not afraid of the mess.

Like he’s not afraid of me.

And I let him.

I let myself believe him.

I let myself bleed.

I let myself break.

***

It’s past midnight. The house is still. The kind of still that feels intentional. Like even the walls know we’re barely holding it together.

Raj is asleep on my bed.

He’s wearing my clothes—too short, too tight. The old gym shorts I stopped wearing because they reminded me of mirrors I didn’t want to look in, and the faded t-shirt that clings to him like a second skin. It should look ridiculous. He should look out of place. But he doesn’t.

He looks like he’s always belonged here.

His breath is slow. Mouth parted slightly. One arm thrown over his stomach, the other curled against his chest like he’s holding something invisible.

The moonlight spills in through the glass balcony door. It drapes across his face in soft silver, catching on the edges of his bruises, making them look almost delicate. Like someone tried to hurt something sacred and the universe refused to let the damage win.

He’s still. Peaceful.

And I’m sitting three feet away, hugging my knees to my chest like a fucking coward, watching him like if I blink, he’ll vanish.

My chest aches with something I don’t have a name for. Not love. Not want. Not fear. Something bigger. Something worse.

What if he wakes up tomorrow and looks at me with clear eyes and realizes this was a mistake?

What if he sees me the way I’ve always seen myself?

As the common denominator in every disaster. The glitch in the system. The reason people get hurt.

My fingers dig into my calves. My throat tightens.

He won’t, I tell myself. He’s not like that. He’s Raj.

Raj, who fought for me.

Raj, who held me when I broke.

Raj, who whispered “You’re not hard to love” like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

But

What if—what if even Raj has a limit?

And what if I’m the one who pushes him there?

I squeeze my eyes shut. My brain won’t shut up. My chest won’t stop buzzing. I want to scream into my own skull.

Why can’t I just believe him?

Why can’t I let myself have this?

He’s right here. Sleeping in my bed. Wearing my goddamn t-shirt. Breathing soft and steady like this isn’t the most fragile thing I’ve ever held.

And still—still—I’m sitting here, holding my own arms like I’m bracing for an impact I created in my head.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me?

Why can’t I just shut up?

Why can’t I be enough, just once, without dissecting it until it bleeds?

I look at him again.

He’s right there. Sleeping. Safe. Beautiful. Bruised. Mine.

And still, all I can think is don’t get used to it.

Because people like me? We don’t get happy endings. We get warnings. We get almosts. We get fleeting seconds of softness before it gets ripped away and we’re told, this is what you could’ve had if you were someone else.

***

I wake up to the sound of quiet. Not silence—there’s the rustle of curtains, the hum of a fan—but the kind of stillness that feels intentional. Like someone’s trying not to wake me.

And then I feel it—fingers in my hair. Gentle, steady. Almost reverent.

I blink blearily and tilt my head. Raj is sitting cross-legged next to me, one hand carding through my hair like he’s done it a thousand times before and will do it a thousand more.

His face is soft. Calm. But his skin is still bruised—faint purple curling beneath his eye, a split just barely healing at the corner of his lip. The anger, the violence,

the night that almost tore everything apart—it’s still there. Written in his body.

But he looks at me like I’m the fragile one.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep and something warmer.

My chest tightens. “Hey.”

I sit up a little, resting on my elbow. He doesn’t stop touching my hair. Doesn’t even pause.

“You’re still here,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Raj nods, leaning a little closer. “I’m still here.”

I don’t know what to do with that. The quiet. The ease. The way it doesn’t hurt to look at him right now. My brain’s already trying to unravel it, already preparing me for impact.

And God, that should be enough. That should feel like safety. But it doesn’t.

Because now there’s this sharp thing in my chest—this pressure that starts behind my ribs and climbs into my throat.

Like my body’s bracing for something.

Because what if he’s just being kind? What if he’s still here out of pity, or habit, or guilt, and I’ve mistaken it—again—for something that stays?

I try to swallow it down, pretend I’m not already spiraling. But the words are there, pressing against the back of my teeth.

Don’t ask.

You’ll ruin it.

Let it be quiet.

Let it be soft.

But my anxiety never learned how to live in softness.

So I ask.

“Do you… still like me?”

I hate how small my voice sounds. I hate that I can’t meet his eyes when I say it.

There’s a pause. Just a second. Maybe less. But it feels like a century.

My heartbeat is thudding in my ears now. I feel stupid. So stupid.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just looks at me—really looks at me. And something in his eyes shifts. Like the question cracked something open, not in a painful way, but in the way light fills a room through a window you didn’t know was there.

Then he leans in and presses his lips to mine—soft, warm, terrifying in how gentle it is. Like he’s holding something fragile and doesn’t want to break it.

He pulls back, just enough to breathe against my skin, and says, voice quiet but sure:

“I never stopped.”

My throat closes. My heart stutters.

He brushes his thumb against my cheek, slow, steady.

But my chest aches. Like something is trying to claw its way out from underneath my ribs.

He just said it—he still likes me. He kissed me like it meant something. He’s looking at me like I’m not broken.

And still.

Still.

I choke on my own breath. My fingers curl into the blanket like I need to hold on to something that won’t vanish.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It comes out wrecked. Humiliating. “I’m sorry I asked. That was so stupid. I just— I know you said it, and I believe you, I do, I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Raj’s face falls. The softness doesn’t leave, but something in his eyes cracks. Like I just hurt him by hurting myself.

“Dev—”

“I keep thinking you’ll leave,” I blurt. “That one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m too much or too messy or too broken or too— too quiet when I should’ve spoken, too loud when I should’ve shut up, and you’ll just be done. And I won’t even be able to blame you.”

My voice shakes harder than I mean it to. I can’t look at him. Not really. I stare at the hollow of his throat, at the way his chest moves like he’s breathing for both of us.

“I don’t know why I can’t just trust this. Trust you. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve been— God, Raj, you’ve been so good to me. And I still… I still keep waiting for it to vanish. Like the second I feel safe, the rug will be pulled out from under me again.”

I let out a sound that might be a laugh, might be a sob. “I feel like I’m ruining everything just by existing.”

Raj’s arms are around me before I can finish the sentence.

He pulls me in so fast it knocks the air out of my lungs. His hand cradles the back of my head, firm and warm and grounding.

“Shh Don’t say that,” he murmurs.

I shake against him. I can’t stop it. My fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt like if I let go, I’ll disappear. Like I’ll scatter into a thousand sharp little pieces across the floor and no one will know how to put me back.

He smells like mint and laundry detergent and something softer— warm cotton and second chances. He smells like safety, like home… like mine, and it makes me want to cry harder because I don’t know how to live in safety. I don’t know how to exist in this skin without waiting for it to burn.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Raj— I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know how to stop being like this.”

He pulls me closer, like he thinks his arms can physically hold my bones together.

“I’m ruining this too, right?” I whisper, faster now, words tumbling out like they’ve been locked up too long.

“I thought I’d finally learned how to be okay. But every time something good happens I just— I feel like I’m faking it. Like I don’t deserve it. Like one day you’ll look at me and see what I see and you’ll leave.”

Raj’s grip tightens, like he’s scared I’ll dissolve if he lets go.

“I won’t,” he says, and his voice cracks too. “Dev, I won’t.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “But what if you do? What if one day you wake up and all the soft parts of you stop making room for me and I’m just… alone again? And it’s not your fault, I swear it’s not— I’m just so hard to love, Raj. I know that. I know that.”

“Stop,” he says, voice breaking now. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to yourself.”

He pulls back just enough to grab my face in both hands, holding me like I’m something fragile and holy and hurting. His eyes are wet.

“You’re not hard to love,” he says, like he wants to punch every wall that ever made me believe I was. “You’re not. You’re scared. And that’s okay. I’ll keep showing up until you believe me.”

His thumbs wipe my cheeks. I’m still crying. He doesn’t flinch.

And I— I can’t take it. I shake my head, voice ragged and cracking open at the seams.

“No, you don’t get it. I make people leave.”

Raj’s expression falters—just for a second.

“Everyone I get close to, they vanish. Amit, my friends. Everyone. They burn out. They break. They get bullied… they get hurt for being close to me. And it’s always my fault. I don’t mean to, I swear I don’t, but I touch something and it corrodes. It corrodes, Raj. And I watch them walk away like they don’t even know me anymore—like I was a bruise they’re glad to be rid of.”

His hands drop to my shoulders, holding tight now. His eyes? Wrecked.

“I’m not safe,” I whisper. “Not to love. Not to hold onto. I’m a pit people fall into. And I pull them down with me.”

And Raj—Raj doesn’t look away. He looks at me like I’ve just told him the worst thing I’ve ever believed and he refuses to let it stay true.

He exhales, trembling.

“Dev…” he says, voice low, voice loud in how steady it is.

I start to shake my head, but he holds my face, gentle but unrelenting.

“I need you to hear me,” Raj says, voice quiet but thunder in my chest. “I don’t care what your brain tells you at 3 a.m., or what those ghosts in your chest keep whispering. I don’t care how many times you flinch from softness because you think it has an expiration date. But I am not going anywhere.”

My breath hitches. My ribs lock. Something tightens under my skin, like I’m bracing for impact—because no one stays, not really, and his words sound too beautiful to survive the real world.

But he leans in, so close I can feel his breath against my lips, and keeps going.

“I’ll be there the next time your fear whispers that I’ll leave.”

“I’ll be there when you start counting how many reasons I should walk away.”

“I’ll be there when you’re quiet, and hurting, and don’t know how to ask for help.”

His fingers trail up my neck, slow, reverent, sliding into my hair. He’s holding me like I’m something delicate and worth holding anyway.

“I’ll be there, Dev. Not just in the pretty moments. Everywhere. In the silences. In the spirals. In the ‘please don’t touch me right now’ and the ‘please don’t leave.’ All of it.

And I break.

My eyes burn. My throat closes. My hands find his shirt and fist into the fabric like if I don’t anchor myself, I’ll collapse.

“Why?” I whisper.

Why would you stay for someone like me?

He presses a kiss to the center of my forehead, his voice almost breaking. “Because I love you.”

Another kiss—this time to the corner of my mouth, soft and grounding.

“You don’t have to earn this. You don’t have to beg for it. You get to be loved, Dev. Just let me love you, Sharma. Let me.”

His hands slip down, sliding over my sides, curling around my waist as he pulls me into his lap. My knees straddle his thighs without thinking, and suddenly I’m pressed against his chest, caged in by his arms, the weight of him steady and sure.

His forehead rests against mine, breath mingling with mine.

“Is this okay?” he asks, fingers slipping under the hem of my shirt, touching skin like it’s made of something holy.

I nod, too fast, too desperate. “Yeah. Yes.”

He kisses me again, and this one doesn’t hold back.

It’s not rough. It’s not wild. It’s just full—of everything we’ve never said, of every night I’ve spent believing I’d never be wanted this way. His mouth moves over mine like a promise, like a vow sealed in skin and silence.

And when we finally pull apart, I’m breathing like I just surfaced from something deep.

He cups my jaw again, thumb brushing under my eye.

“I’m not leaving,” he says. “You’re stuck with me.”

And the part of me that always waits for people to run—

goes quiet for the first time in a long long time.