Chapter 57

The car hums like it’s trying not to say anything.

Dad’s got both hands on the wheel. Eyes forward. The two of us ride in silence—not awkward, just… intentional. Like if no one says the wrong thing, maybe I’ll stay okay.

Mom and dad haven’t asked who those boys were. Or why I never told them.

They don’t ask why my knuckles looked like I punched a ghost.

Maybe they know the answer.

Maybe they’re giving me the space to say it first.

I’m not ready. Not yet.

The school gate creeps into view, and something clenches in my stomach. I thought after everything, walking back in would feel heavier. Like returning to a battlefield. But it just looks… normal. Too normal.

I reach for the door handle, then pause.

“Don’t come to pick me up today,” I say.

Dad glances at me, calm.

“I’m going somewhere after. With Raj.”

The pause that follows isn’t disapproval. It’s surprise. Soft. Quiet.

Then I do something I didn’t plan.

I lean in. And I hug him.

He freezes for half a second like he thinks it’s a mistake—then his arms wrap around me, slow and sure. No questions. No tension.

Just… my dad. And me.

“See you later,” he says, voice low, “take care. And call me if you need me to pick you up “

I nod. Step out.

The school smells the same. Chalk dust. Cheap sanitizer. Teenage sweat and stale ambition. Some freshman’s screaming across the corridor like finals don’t exist.

I’m home. Or something like it.

Classroom’s half full when I walk in. Arya and Raj are already in their usual seats—she’s animated, hands flying mid-story, and Raj is grinning like he’s heard this one before but still wants the punchline.

I drop into the seat beside them without a word. Arya pauses, looks over. Her smile goes wide.

“Well, well. If it isn’t our resident prodigy.”

I blink. “…What?”

“Oh please,” she scoffs. “You’ve been everywhere. The mysterious boy with the angel voice and tragic eyes. Three people in my chem class asked if you were single. One of them offered snacks in exchange for your schedule.”

I glance at Raj who’s already giving me his amused smile and I quickly avert my eyes, blood rushing into my cheeks.

His brushes are still there…but I try not to think about them.

I groan. “Tell them I’m emotionally unavailable and also allergic to attention.”

Raj laughs—just under his breath, but it’s enough to make my spine straighten a little.

Arya nudges me. “No but seriously—what the hell, Sharma? You killed it. Like actually killed. The music club coach cried. Cried.”

I scratch my neck, suddenly too aware of the eyes that aren’t on me right now.

“I blacked out. Might’ve been a possession.”

Raj snorts. “If that’s possession, we need more demons in school plays.”

Arya leans in, eyes narrow. “But why’d you two vanish after the fest? I turned around to gloat and you were both gone. Poof. Like magic. Tragic, actually. I had a whole celebratory roast prepared. And then this one has his face all reconstructed.”

Raj answers before I can. Calm. Smooth. Like he’s done it a thousand times.

“Dev wasn’t feeling well. Lights were a bit much. And I just got in a fight with one of the wannabe roudy students at the fair.”

Arya blinks. Then nods.

“Fair. You do have Victorian ghostboy energy. And this one is straight up power abuser. I’ll allow it.”

I nudge her with my elbow. “You’re one to talk. Queen of chaos and dramatics.”

“Excuse me,” she says, lifting a finger. “Priya—yes, that Priya—came up to me after the play and apologized.”

“…Apologized?”

“Yeah. Said she was insecure of me. That I’m ‘bold’ and ‘electric’ and make people listen.” She makes air quotes like the words taste weird. “Which is wild because I’ve spent months wishing I had her whole calm-and-collected thing.”

Raj tilts his head. “So… you were both intimidated by each other?”

Arya points dramatically. “Enemies to mutual girlboss pipeline. We love character development.”

The bell rings. Groans echo around the room. Arya starts shuffling her books, muttering about capitalism and school being a scam.

Raj’s shoulder bumps mine when he reaches for his pen.

He leans in—too close, like always—and his shoulder brushes mine again, but this time it’s deliberate. Calculated.

“By the way,” he murmurs, voice low, “So you’re kind of popular now.”

I glance sideways, suspicious. “yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, like he’s chewing on the word. “Post-fest stardom. People have been asking about you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And what do they want—autographs? Blood samples?”

He leans in even closer, lips near my ear now, like he’s about to confess a crime.

“They wanna know if you’re single.”

I choke on absolutely nothing and try to play it cool. “Wow.”

Raj’s mouth twitches. “Should I tell them you’re not available? Y’know—just so they don’t waste their time.”

I glance at him, slow. “You planning to take out a newspaper ad? Hold a press conference?”

He shrugs, lips curving. “Maybe. Depends how much of a threat you think your fan club is.”

I snort. “I’m not exactly being swarmed by roses and confessions, Mehra.”

He eyes me for a second—too warm, too focused. “That’s ’cause they haven’t seen you blush yet.”

And I hate him.

I hate how my ears burn immediately.

I hate how I can’t think of a comeback for five whole seconds.

“You’re delusional,” I mutter, turning away, but not really pulling back.

Raj just grins, smug and satisfied, like he’s already won something I didn’t know I was competing for.

And yeah, okay.

Maybe I let my knee rest a little too long against his under the table.

Maybe I’m not in a rush to move it.

Whatever.

***

The announcement crackles through the speakers mid-period, halfway through Arya loudly whisper-fighting with Raj about whether her performance was better or Asim’s.

“Dev Sharma. Class 11-B. Please report to the principal’s office.”

I freeze.

My pen stops moving. My blood does, too.

I glance at Arya. She raises her eyebrows like what did you do now. Raj just leans back, smirking.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, low enough that only I catch it. “Looks like the principal’s a fanboy too.”

I shoot him a glare and start stuffing my notebook into my bag with more aggression than necessary. “If I get expelled for emotional damage via guitar solo, I’m blaming you.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Performance was worth it.”

The walk to the principal’s office feels longer than usual. My palms are sweating like I committed a felony and forgot. My mind’s throwing out every possibility at once: Someone filed a complaint. They found the mic I never returned. That junior I snapped at for not holding the board right reported me for emotional cruelty.

Or did they find out about the fight?

I knock. The secretary waves me in.

Principal sir looks up from his desk. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just… formal. Beside him, Mrs. Taneja—the music teacher—sits cross-legged like she owns the room. She nods at me like we’re co-conspirators.

“Dev. Sit.”

I do. Slowly. Carefully. Ready to be scolded, banned, blacklisted, disowned.

Instead, Principal sir clears his throat. “Your performance during the school fest.”

Oh god.

“Was remarkable.”

Wait. What?

He folds his hands, nodding once. “Poised. Authentic. Emotionally resonant.”

I blink at him. I’m not entirely convinced I didn’t hallucinate this whole thing.

Mrs. Taneja jumps in, eyes lit. “It was one of the most moving student performances we’ve had in years. You’ve got something rare, Dev. You don’t just sing—you hold people there. You make them listen.”

My ears go hot. I glance down at my hands because making eye contact with someone praising me like that feels illegal.

She continues. “I was talking to Principal sir, and we both agreed—this year, we want to put your name forward for Teen Talents.”

I look up.

“The national-level interschool talent showcase,” she clarifies. “It’s hosted across all our branches. Singing, dancing, theatre—the best students from each school compete. It’s a big stage, Dev.”

My heart lurches.

“We think you belong on it,” she finishes.

There’s a pause. A long, floating silence where I try to connect my body to my brain again.

“I… don’t know what to say,” I manage.

“Say you’ll think about it,” Principal sir says kindly.

I nod.

And for a second, just one, I let myself believe I’m allowed to want this.

That maybe, this time, I don’t have to run from the things I’m good at.

Or the parts of me that shine without permission.

Maybe I’m allowed to be seen.

And not just survive it.

But want it.

I walk out of the office, still dazed.

Raj’s leaning against the wall across the hall like he’s been waiting the whole time, arms crossed, smirk cocked.

“So,” he says, tilting his head. “Was it detention or fan mail?”

I just stare at him. “You’re not real.”

He grins. “Neither are you, rockstar.”

And for once, I don’t hate the sound of that.

***

After school, the sky’s that kind of gold where everything looks too soft to be real. The parking lot hums with voices, clinking water bottles, the occasional honk from impatient parents. I spot Raj’s car before I spot him—same black thing where everything started.

I slide into the passenger seat. He’s already there, hands on the wheel but not driving. Just staring ahead like the road hasn’t given him permission yet.

We don’t say anything at first.

We just… sit.

The quiet stretches for a second too long, and then we both move at once—fast, clumsy, like our bodies made the decision before our heads did.

Our lips crash somewhere in the middle, breathless and crooked.

It’s not soft. It’s not planned.

It’s a release.

Like we’d been holding it in all day—through the classes and the passing glances, through the morning shoulder bumps and the hallway almost-touches.

Like we were both waiting to exhale, and this was the only way to do it.

Raj exhales slowly, like the kiss rattled something loose. His thumb skims along the edge of the steering wheel. He still won’t look at me.

“You sure you wanna do this?” I ask, quiet.

His jaw tightens. A pause.

Then—barely—a nod.

Not confident. Not brave. Just… tired. Like he doesn’t trust his own voice.

I nod too. “Okay,” I say. “I’m here.”

That’s all I can offer right now.

And maybe that’s enough.

We drive. Radio off. Windows cracked. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward but thick, like fog.

Raj has spent every night at my place since fest night. Half because I think he needs me.

Half because he doesn’t want to be anywhere near the man who raised him.

After the truth came out—Aman, the past, the fact that his dad had another kid he didn’t even know about until recently—Raj didn’t yell. Didn’t fall apart.

He just…left.

And hasn’t come back yet.

I glance sideways. He’s gripping the wheel tighter than he needs to.

Raj Mehra—cocky, magnetic, impossible-to-shut-up Raj—is suddenly small in his own skin.

And how could he not be?

How do you reconcile something like that? That your father had a whole other life buried in the past. That the boy you’ve sat next to in class, brushed shoulders with in corridors, shared insults and moments of hating each other with—that boy is your brother.

Your father’s son.

A version of you that no one talked about.

How do you look your dad in the eye when everything you knew about your family isn’t just broken—it’s rewritten?

I don’t think he’s figured that out. I don’t think he wants to.

He’s distanced himself from everything. From his dad. From his house. From whatever name used to make him feel untouchable.

And now he’s here, beside me, letting me drive him to Aman’s place like it’s a thing we’ve done before.

Like it’s easy.

It’s not.

But he doesn’t ask for directions.

And I don’t ask if he’s okay.

We just keep going.

And maybe that’s what this is now.

Not knowing how to fix anything.

But not letting each other go anyway.

***

We take the turn into Aman’s neighborhood and the air shifts, thick with the scent of damp cement and something faintly metallic. The buildings loom like they’ve seen too much and been forgotten anyway—paint peeling off like sunburnt skin, balconies cluttered with drying clothes and bent steel rods, window grills that have stories rusted into them.

Raj walks beside me, slower than usual. His head is down. Shoulders tight. This is the first time I’ve seen him look smaller than a room.

I lead the way.

I’ve been here before.

The stairwell groans under our steps. The railing is the same—flaking orange-red rust that crumbles if you grip too hard. Light flickers above us, struggling to stay alive. Somewhere, someone’s yelling in the distance. A TV blares a soap opera from behind a half-open door.

Raj says nothing.

But his silence isn’t blank. It’s heavy. Loud in the way only guilt can be.

I slow a little, glance at him. His eyes flick over the chipped concrete, the cracks in the walls, the hanging wire near the ceiling like it’s a noose.

“You okay?” I ask.

He swallows. Nods. Barely.

And I lean closer, voice low.

“None of this is your fault, you know.”

He doesn’t answer. Just blinks like the words burned on the way in.

We reach the door. I raise my hand to knock. Pause. Then do it—two quick taps.

It opens sooner than I expected.

Anjali Mehta, Aman’s mother opens the door mid-motion—keys in one hand, her phone tucked under her chin, her dupatta slipping off her shoulder like it has better places to be. She’s clearly in a rush, halfway out the door.

And behind her—

Aman.

He steps into view the second the door creaks open, like he’s already on defense.

His eyes land on Raj.

And everything about him locks. Jaw. Shoulders. Breath. Like his body recognized the threat before his brain caught up.

He moves between his mother and Raj without thinking. Like instinct. Like muscle memory.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

His voice is sharp. Immediate. No room for confusion. No delay between thought and anger.

Raj takes half a step back, blinking like he expected a confrontation—just not one this fast.

I reach out, quietly, and wrap my fingers around his.

Aman sees it.

His eyes flick down.

He doesn’t react. Not visibly.

But something changes. Quietly. Almost invisibly.

He straightens. Steps back. Pulls the wall back up.

Anjali’s gaze darts between the three of us. First at me, confusion knitting her brows. Then to Raj. She stills.

Her voice, when she speaks, is soft.

“Raj Mehra?”

He looks up, startled. “You… know me?”

She gives him a look that isn’t warm, but isn’t cold either. Just tired. Deep tired.

“Your father… he showed me your picture. When he came here. A few years ago. After he found out.”

Raj’s lips part, but nothing comes out.

Aman’s jaw clenches so hard I can hear the grind.

“Why are you here?” he asks. Direct. Bitter.

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Raj’s voice cracks on the edges. “I just—when I found out…I thought maybe—”

“What?” Aman snaps. “That we’d what? Hug it out? Trade secrets? Braid each other’s hair?”

Raj flinches. “I didn’t come to fight—”

“Then what did you come for?”

A beat of silence. Raj fumbles for something—anything—that might explain this.

“I guess I came because… I found out I had family and…” He shrugs, helpless. “I didn’t want to pretend like I didn’t.”

Aman laughs. Sharp. Cruel. Defensive.

“There is no we, Mehra. You don’t get to walk in here and rewrite your past because your dad finally gave you an extra name to carry.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Raj says, finally—voice rising, raw. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know about you. I didn’t know my dad—”

“You didn’t know,” Aman echoes, flat. “Yeah. Must be nice, not knowing. Must be nice, growing up with him. Having him in the room. At the table. At your fucking birthday parties.”

Raj’s throat moves like he’s trying not to choke on something. On words, or guilt, or whatever heavy thing has been lodged there since we got out of the car. My hand’s still wrapped around his, and I don’t let go—even when Aman looks at it.

He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw ticks. Something clenches behind his eyes. Not just anger. It’s deeper than that. Older.

Then he turns on Raj fully.

“You don’t get to come here and act like this means something,” Aman says, voice sharp enough to slice. “You showing up doesn’t make you a brother. Doesn’t undo anything.”

Raj blinks, mouth parting like he’s about to defend himself, but Aman barrels through it.

“You know what I got? I got a mother who was kicked out of her family for keeping me. I got teachers who marked my roll call with a blank because my last name didn’t come with a signature. I got kids asking me who my dad was and laughing when I said I didn’t know.”

His voice is rising now, shaking. He’s not yelling. He’s unraveling.

“He was yours,” he spits. “You got to call him ‘dad’ while I got a blank space on every goddamn form. You got his hands on your shoulders and his name on your report cards. You got birthday gifts and family vacations and people who looked at you like you were whole. I got whispered apologies and hand-me-down guilt. You got him.”

He breathes in too fast, too hard. His eyes blaze—not with fresh anger, but the kind that’s been rotting in his chest since he was old enough to spell “abandoned.”

“I got to watch my mother—”

His voice drops. Breaks. Then resets. Sharper.

“I got to watch her come home broken. Every night. After cleaning floors or standing on her feet for shifts that didn’t end. I got a childhood built on side glances and ‘who’s his father’ and ‘how could she keep him.’ And still—she kept me. She chose me. Every single day. And no one ever chose her back.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Raj doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

And then—softly, with something that’s not quite shame but close—he says,

“You’re right.”

Aman stills.

“I don’t get to show up now and expect anything. Not forgiveness. Not brotherhood. Not space in your life.” Raj’s voice doesn’t tremble, but something under it does. “But I need you to know—I see it. What she went through. What you went through. And I know I didn’t earn the right to understand it. But I see it now.”

Aman doesn’t look convinced. Doesn’t even look at him. But he doesn’t interrupt either.

Raj’s jaw tightens. “And I can’t imagine what it was like. To grow up carrying silence where a father’s name should’ve been. I won’t pretend I get it.”

A beat. Then—

“But I do know what it’s like to grow up with an absence you don’t know how to name.”

His voice lowers. Just enough that it sounds real. Unperformed.

“I don’t remember my mom. She died when I was a kid. I’ve spent most of my life with a photo and a funeral I was too young to understand.”

Aman looks at him now. Just briefly. Something flickers—but it’s gone before it settles.

“I had a dad,” Raj says, “but I never had her. And maybe that’s not the same. I know it’s not. But I know what it’s like to feel like half of you is missing and the other half is pretending it’s fine.”

Silence again.

No one rushes to fill it.

And then—Anjali reaches out and places a hand on Aman’s shoulder.

“That’s enough,” she says, gently. Not silencing him. Just grounding him.

He doesn’t speak again. But he doesn’t flinch away from her touch, either.

Anjali steps back from Aman, then opens the door a little wider.

“Come in,” she says. Her voice isn’t warm, not exactly—but it’s open. It’s offered.

Raj hesitates.

Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he’s not sure he’s allowed.

I squeeze his hand once, and we step inside together.

The apartment smells like turmeric and detergent. The kind of scent that clings to you in a comforting way. The lights are dim—one of the bulbs near the kitchen flickers. The furniture is old, not vintage. Just worn. A beige sofa with a threadbare cover. Plastic mat on the floor. Books stacked on a stool doubling as a side table. A single window that lets in light like it’s rationed.

It’s quiet. Not in a cold way—just… still.

Anjali moves to the side of the room, gathering a lunch box and her dupatta from the armrest. She doesn’t hover. Doesn’t perform. Just keeps her voice steady as she speaks.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Raj,” she says. “You didn’t ask for this.”

Raj doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes fixed on the floor.

She exhales. “Your father made choices. And then he buried them. That isn’t on you.”

Aman scoffs under his breath from behind us, but she doesn’t address it. Her gaze stays on Raj.

“I can’t speak for Aman,” she says, “but I… I’ve had a long time to be angry. At life. At your father. At the world.” Her voice wavers for just a second. “I don’t want to spend whatever peace I have left directing that anger at you.”

Raj’s throat moves. He looks like he’s trying to decide between thanking her and collapsing.

“I’m not here to fix anything,” he says finally. “Because I know I can’t.”

His voice is low. Honest. Stripped down to its bones.

“I’m not here to make it better, or ask for a place, or pretend like any of this makes sense. I’m just—”

He pauses. Swallows.

“I just can’t pretend that I don’t know. Can’t pretend that you’re strangers. Like we’re not tied to the same story.”

Anjali walks to him. Places a hand on his cheek, tentative but sure.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she says. “That’s something we all deserve.”

Raj closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough to feel it.

And I look over at Aman, who’s watching from near the kitchen.

He doesn’t say a word.

But for the first time, he’s not looking at Raj like a threat.

Just… someone new in a story he never wanted, but might have to live with anyway.

Then his gaze drifts.

From Raj—still standing in the center of the room like a storm that hasn’t landed—

to me.

And something in his expression tightens. Almost imperceptibly. But it’s there.

His eyes catch on the way I’m still holding Raj’s hand. On the way I haven’t let go once since we walked through the door.

And for the first time, he looks like something hurts.

Just… that quiet kind of ache. The kind you don’t say out loud because it would cost you more than silence ever did.

He blinks, slow. Then looks away.