Chapter 59

31st December, Delhi.

4 months later.

Teen Talents National Fest. 

Thereare exactly three types of people in the world.

One: the kind who thrive under pressure and come alive in chaos.

Two: the kind who shut down and sweat like it’s a cardiac episode.

Three: me.

I’m currently having what can only be described as a low-grade internal breakdown in the cramped backstage room of Delhi’s largest auditorium while wearing a button-down shirt that’s clinging to my spine like shame.

“Breathe,” Arya says, shaking my shoulders like she’s trying to eject the anxiety out of my body. “You’ve got this. You’re sexy. You’re talented. You’re wearing deodorant-I checked. You’re fine.”

“I’m going to pass out,” I mutter, pacing a tight loop between a stack of folding chairs and a rack of blazers that all smell vaguely of mothballs and regret.

“You’re not. You’re going to sing like your life depends on it, and then I’m going to ugly-cry in the front row. It’s a flawless plan.” She clasps my face dramatically. “Do it for the gays. Do it for me.”

“Do it for the tea,” Jasir cuts in from the corner, where he’s seated with Aditya, both sipping Coke like they’ve paid for balcony seats to my nervous breakdown.

“He’s about to combust,” Aditya says, gleeful. “You can feel the tension in the air.”

“I hate all of you,” I mumble.

Raj-of course-is lounging on a plastic chair like he owns the building. Legs stretched out, blazer unbuttoned, tie loose. Completely relaxed.

Probably because he already won the damn debate finals this morning like a smug bastard.

“Look at him,” I hiss to Arya. “Sitting there like a washed-up politician who just made it out of a corruption scandal.”

Raj lifts his head. “Everything alright, Sharma? You look like a Victorian lady about to faint in the parlour.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that,” he says, standing up and adjusting his sleeves, “but you still kissed me in a janitor’s closet last night, so who’s really winning here?”

Jasir chokes. Arya gives a loud gasp like she’s just found out her OTP is canon. Aditya silently fist-pumps.

“Stop talking,” I hiss. “Please.”

Raj grins. “You want to escape, don’t you?”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re spiraling. Which means your brain needs food. Or at least oxygen. Let’s go eat.”

“You’re not even in this category.”

“No,” he says, grabbing my hand. “But I’m in your category. Come on.”

***

We slip out through the backdoor, past the chaos of mic tests and light cues, and into the open courtyard outside the main hall, where the festival is in full swing.

The night air is sharp. Cold in the way Delhi only gets in December. The fair has lights strung across poles, food stalls in a line, students buzzing like caffeinated bees.

We walk toward the stalls, hand brushing against hand.

“You’re going to be fine, you know,” Raj says casually, eyeing a momo stand. “You’ve already won. All that’s left is applause.”

“I swear if you quote another metaphor at me, I’m throwing dumplings at your face.”

“Violent. Sexy.”

I groan. “Why do I like you.”

He stops at a chaat counter. “What do you want?”

“Something that won’t give me food poisoning.”

“So…nothing here,” he deadpans.

Then he points to the samosas. “What about those?”

I scrunch my nose. “I’m seriously going to sing on a stomach full of fried potato?”

We bicker in front of the counter for a full minute before settling on two samosas and a single paper cup of chai we both sip like it’s a peace treaty.

“You’re going to be okay, Sharma,” he says again, voice softer this time. “You always are.”

I look at him-at his warm hands and steady eyes and that infuriating smirk he saves just for me-and for the first time all evening, I breathe.

“I’ll find something decent,” Raj says, already scanning the food stalls like he’s planning a military rescue. “You sit. Don’t faint while I’m gone.”

He gestures to an empty plastic chair near the edge of the crowd.

I nod, half-aware, already sinking into the chair Raj pointed out. My legs ache from nerves. My throat’s tight. But for the first time all evening, there’s air again.

Because he’s here.

Because I’m not doing this alone.

I let my eyes drift across the courtyard while Raj disappears into the crowd.

The fair is louder out here. Students weaving between food stalls, someone arguing about payment near the chaat counter, a group from another school attempting to sing badly over a Bluetooth speaker.

And then, across the string lights and the clusters of people, I spot a face I know.

Aman.

He’s standing near the volunteer table, arms crossed the way he always does when he’s pretending he isn’t enjoying himself. Tall, quiet, expression locked somewhere between annoyed and mildly judgmental.

Except—

He’s not alone.

Ishan is standing in front of him, leaning way too close, saying something with a grin that looks dangerously like trouble.

Aman rolls his eyes. Ishan keeps talking.

And then something deeply unnatural happens.

Aman… blushes.

Not dramatically. Just a faint color creeping up his ears before he turns his face away like he’s personally offended by his own bloodstream.

I stare. Because Aman does not blush. Aman barely emotes.

Ishan notices it immediately, of course. He breaks into a triumphant laugh and nudges Aman’s shoulder. Aman swats him away, looking like he’s considering murder, which only makes Ishan grin wider.

Huh.

Well.

That’s not exactly new. It’s been like that for about a month now.

Things between Aman and Raj have been… different too. Not close. Not suddenly brotherly in the way movies like to pretend these things work.

But they also don’t act like strangers anymore.

They acknowledge each other at school. A nod in the hallway. The occasional conversation when something unavoidable comes up.

Which, considering how everything started, is probably the most realistic kind of progress there could be. Because how does someone just wake up one day and adjust to the idea that they have a brother they didn’t know about for seventeen years?

Aman’s gaze shifts and lands on me. For a moment neither of us reacts.

Things between us are different now. We’re not the version of friends we used to be. And I don’t have any idea why.

Or maybe I do. But I don’t think I can do anything about that.

We’re not the version of friends we used to be.

But we’re not strangers either.

He gives a small, almost reluctant tilt of his head.

I nod back.

And then I watch as Jasir and Aditya barrel into the scene from somewhere behind Ishan, immediately turning whatever conversation they’re having into complete chaos.

Aman sighs like he’s already regretting every life decision that led him here.

But he doesn’t leave. He stays.

And I realize something then.

People change.

Friendships change with them.

Sometimes the people who once held the center of your world shift a little further out in the orbit.

And maybe that’s not a failure.

Maybe forcing old versions of ourselves to stay locked together would only break them again.

Across the courtyard, Aman finally cracks the smallest smile at something Ishan says.

And for the first time in a long while, he looks… lighter.

Good. He deserves that.

I watch as the four of them wander further into the fair, disappearing between the food stalls and the strings of lights.

***

I turn and close my eyes for a second. Just a second.

And then-

“Sorry-“

A shoulder bumps mine lightly.

I turn, automatic apology on my tongue-

-and the world tilts.

Everything in me stills.

Not just a pause. Not just surprise.

It’s a rupture.

Like the universe split for a second, just long enough to let the past walk through.

He blinks at me.

I blink back.

Amit.

It’s barely a whisper. A breath. A thought I never meant to say out loud.

But it’s him.

Older. Quieter. Dimmer.

Gone is the reckless grin, the glow that used to wrap around him like sunlight. This boy-this man-looks… tired. His shirt hangs loose, sleeves rolled, apron stained at the edges. He’s holding a tray of empty glasses in one hand and the weight of life in the other.

But the face?

Still him.

Still the first boy who ever looked at me like I wasn’t a mistake.

And for one devastating moment, I forget how to breathe.

Because memory doesn’t play fair. It doesn’t care that I’m with Raj now, that I’m healing, that I’ve finally learned how to stay. It just shows me his face-the balcony, the bracelets, the kiss that rewired my entire body-and it hurts. Not because I still want him.

But because I did.

And that still matters.

Amit shifts awkwardly, like he’s unsure if he should even be standing here. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

“Hey,” he says.

Just that.

And it hits harder than anything else could’ve.

“You…” My throat works around the words. “You’re here?”

He shrugs. “Working.”

And just like that, the silence between us turns heavy. Not bitter. Just full.

“You look good,” he says, quietly after a while.

There’s no flirtation in it. No teasing grin. Just a soft kind of nostalgia, like someone remembering the echo of a song they used to hum in their sleep.

I nod, slow. Numb.

And then my eyes drop-and I see it.

On his wrist.

The bracelet.

The moonstone. Faded now. Worn.

But still there.

And somehow, after all this time, that is what threatens to undo me.

His eyes follow mine, and he sees what I’m looking at. His voice is quiet-too quiet.

“No one can hold the moon, Sharma.”

The old Amit would’ve smirked when he said it. Would’ve leaned in close, said it like a dare.

This one?

He just sounds tired.

I swallow hard. The words slip out before I can stop them.

“They can,” I say. “They just have to stop assuming it’ll break.”

He looks up.

Meets my eyes.

And in that split second, I feel it all-

The thirteen-year-old on the balcony.

The fifteen-year-old with blood on his collar.

The boy who never said a goodbye.

Who never got a goodbye.

My voice cracks. But I say it anyway.

“How are you?”

He blinks. Like I just punched him in the chest.

Then, quieter, “I’m…” followed by a tired shrug.

I nod. What else is there to say?

“You?” he asks.

“I- I have been okay.”

Amit pauses. Just for a second. His eyes flicker-down, then back up.

It’s not a lie. just an edited version of the truth. The silence stretches between us. I meet Amit’s eyes—same ones that once softened every time they landed on me. Now they just look… worn out. Like they’ve stopped hoping for answers from life.

But that’s when it happens. The question that’s lived in my ribs for years claws its way out.

“It wasn’t my fault, was it?”

He freezes.

“What?”

I hold his gaze. “That your family left. That you disappeared. That everything fell apart.”

A pause.

Then:

“It wasn’t me… right?”

His head jerks. “No. God, no. I didn’t. It was actually my family—we went bankru-“

He stops. And after a beat he adds, firmer, “It wasn’t your fault.”

It hangs between us, unspoken. The catering uniform. The abandoned house that got sold. The part-time jobs he used to laugh off. The silence that followed. All of it adds up now. It’s all here, in front of me, holding a tray of empty glasses..

But he doesn’t finishes his sentence. Like rest is something he had been trying to hide all this time. Like the rest doesn’t matter.

Maybe it doesn’t.

I exhale.

But it doesn’t feel like a release.

It feels like standing over a version of myself I finally stopped mourning.

And then I say it.

Not because I want to hurt him.

Not because I want him back.

Just because it’s true..

“Everyone deserves a goodbye.”

Amit’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to speak.

But he doesn’t.

Because some words are too late.

And then-from behind me, clear and effortless:

“Sharma.”

I turn.

And just like that, the cold starts to melt.

Raj stands at the edge of the courtyard, lit by the hanging lights and the soft gold of the food stall signs. He’s balancing a plate of something….cake, maybe, still steaming-and he’s grinning like he’s just returned from a personal quest to rescue me from emotional ruin.

That grin-wide, stupid, unapologetically bright-hits harder than it should.

“Happy New Year,” he calls out, lifting the plate like an offering.

And something in me cracks open.

Not painfully. Not like with Amit.

This is different.

I hadn’t even realized how tense I’d gone-how much the cold had sunk into my skin, how sharp the silence between Amit and me had gotten-until Raj’s voice pulled me out of it like sunlight slipping through frost.

He wasn’t the end of my story.

But he was the beginning of something I didn’t know I deserved.

Amit-

The boy who showed me what tenderness felt like.

Who made wanting feel safe.

Who made me believe, even for a second, that I was worth touching gently.

He wasn’t forever.

But he was real.

And for a while, he was mine.

That matters. It always will.

“Goodbye, Amit.” I whisper, final.

He nods. Just once.

Like he knows. Like he forgives me for holding on this long.

And I nod back. Forgiving for not holding on.

And then I turn.

I walk away from the boy who lit the night.

From the version of me that only ever lived in shadows.

From the moon.

And I walk toward him-

Raj.

Still waiting. Still here.

The boy who doesn’t ask me to whisper or disappear.

The one who stays.

The one who burns.

Toward the sun.

And somewhere between the cold I was standing in and the warmth waiting for me-I smile.

Not forced. Not polite. Real.

***

I reach him, breath fogging slightly in the chill. He offers the plate.

“It’s not midnight yet,” I say, like it matters.

Raj shrugs, eyes bright. “You’ll probably be on stage by then. Thought I’d get the first wish in.”

I roll my eyes but take the plate. On it: a square of cake. Not lemon.

“What is this?” I ask suspiciously.

“Chocolate-orange,” he says. “Live a little.”

I blink. “Isn’t that… illegal?”

Raj snorts. “You always go for lemon. It’s like your trauma comfort food. Try something else for once.”

I narrow my eyes. “Amit liked lemon cake.”

Raj doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t recoil.

“Cool,” he says. “But you’re allowed to like new things too.”

I sigh like this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and take a bite.

It’s… warm. Rich. Sweet in a way that doesn’t claw at my throat.

I chew slowly. Raj watches me like a five-year-old waiting to see if his science experiment explodes.

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s fine.”

He grins like I just confessed undying love.

“You love it.”

“Don’t project your cake propaganda onto me.”

“Your eyes literally closed.”

“That’s called blinking, Mehra.”

“That’s called emotional growth, Sharma.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he beats me to it-steps forward and kisses me, quick and certain, like he’s been holding it in since the moment I smiled.

It tastes like chocolate and citrus and something I haven’t had in years.

Something I didn’t know I could have again.. Something new. Something different.

Raj pulls back, stupidly proud of himself.

“Happy New Year,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re soft,” he says, smug. “Now shut up and eat your cake before I kiss you again.”

I glare at him, but my mouth is full of cake and betrayal, so I can’t really argue.

I sit down, still chewing, and he flops beside me like he owns the planet. The night air bites at my sleeves. A gust of wind cuts through the courtyard, and I instinctively pull my blazer tighter around me.

Without asking, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in-tight, warm, steady. *You’re cold standing next to a hot guy,” he mutters, like it’s a personal offense.

“It’s winter,” I deadpan.

“Still rude.”

He tugs me closer until I’m tucked into his side, like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like it’s just what we do now.

I keep eating the cake. He keeps pressing little kisses to my cheek, obnoxiously casual, like this is just his version of breathing.

“It’s awful,” I mutter, taking another spoonful of cake.

Raj doesn’t even look offended. He just smirks like he’s already won.

“You’re literally curled into my side, eating cake I handpicked for you, while I whisper sweet nothings into your face. Just admit it, Sharma-you love being spoiled.”

“There’s a restraining order coming.”

Raj presses a kiss to my cheek. Then another. Then one dangerously close to the corner of my mouth.

“File it after midnight,” he whispers. “Let me have this one night. Just one where you let me be disgustingly into you without pretending you hate it.”

I roll my eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Cliche. You flirt like it’s a medical condition.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he murmurs, wrapping both arms around me now, pulling me half into his lap. “I’m terminal.”

Another kiss. This time to the side of my jaw.

“Raj-“

“Hm?”

“You really don’t get tired of me?” I ask, too quietly.

Raj leans down, rests his chin on my head.

“Dev,” he says softly, “I look at you like you hung the damn stars. I’m not going anywhere.”

I sit there for a second, letting that land. Letting it stay.

Then I take another bite of cake-just to have something to do with my hands.

“Still awful,” I mutter.

He grins into my hair. “And still yours.”

I don’t say anything.

I just lean into him, into the arms that didn’t flinch, the hands that never asked me to shrink.

Into the stupid cake. The ridiculous warmth.

The way he keeps kissing me like it’s a reflex, not a question.

And i don’t flinch.

I don’t run.

I just let myself be held.

Not because I’m healed.

Not because the past is gone.

But because, somehow, I made it here anyway.

And here is warm, here is real.

And here’s him.

Still looking at me like I’m something worth staying for.

So I close my eyes, tucked into his arms, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

And I finally believe it.

Not as hope.

As fact.

I’ll be okay.

(The end)

—

Author’s Note

This story has been with me for a long time.

I first started writing it back in 2020 when I had made my Wattpad account, and the version that existed then was almost nothing like the one you just finished reading. Over the years I kept rewriting it, changing characters, rebuilding scenes, and sometimes abandoning it entirely. There were long stretches where I thought I’d never actually finish it.

Because I started so many other stories.

But last year, somehow, I did.

This became the first full book I ever completed. After that came months of editing, cutting things apart, putting them back together, and trying to make sense of the messy thing I had created.

It’s still a little messy. Stories like this probably always are. There’s only so much you can polish before you realize the imperfections are part of the journey that made the story what it is.

So this is it.

The version that survived all the rewrites, all the breaks, and all the moments where I almost gave up on it.

This story is very close to me, and I think it always will be.

Thank you for reading it.

DO READ MY OTHER STORIES, THEY’RE BETTER I SWEAR!

— Iris