Chapter 1

His phone call doesn’t wake me up.

That’s the first thing that feels wrong.

Amit has never once done anything quietly in his life. He breathes like he’s arguing with oxygen. He walks like the floor personally offended him. He laughs like the whole colony paid for tickets.

So when I wake up to silence, it feels staged.

I don’t know what time it is. The room is still blue with early morning, that half-light where everything looks like it’s waiting to be decided. My fan clicks in its lazy rhythm. A dog barks somewhere far away. Normal sounds.

Then I hear it.

A truck.

Not fast. Not honking. Just… there. Idling. Low and steady. Patient.

My body goes cold before my brain catches up.

I don’t move at first. I lie there, staring at the ceiling like if I don’t react, it won’t count. Like this could still be something small. Some delivery. Some neighbor.

The truck engine cuts off.

Metal doors slam.

My stomach drops so hard it feels like I missed a step in the dark.

No.

No, no, no.

I sit up too fast. The room tilts. I don’t put on my glasses. I don’t check my phone. I just walk. The floor is cold under my feet. My shoulder hits the wall because I’m not looking properly. I don’t feel it.

The hallway is quiet. My parents’ door is shut. The house feels normal. Too normal. Like the world didn’t get the memo that something is ending.

The balcony door sticks, like it always does. I yank it open harder than I mean to.

The air outside is sharp. Early morning sharp. It hits my chest and stays there.

Across the street, Amit’s gate is open.

Wide open.

The truck is parked crooked in front of his house. Back doors yawning. Two men carry a mattress out. His mattress. I know the stupid blue cover on it.

I grip the railing.

No porch light. No music. No Amit yelling at someone to be careful with his “very expensive imaginary trophies.”

Just boxes.

Brown. Sealed. Final.

My eyes scan the balcony automatically.

Empty.

Curtains drawn.

My heart is beating so loud I can hear it in my ears. I wait. For him to appear. For him to lean over the railing and say something dumb like, “Relax, Sharma, I’m not dying.”

For him to look up at me.

He doesn’t.

A man loads his stupid bike into the truck.

I don’t think. I just move.

Down the stairs. Almost trip. Slam into the front door. It bangs against the wall and I don’t care. The street is cold under my feet but I don’t feel that either.

I cross without looking.

“Excuse me—” I start, but my voice cracks and I hate that I sound like this. Like a child who lost his balloon.

One of the movers glances at me, confused. “Yes?”

“Where—” I swallow. “Where are they going?”

He shrugs. “Shifted. Early call. Family already left.”

Already left.

Already.

My brain rejects the word.

“What do you mean already left?”

“Left before us. Said they had to reach Delhi by morning.”

Delhi.

My chest tightens so hard it hurts to breathe.

“You didn’t see—” I can’t even finish it. I don’t want to say his name out loud like that. Like he’s already a memory.

The mover shakes his head, already turning away.

I stand there, stupidly, as they finish loading.

And then I see it.

Near the gate. Leaning against the pillar. Half hidden in shadow.

His old guitar case.

Not the good one. The cheap one he used to complain about but never replaced. The one he said sounded better when I held it because “it gets performance anxiety around you.”

I walk toward it slowly, like it might disappear if I go too fast.

My hands hover over it.

Why would he leave this?

Why would he leave anything?

The truck engine starts again.

I look up, panicked, like maybe now he’ll come running out. Maybe he’s inside grabbing something. Maybe he’ll shout my name. Maybe he’ll look at me the way he did on the roof that night, like I was the only real thing in the sky.

Nothing.

The truck pulls away.

It doesn’t speed off. It doesn’t hesitate either. It just… leaves.

I take two steps after it. Then three. Then I stop because I can’t chase a truck barefoot down the street like a mad person.

I stand there until it turns the corner and disappears.

The street goes back to normal immediately.

Birds. Distant traffic. A milkman cycling past like nothing historic just happened here.

I look at the balcony again.

Empty.

My throat burns.

I sit down right there on the pavement.

The guitar case beside me.

Something is taped to the top.

A piece of notebook paper. Torn crooked. The tape barely holding it in place.

My hands shake as I peel it off.

Four words.

You’ll be okay, Sharma.

That’s it.

No “I’m sorry.”

No “I’ll call.”

No “wait for me.”

Just—

You’ll be okay, Sharma

I stare at it so long the letters blur.

The note crumpled in my fist.

The sun starts rising slowly, like it’s unaware it’s lighting up a disaster.

How will I be okay, Amit?

How can I?

When I’m the reason you had to leave? When I’m the one who ruined your life?