Chapter 11

The sun is lazy today.

It spills across the campus in soft, golden streaks, stretching over rooftops, glinting off windows, warming the concrete paths. The air is still—not too hot, not too cool—just the kind of slow, drowsy warmth that makes everything feel heavier, like the world is moving through syrup.

It’s a free period. Which means:

A Some students are sleeping with their heads down on desks.

B. Others have claimed spots under trees, sprawled out with their books open but their minds anywhere but inside them.

C. And then there’s me—sitting under the shade of an old neem tree, desperately trying to copy Raj’s notes before the next class.

Raj, on the other hand, is annoyingly relaxed.

He’s sitting beside me, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily, flipping through his own notes—not for class, obviously, but for his debate team. He’s mouthing something under his breath, probably refining his arguments in that ridiculously theatrical way of his.

I glance at him.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. The sun catches on the edge of his profile, casting sharp lines over his jaw, highlighting the slight crease in his forehead as he concentrates. His fingers tap absently against his notebook, like he’s counting beats between thoughts.

I sigh, turning back to my actual crisis.

Chemistry.

More specifically—this stupid equation that refuses to make sense to me.

I frown at my notebook, tapping my pen against my knee. “What the hell is this supposed to be?”

Raj hums, not looking up. “That would be chemistry, my dear Watson.”

“Ha ha,” I deadpan. “I mean—why does this reaction even happen?”

Raj finally glances over. He takes one look at my page, and his mouth twitches. “Ah. You’ve entered the danger zone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve hit the point where your brain is actively rejecting knowledge.”

I glare. “My brain is not rejecting—” I pause. Stare harder at the equation. Okay. Maybe it is.

Raj snorts, reaching over. “Alright, move.”

Before I can react, he’s sliding my notebook onto his lap, tapping the equation with the end of his pen.

“See this?” He points at one of the reactants. “You’re missing a step here. This compound doesn’t just magically transform into the product. It first breaks into an intermediate—like a pit stop before reaching the final form.”

I blink. “A pit stop?”

“Yeah,” Raj says, twirling the pen between his fingers. “Think of it like… a road trip. You’re driving from here to Mumbai. But instead of going straight, you stop in some random-ass town for food.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why is your brain like this?”

“You need my brain right now,” Raj reminds me, smirking. “Now, listen—the intermediate is like the pit stop. It forms for a brief second before rearranging into the final product. That’s why your equation was wrong—you skipped the middle step.”

I stare at the page. Then at him.

Then back at the page.

I grab my pen and rewrite the equation, this time adding the intermediate step. The pieces finally click together.

“Oh,” I mutter.

Raj leans back smugly. “There you go. Progress.”

I roll my eyes but can’t deny that he actually helped. “Congratulations. You’re officially more useful than my actual chemistry teacher.”

Raj presses a hand to his chest. “I’m honored.”

I shake my head, flipping the page. “Alright, genius. Since you’re in the mood to explain things, what’s this one—”

But Raj is already back to his own notes, flipping through them with an expression of deep concentration.

I frown. “What, now you’re too busy?”

Raj sighs dramatically. “Unlike you, I actually care about my extracurriculars.”

I snort. “Oh, right. Your holy debate team.”

Raj raises an eyebrow. “Mock it all you want, but some of us enjoy intellectual combat.”

I pretend to gag. “Intellectual combat? You do realize you’re just standing in a room yelling at other people who are also yelling, right?”

Raj gasps, scandalized. “You offend me.”

I smirk. “That’s the idea.”

Raj shakes his head, but his eyes are alive—like he thrives on being challenged. “You wouldn’t last a second in a debate.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “I’d start yelling. Or crying.”

“Both, probably.”

“Shut up.”

Raj laughs, tipping his head back against the tree trunk, and for some reason—

I laugh too.

A real, full laugh.

Loud and thoughtless, bubbling up before I can stop it. It feels… good. Better than I remember.

And then—

Then I stop.

Like something inside me hit a wall. Like something pressed down on my chest, pushing the air out.

I don’t even know why.

The last time I laughed this loud—

Probably with Amit.

I exhale, suddenly feeling like I’ve been running and just came to a dead stop.

Raj doesn’t notice. He’s still smirking, flipping through his notes like nothing happened.

I roll my shoulders, shifting, brushing it off. It’s fine. It’s nothing.

“Anyway,” Raj says, nudging my foot with his. “You should come watch.”

“Sounds fun,” I say dryly.

“Delightful,” Raj agrees.

I hesitate, tapping my pen against my knee again. “What’s the topic again?”

Raj’s expression shifts slightly—subtle, but noticeable. “Social Media: The Death of Critical Thinking or the Birth of Mass Awareness.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And let me guess—you’re on the Mass Awareness side?”

“Of course.” Raj stretches his arms behind his head. “It’s obvious—social media has given a voice to marginalized groups, spread movements, held people accountable. It’s revolutionary.”

I hum. “But also a shitstorm.”

Raj smirks. “Ah, now you’re thinking critically.”

I roll my eyes. “I just mean—it’s a mess, isn’t it? For every movement, there’s a mob. For every important discussion, there’s a hundred people spewing nonsense.”

Raj tilts his head, considering. “True. But that’s people, not the platform. Just because some people misuse it doesn’t mean it’s inherently bad.”

I shrug. “Yeah, but don’t you think it’s easier for people to be stupid online? Like, they don’t even try to fact-check anymore.”

Raj clicks his tongue. “That’s not a social media problem. That’s a human problem.”

I stare at him. “You’ve thought about this way too much.”

Raj grins. “That’s what intellectual combat does to a man.”

I huff a quiet laugh. The sun shifts slightly, filtering through the branches, casting dappled light onto the ground. The air is warm, but the shade keeps it pleasant.

For the first time in a while, I feel… okay.

Just sitting here. Talking.

Raj nudges my foot with his. “You should come watch.”

I blink. “What?”

“The debate,” he says. “Next week. You should come.”

I hesitate. “Why?”

Raj shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes—something unreadable. “Why not?”

I don’t have an answer for that.

So I just look back down at my notebook, spinning my pen between my fingers.

Raj keeps flipping through his notes.

And the sun keeps spilling through the branches, stretching long and golden across the campus.

***

I enter the cafeteria, chemistry textbook tucked under my arm like a deadly weapon—which, given how it’s slowly murdering my will to live, isn’t inaccurate.

See, studying gives me stress. Stress makes me hungry. And after eating, I can’t study. And then the cycle repeats.

By this logic, I am failing my chemistry test on Monday with a full stomach.

I exhale dramatically, stepping further inside. The cafeteria is in its usual state of anarchy.

Near the entrance, a group of juniors is engaged in an intense discussion—judging by the wild hand gestures and sheer desperation in their voices, I’d guess it’s about an assignment that was due ten minutes ago.

At one table, a group of students is deeply invested in what looks like a spoon-and-ketchup engineering project. One of them whispers, “If this collapses, our legacy is ruined.”

Do these guys live here?

And, of course, at the counter—

There she is. The red-haired girl. The poor soul is still trapped behind the counter, forced to deal with the endless swarm of boys who hover around her like flies who think they have rizz.

They’re not buying anything.

They never buy anything.

They just stand there, leaning in too much, cracking jokes that died before they were even spoken, trying their absolute best to make her laugh.

And she—

She gives them the same practiced, exhausted smile every time.

I sigh, stepping past them to where the desserts are displayed. Because let’s be real—when you’re doomed, you might as well eat sugar.

My eyes scan over the options:

Chocolate pastry? Too rich.

Brownie? Too dense.

Fruit custard? Too much pretending I’m healthy.

Lemon cake?

…Lemon cake.

I tap the glass. “One lemon cake, please.”

Riya barely looks up as she grabs a plate. “One person here actually ordering. Amazing.”

I pause, not sure if she’s talking to me or herself. Probably both.

She picks up the cake, places it on the tray, and just as she’s about to hand it over, one of the guys beside me leans against the counter, smirking.

“So, Riya,” he says, voice soaked in overconfidence. “Working hard or hardly working?”

I cringe internally.

Riya, who is clearly operating on negative patience, somehow keeps her polite, tired expression intact. “Just working.”

The guy leans in slightly. “You ever get a break?”

“No.”

“You should. You deserve a—”

“Here’s your cake,” she says, shoving my plate into my hands with intentional force.

The mosquitoes are still buzzing.

I shift awkwardly, not really looking at her, but… I feel bad.

So, before I can overthink it, I mumble, “You ever get hazard pay for this?”

There’s a beat.

Then—

A short, surprised breath of laughter.

I glance up.

For the first time, her smile isn’t fake.

“God, I wish,” she mutters, shaking her head.

I nod solemnly. “Start charging per minute. You’ll be either rich or at peace.”

She huffs out another small laugh, like she wasn’t expecting to find anything remotely funny today.

I pay, grab my tray, and turn around—

Problem: Most are taken.

Solution: Find the least threatening option.

There’s one table in the corner. Only one guy sitting there.

Good enough.

I walk over, set my tray down, and plop into the chair.

Then I glance up—

And realize who I just sat with.

It’s Aman.

Because ofcourse.

I’ve seen him around enough to know what kind of person he is—the kind that always sits at the front of the class, near the door, against the wall, always buried in a book like the outside world doesn’t exist.

Even now, he’s reading. The cover is dark, the title half-obscured by his fingers, but from what I can see, it looks like one of those gritty, no-one-is-happy-everyone-dies kind of thrillers. Classic.

Either he’s ignoring me on purpose, or he’s genuinely that into it.

Good for me.

I focus on my lemon cake instead.

And that’s when I make a horrible mistake.

See, lemon cake is deceptive. It looks light. Airy. Innocent. But this one? It is not.

It is dense. It is aggressive. It is a sour brick in disguise.

The piece I just stuffed into my mouth is too big, and which is why I’m now sitting here, chewing like my life depends on it, trying to force my jaw to work through what is basically an entire lemon-scented mattress.

I glance up, desperately hoping Aman hasn’t noticed this humiliation in progress.

He has.

I know this because, for the first time since I sat down, his eyes flick up from his book. Just briefly. Just enough to register my struggle.

And then—he looks back down.

No reaction. No amusement. Just complete indifference.

Like watching someone nearly die via cake is just a normal Tuesday for him.

Which, honestly, makes this so much worse.

I force myself to swallow, nearly choking in the process, then immediately take a sip of water to recover my dignity.

Aman flips a page, unbothered.

I exhale through my nose, set my fork down, and glare at my cake. “Betrayal,” I mutter under my breath.

Aman turns another page. If he heard me, he doesn’t care.

I sigh and open my chemistry textbook, flipping to the section I’m supposed to be studying.

The words stare back at me.

I stare back at them.

And immediately, my brain goes blank.

It’s almost impressive, really—how quickly chemistry makes me question my entire existence.

I squint at the page, trying to make sense of the chaotic mess of formulas, numbers, and what I can only assume are curses in an ancient language meant to ruin my life.

Electrophilic substitution… Carbocation stability… Why does this sound like something the FBI should investigate?

I press my fingers against my temples. I was not built for this.

I sigh again, dropping my head back against the chair—then my eyes land on my tray.

On the lemon cake.

It was that idiot’s favorite.

Mine too. A llong time ago, back when things were louder, when my life wasn’t just a cycle of classes and exhaustion and pretending I don’t care about things I definitely care about—

Amit had dragged me back to my own room after the match, practically bouncing with energy, despite having just spent ninety minutes running around a field like his life depended on it.

We had won, obviously. And after all the shouting, the team celebrations, the overly aggressive back-slapping, he had finally ended up here.

Amit sat cross-legged on my bed, opening a box he had been carrying around.

I leaned against my desk, exhausted. “What the hell is that?”

Amit looked up, grinning. “Lemon cake.”

I made a face. “Lemon is a vegetable. Who makes a cake out of it?”

Amit gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like I had just insulted his entire lineage. “First of all, you absolute disappointment—lemon is a fruit.”

“Debatable.”

Amit groaned. “Oh my god, Sharma, you’re so dumb.”

“And proud,” I said, smirking.

Amit rolled his eyes, breaking off a piece of cake. “Just eat it.”

I stared at it, suspicious. “This feels like a trap.”

Amit scoffed. “You feel like a trap.”

That didn’t even make sense, but before I could argue, he shoved the cake toward me.

I took it—hesitantly, slowly—eyeing it like it might explode in my hands.

Then, finally, I took a bite.

And—

It was good.

Really good.

Soft, tangy, sweet in just the right way—like summer and sugar and something light, something easy.

But obviously, I couldn’t say that. I schooled my expression, chewing carefully, acting like it was fine. Nothing special.

Amit watched me like a hawk.

I swallowed. Cleared my throat. “Meh.”

Amit’s grin split wider. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it like I tolerate you,” I corrected.

“You love it,” Amit repeated, smug. “I can see it all over your dumb face.”

I rolled my eyes. “You see what you want to see.”

Amit laughed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. A liar and a coward.”

I ignored him, reaching for another piece.

Amit saw that too. And grinned harder.

I blink back into the present.

The cafeteria is still loud. Aman is still reading. My chemistry textbook is still staring at me, judging me for my failures.

I glance at my cake again.

I take another bite.

Not the same.