Chapter 15

I don’t call the car.

I could. I should. But I don’t.

Because the idea of sitting in that enclosed space, with the driver who will quietly ask Should I call sir? Should I call ma’am?-of stepping into that house where the air is thick, where the silence is louder than anything else-

It’s draining.

So I don’t call. I just keep walking.

Aman walks beside me, silent as ever, his bag slung over one shoulder, his expression unreadable.

The streets are bathed in deep red and soft purple, the last traces of sunlight stretching long across the pavement. The streetlights hum to life, glowing faintly, flickering into steady orbs of warm yellow.

And for some reason-

I start talking.

“You know,” I say, adjusting my bag, “I genuinely thought I was going to fail that assignment. Like, full-on academic death. A funeral. Raj would’ve given a speech about how I was taken too soon by the cruel hands of chemistry-“

Aman doesn’t react.

I keep going. “But now I’m actually solving stuff? Me? Understanding equations? I mean, I still hate it, but I get it. It’s weird. But also, kind of cool? Like, I didn’t think it would ever make sense-“

Aman gives a slow, barely noticeable nod.

I grin. “Right?! It’s kind of insane. I mean, obviously, I still hate Balancing Equations, because who even invented that shit-“

Aman exhales, gaze flicking down the street.

I don’t know why, but the more he doesn’t react, the more I talk.

“And the way you just wrote the steps, like it was nothing? Like, I was over there contemplating my life choices, and you just-” I mime writing dramatically in the air. “Boom. Answer.”

Aman stops walking.

Lifts his hand.

And without a word, he gestures toward the street.

A rickshaw pulls up instantly, like it was summoned from thin air.

I blink. “Do you guys have some secret signal I don’t know about?”

Aman ignores me.

The driver leans forward. “Where to?”

“Vaishali Enclave.”

The driver nods. But Aman-

Aman flicks his eyes toward me.

It’s barely a reaction, just a subtle shift, but I see it. The way he registers the name. The way something almost unreadable crosses his face before it smooths back into nothing.

Then, simply-“Laxmi Nagar.”

The driver hums. “Alright, hop in.”

We step inside, the small, enclosed space pressing in around us. The engine rumbles to life, the city stretching out ahead, the evening air filtering through the open sides.

Aman doesn’t say anything.

I lean back against the seat.

The rickshaw starts with a rattle and a slight jerk, and then we’re moving.

The wind rushes in from both sides, cool against my skin, weaving through my hair, carrying the scent of the city-hot pavement, frying food from a nearby stall, a hint of something floral from a roadside vendor.

The road stretches long ahead of us, the world bathed in the deep purples and soft oranges of twilight. Streetlights flicker on, glowing like scattered stars against the dimming sky. Not bright enough to overpower the evening light, but just enough to shimmer, hovering between day and night.

The rickshaw is loud. The engine grumbles, the metal frame shakes slightly with every bump, the hum of the street fills the air. But somehow-somehow-it’s still soothing.

I breathe in before turning to Aman. “What book were you reading?”

Aman doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

“In the library. You kept reading the whole time. What was it?”

Aman shifts slightly, gaze flicking toward the road. “Book.”

I blink. “Wow. That narrows it down completely.”

Silence.

Then-

“Maths.”

I stare at him. “You read math? For fun?”

Aman doesn’t react. “Yes.”

“You know there are books with stories, right? With characters? Dialogue? Right?”

Aman exhales. “I know.”

I squint. “And you choose math?”

“Yes.”

I lean back against the seat, shaking my head. “God. They are right. You are a robot.”

Aman doesn’t argue.

I glance at him again, curious now. “Do you ever read fiction?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Not even as a kid?”

A pause.

Then-

“Tried once.”

I straighten. “And?”

Aman looks unimpressed. “Too many words.”

I stare at him. “…You read MATH. That’s all words.”

Aman doesn’t answer.

I shake my head dramatically. “Unbelievable. You are so fun at parties, I bet.”

Aman blinks. “I don’t go to parties.”

I groan.

Aman just shrugs.

The rickshaw speeds up, weaving through the streets, past shop signs flickering on, past the slow-moving crowds heading home, past the soft hum of city life winding down.

The evening is settling in. The air smells like street food and rain that hasn’t arrived yet.

***

The rickshaw slows.

I shift forward slightly, bag pressed against my side, my knee almost knocking into Aman’s because space in these things is an illusion. The streetlights cast long shadows across the road, the sky now dipped fully into night.

The driver glances at me through the mirror. “Vaishali Enclave?”

“Yeah.”

The rickshaw jerks to a stop at the gate. The familiar curve of the road, the neat rows of houses, the sharp glow of security lights-it all looks the same. But something feels off.

I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing over loose change, then pause-because Aman hasn’t moved.

He’s staring. Not at me. At the house.

It’s subtle. Barely there. But I see it. The uneasiness in his eyes taking in the tall iron gates, the sleek black car in the driveway, the way the porch lights are too bright, spilling onto the neatly paved entrance. His fingers twitch against his bag strap-just for a second-before he looks away.

It’s nothing. Just a glance.

But it lingers.

And then, without a word, he taps the side of the rickshaw, and the driver turns the handle.

Aman doesn’t say goodbye. I don’t either.

The rickshaw pulls away, dipping back into the stretch of street, and I watch until it turns the corner.

Then I exhale.

Roll my shoulders.

And turn toward the house.

I step inside.

The moment I open the front door, the air shifts.

There’s no yelling. No fighting. No slamming of drawers or sharp-edged arguments slicing through the house.

It’s worse. It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty-it’s waiting.

The lights in the living room are on, but the space feels untouched. The TV is playing, low volume, some news anchor droning about stock markets, but no one’s really watching.

Dad is there. Sitting on the couch.

But he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just sits there, one leg crossed over the other, fingers loosely curled around his phone. His eyes stay fixed ahead, posture straight, controlled.

Like he’s forcing himself to be calm.

Like he’s waiting for something.

Mom isn’t here.

I hesitate, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder, then finally, carefully-

“Dad.”

His jaw tightens. Just for a second.

Then it smooths out, his expression neutral, like I didn’t say anything at all. Like he’s the one waiting for me to speak first.

I swallow. “Uh. Is Mom-“

“In the room,” he says.

Short. Direct.

I nod. “Right.”

He doesn’t add anything.

Doesn’t ask where I was.

Doesn’t tell me to eat.

Doesn’t say anything else at all.

I watch him for a second longer, the way he’s staring at the screen without really looking at it, the way his fingers drum once-just once-against the phone.

Then I turn. Head toward the hallway. Mom’s bedroom door is closed.

I hesitate.

Then knock, soft. “Mom?”

Silence.

Then–

The door creaks open.

She looks tired.

Not in the way she usually does, when she sighs after a long day or complains about meetings running late.

This is different.

Her hair is slightly messy, her earrings are gone, and her eyes-her eyes have that kind of exhaustion that sinks deeper than sleep can fix.

But when she sees me, she smiles. It’s small. Quick. A practiced movement. But it doesn’t reach.

“You’re late,” she says, stepping aside.

I slip inside.

Her room is neat. Too neat. The bed is made, the nightstand is empty except for a glass of water yet something uneasy curls in my chest.

Mom sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing slow circles against her temple, then exhales. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah,” I lie.

She hums. Like she knows I’m lying, but doesn’t have the energy to call me out on it.

I shift my weight, rubbing the back of my neck. “You okay?”

Her fingers still for half a second.

Then-“Of course.”

I sit beside her. “Liar.”

She huffs, shaking her head, but there’s no real amusement in it. Just something else.

I tap my fingers against my knee, glancing at the empty dresser again. “Did something… happen?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.Then, finally–

“It’s nothing, Dev.”

The way she says it-it’s automatic. Like she’s been saying it her whole life.

I nod. “Right.”

The silence stretches.

Then, after a second, she leans back, lets out a slow breath. “God. I need coffee.”

I grin, nudging her shoulder. “At this hour? You’ll be awake all night.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “And?”

Fair enough.

I push up from the bed. “I’ll make it.”

She scoffs. “You’ll burn my kitchen down.”

I press a hand to my chest. “I am deeply offended by your lack of faith.”

Mom shakes her head, but this time, her smile lingers a second longer. “Fine. One cup. No disasters.”

I salute her. “No promises.”

I step out, heading toward the kitchen, the house still wrapped in its quiet.

**

The kitchen is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft click of cabinets as I move around. I grab a mug, set it down, tap my fingers against the counter. My body knows the motions-fill the kettle, get the coffee, wait for the water to heat-but my mind feels slow, like I’m moving through fog.

Mom’s still in her room. Dad’s still in the hall.

I can feel him there, just sitting, just existing, like a presence I can’t shake. The tension is still heavy, pressing against the air, but I focus on the coffee.

A small thing. A normal thing.

I stir in the sugar, let the steam rise, and for a second-just a second-this could be any other night.

And then-

“Dev.”

I flinch, hand gripping the spoon just a little too tight.

Mom’s standing at the doorway, arms crossed, head tilted. “You didn’t eat.”

I blink. “I—”

She raises an eyebrow.

I sigh. “I ate.”

She scoffs. “Dev. Please. You’re as bad at lying as I am.”

She walks past me, opening the fridge, pulling out a container like this isn’t even a discussion. “Sit. You’re eating.”

I rub my face. “Mom—”

“No arguments.” She plates some rice, some sabzi, moving with practiced ease. “And don’t give me that I’m not hungry excuse. You will sit, and you will eat like a functional human being.”

I groan, dropping onto a stool, slumping forward against the counter. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“This is parenting,” she corrects, placing the plate in front of me.

I stare at it. I’m not hungry. I really, really don’t want to eat.

But she’s looking at me with that same Mom Look-the one that’s impossible to argue with-so I pick up the spoon and take a bite.

She nods approvingly, reaching for the coffee I just made. I open my mouth to protest, but before I can-

“What’s going on here?”

Dad’s voice.

I freeze.

Mom does too, just for a second, before turning around, coffee in hand. “Dev’s eating.”

Dad steps into the kitchen, frowning slightly. “At this hour?”

Mom takes a sip. “Apparently, he wasn’t hungry earlier.”

Dad exhales sharply, shaking his head as he leans against the counter. His sleeves are rolled up, his phone still clutched loosely in his hand. “You shouldn’t eat so late, Dev. It’s not good for you.”

I don’t answer. Just take another slow bite, eyes down.

Mom snorts. “Oh, now you care?”

Dad’s gaze snaps to her.

And just like that, the air shifts…again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, voice tight.

Mom sets the coffee down with just a little too much force. “It means you suddenly have opinions on what’s good for him, but you never seem to be here to actually know what’s going on.”

Dad’s jaw tightens. “I know my boy.”

“Oh, do you?” Mom folds her arms. “Tell me, when was the last time you asked him anything? About school? About how he’s been doing?”

Dad looks at me. “I ask.”

Mom scoffs. “No, you assume. You assume everything is fine, you assume things are being taken care of, and then you wonder why we’re falling apart.”

Dad’s face hardens. “I work. I provide. That’s me taking care of things.”

Mom lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Providing isn’t the same as being here, Mr Sharma. You walk in and out like this is some hotel. You don’t know anything about this family anymore.”

Dad straightens. “That’s not fair.”

Mom’s voice rises. “No, what’s not fair is me doing everything, alone, while you bury yourself in work like that excuses you from being a father.”

“Don’t start with that,” Dad says, voice clipped. “You think I like being away? You think I do it for fun?”

Mom steps forward. “I think you do it because it’s easier than being here.”

Silence.

A thick, unbearable silence.

Dad exhales, running a hand over his face. “This again.”

Mom shakes her head, laughing humorlessly. “Yes. This again. Because nothing changes.”

The air is too heavy. The space too small. My chest feels tight.

I push my plate away, standing abruptly.

“Dev,” Mom says, voice softer now.

I shake my head. “I- I can’t.

I step back. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the kitchen too bright, their voices still lingering, still hanging in the air.

And then I’m walking.

Fast.

Out of the kitchen, past the living room, up the stairs, into my room.

The second I shut the door, my legs give out.

I slide down, back against the wood, hands pressed against my face.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t—

Amit.

I clutch my shirt, squeezing my eyes shut.

I need-

I need to talk to him.

I need his stupid voice. His bad jokes. His presence.

I need him to call me an idiot. To tell me it’s fine. To tell me I don’t have to carry this.

But he’s not here.

He’s not anywhere.

And I

I don’t know what to do with that.

I press my hands harder against my face. My chest is tight, my breathing is all wrong-too fast, too shallow, not enough. I try to slow it down, try to force a deep breath, but my ribs feel locked, like my body has forgotten how to do something as simple as inhale.

I can still hear them.

Downstairs. The voices. The sharp edges of their words, the weight of every argument they’ve ever had, the tension that never goes away, only shifts into new shapes.

I try to shut it out.

I try to think of something else.

Amit.

I need him.

I need his stupid fucking grin.

“You stress too much, Sharma.”

I press my forehead against my knees.

“Shut that dead brain of yours now, idiot.”

My throat burns. My fingers curl against my arms, nails pressing into skin.

“You can’t fix everything, dude. Just let it go.”

I let out a shaky breath.

I can’t.

I don’t know how.

Amit would know what to do. He always did. He always had some stupid solution, always had some way of making things lighter, always had this way of dragging me into his world, where nothing mattered as much as I made it out to be.

And now-

Now he’s gone.

Not dead. Not missing. Just-

Gone.

And I don’t know if that’s better or worse.

I squeeze my eyes shut, force myself to breathe, breathe, breathe, but my body isn’t listening. My heart is slamming against my ribs, my hands are shaking, my head feels too full and too empty at the same time.

I shouldn’t be like this.

It’s not like this is new.

It’s not like I haven’t seen them fight before.

But something about tonight-something about the way Mom’s voice cracked, the way Dad barely reacted, the way I felt like a stranger in my own house-

It’s too much.

Too fucking much.

I press the heel of my palm against my forehead, try to hold myself together, but there’s nothing to hold onto.

I miss before.

I miss when things were normal.

I miss having people.

I miss when home felt like home.

Not a battlefield. Not a place I have to tiptoe through.

Just home.

I rub my hands over my face, let out a breath that feels more like a sob.

It’s fine.

It has to be fine.

I just need to sleep.

I just need to get through tonight

I just need–

I don’t know.

I don’t fucking know.

***

I drag in a shaky breath.

My arms feel too heavy. My chest still feels tight. My head is a mess.

I wipe at my face, even though there’s nothing to wipe. I’m not crying-not really. It’s just pressure, just this awful, clogged-up feeling, like my body wants to break open but doesn’t know how.

I don’t know how long I sit there, curled against the door, trying to breathe past the weight of everything. The fight. The house. The silence.

And Amit.

Fucking Amit.

I press the back of my hand against my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut.

Because it’s stupid. It’s been so long. I shouldn’t-this shouldn’t still happen.

But it does.

Because Amit should be here.

Because if he were here, he’d know exactly what to do.

He’d barge into my room without knocking, throw himself onto my bed like he owned the place, and say something so monumentally dumb that I’d forget why I was upset in the first place.

“Jesus, Sharma. You look like you just fought a war. Did you lose?”

I let out a small, broken huff-something almost like a laugh, except it’s not.

Because he’s not here.

He’s not here to shove a Coke into my hands and tell me sugar fixes everything.

He’s not here to drag me outside, force me to kick around a football until I get pissed enough to actually play.

He’s not here to fill the room with his voice, his presence, his easy, unshakable belief that everything will just be okay.

Amit is not here.

And I don’t know how to live in a world where that keeps being true.

I curl my fingers into the fabric of my shirt, breathe in deep, deep, but the air still doesn’t feel like enough.

I should sleep.

I should do something.

But instead, I sit there, staring at the floor, swallowing down everything that wants to break out.

And I let myself miss him.