Chapter 18

The night is quiet. Too quiet.

It stretches over me, pressing down like a second skin, suffocating in its stillness. The moonlight slants through the glass door, painting silver lines across the floor, across my bed, across my body-like I’m something fragile, cracked open under its gaze.

I am not panicking but I am scared.

Scared in the way that settles deep in your bones, not sharp, not frantic-just there, lingering like a shadow, curling in the spaces between breaths.

I don’t move. I just lie here, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of my phone on my chest.

It’s full of messages.

I haven’t checked them, but I already know.

Raj. Arya.

They know something.

Not everything.

Not that the boy in the video is me.

But what if they find out?

What if by tomorrow, they’re not texting me anymore?

What if they watch it?

What if they look at me differently?

What if–

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the past is already there, waiting.

And it pulls me under.

***

I remember not knowing. That’s the cruelest part.

That morning had been ordinary-so painfully, stupidly ordinary. I had gotten up, gotten dressed, packed my bag, walked through the school gates like I had done a thousand times before.

And everything had been fine.

Until it wasn’t.

I remember the stares first. Not the whispers. Not the laughter.

The stares.

Eyes flicking toward me and then away just as quickly. A charged silence rippling through the hallway, pressing against my skin like something alive.

I didn’t know.

I didn’t know, and yet, my body felt it.

The way people shifted when I walked by. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence. The way the air itself seemed to change around me.

I made it all the way to class before I heard the first whisper loud enough to catch.

“That’s him.”

My stomach twisted, but I still didn’t understand.

Not yet.

And then a notification pinged.

Then another.

Then another.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Phones lighting up in unison, screens glowing like a signal fire, spreading like a disease.

And then–

The laughter.

Quiet at first. Just a snicker. A suppressed chuckle. Then more.

And more.

And I still didn’t know.

I dropped my bag onto my desk, pulled out my phone with stiff fingers.

A flood of notifications.

Messages from people who had never texted me before.

Messages from people who had.

Some with words. Some with just a link.

I clicked it.

And then-

Everything stopped.

There I was.

There he was. The camera was shaky. The resolution bad.

But it didn’t matter. Because my face was clear. Too clear.

My body. Too visible.

His hands.

The way I looked-trapped, caught, frozen in a moment I never consented to be seen.

I felt something crack inside me. And then, for the first time, I lifted my head.

And they were all looking at me.

Some were smirking. Some weren’t even hiding their amusement. Some weren’t brave enough to laugh outright, but I could see it-in the curve of their lips, in the way they turned to whisper behind cupped hands, in the way their eyes flicked back to their screens as if checking the evidence.

Like I was less of a person and more of a story. Something to be watched. Consumed. Passed around.

And the worst part? No one said anything.

No one looked me in the eye and admitted what they had seen.

No one asked if I was okay. Because I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay.

And they all knew it. But it didn’t matter. Because no one wants to be the person who stands too close to the wreckage.

People don’t betray you. That would require effort. They just fade.

They stop texting back. They start sitting at different tables. They avoid eye contact in hallways.

They don’t turn their backs. They just… stop standing beside you.

Because it’s easier.

Because it’s safer.

Because watching someone drown is uncomfortable.

But jumping in to save them? That’s too much work.

***

I gasp awake, my chest rising too fast, too uneven. The room is still quiet. The phone is still on my chest.

The moonlight is still creeping across the floor, soft and indifferent.

I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen. The unread messages sit there.

Waiting.

Raj. Arya.

I could answer. I could pretend. I could tell them I’m fine.

Or-

I could wait for them to fade, too.

***

2:00 AM.

The numbers glare back at me, bright against the darkness of my room, but they don’t feel real. Just shapes. Just light. Just a reminder that another hour has passed, and I’m still awake.

I haven’t moved much since I lay down, but I can’t stay still either. My legs feel restless, my chest too tight, my mind a tangled mess that won’t quiet down.

It’s not just the debate. Not just the video.

It’s home.

It’s the silence.

Since that night-the fight, the screaming, the panic-it’s been too quiet.

No more arguments. No more sharp words thrown across the dinner table like weapons. No more slammed doors or broken sentences.

Just nothing. Mom and Dad don’t fight.

But they don’t talk either.

They move around the house like strangers, passing each other in doorways, sitting at the same table without ever really being there.

And the silence? It’s worse than the yelling.

I didn’t eat dinner tonight. Not because I wasn’t hungry, but because I didn’t feel like leaving my room.

What’s the point?

Even the air here feels like it wants me gone.

I exhale sharply and push myself up, running a hand through my hair, rubbing at my face like I can force the exhaustion to settle in my bones instead of just hovering at the edge of my skin.

I need to do something. Something that isn’t this. My gaze flicks toward my closet.

I don’t know why. I already know what’s inside.

But my body moves before I can think about it, my hands reaching for the handle, my fingers curling around the edge of the door. I pull it open.

And there it is.

Tucked behind clothes I haven’t worn in years, half-covered by an old jacket.

The guitar. My stomach twists.

And then-just beside it, nestled between the case and the wall, slumped over like it’s been waiting-

The stuffed turtle.

Small. A little misshapen. One of its button eyes slightly looser than the other.

I stare.

Because of course it’s still here. Of course I didn’t get rid of it.

I reach down without thinking, fingers pressing into soft, worn fabric. The familiar shape settles into my palm like it never left.

Like it never stopped belonging to me. I put it back.

But my fingers hesitate before reaching for it, because it’s not mine.

It was never mine.

It was Amit’s.

I grip the neck of it, pull it out carefully, dust floating in the air as I set it down. My hand moves over the wood, tracing along the edges, pressing into the strings. They’re stiff. Out of tune. Forgotten.

Much like everything else he left behind.

Amit never actually played. His uncle had given it to him for his thirteenth birthday, convinced he’d turn into the next rockstar. That he’d learn how to play, start a band, maybe get famous.

Amit never learned a single chord.

“What’s the point of learning,” he had said, right here in my room, sprawled on the floor like he belonged to it. “When I have you?”

I had scoffed, rolling my eyes. “That’s not how gifts work, dumbass.”

“It is now,” he had grinned. “You play. I listen. That’s the deal.”

And it had been.

Amit never touched the guitar, never even pretended to want to learn. But whenever he was stressed, or sad, or even just bored, he’d shove it into my hands and say-

I feel something sharp lodge itself in my throat.

I shift, sitting on the floor with my back against the bed frame.

I press down on the strings.

The sound wavers, thin and uneven, like it’s been waiting too long to be touched, like it’s forgotten how to be played.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s forgotten.

The night hums around me, thick with something unspoken, something old and restless. The air still carries the weight of a name I haven’t said aloud in months, and the moonlight stretches across the floor like a memory trying to crawl its way back into my skin.

I play.

Because what else is there to do?

The notes spill out, soft and imperfect, dissolving into the quiet. And for a second—just a second—I let myself believe in ghosts.

Because I can almost see him.

Right there.

Right where the light pools against the glass, where he used to sit, where his laughter used to live. His head tilted back, fingers tapping against his knee, snapping offbeat just to piss me off.

“Play something.”

And I always did.

Because that was the deal, wasn’t it? Amit asked, and I gave. Over and over. He never learned a single chord, never even tried, because why would he? He had me. You play. I listen. That’s how it works.

But he never told me how to play for no one.

He never warned me about the silence.

People don’t leave all at once. That would be too easy.

They go piece by piece. A missed call, a text left unanswered. A seat that stays empty. A song that doesn’t get requested anymore. One day, you look around, and the space they used to fill is just gone. And you wonder if they ever meant to stay at all, or if you were always holding onto something that was never meant to be yours.

The last note fades.

The silence comes rushing back, settling over me like dust.

I look at the guitar, at the worn wood, at the strings that still carry the weight of him, and I wonder—

How long does it take for something to stop belonging to someone?

I set it down.

And this time, I don’t pick it up again.