Chapter 20

It starts with a fight.

Not the kind with screaming, not the kind where things are thrown across the room—but the kind where every word is sharp, where the air in the house feels tight, where I know, I just know, that no matter what I say, it won’t change anything.

“He has finals.” My father’s voice is clipped, measured, like he’s already won.

“It’s one song—”

“It’s a distraction.”

“It’s something he loves.”

“And school is more important.”

There’s silence, and then my mother, soft but unwavering, says, “It’s always about what’s important to you.”

I don’t stay to hear the rest.
I don’t need to.

I grab my hoodie. Step out of my room.

And then I run.

Down the stairs, through the front door, out into the night—before my lungs can catch up, before my heart can pound its protest.

I don’t stop running until I reach Amit’s house.

It’s quiet, everyone inside already asleep. But I know where I’m going. I’ve done this before—more times than I can count.

The tree.

Or, at least, what’s left of it. Amit’s dad cut most of it down last summer, but there’s still enough of the trunk standing, enough to get my foot on, enough to pull myself up. The pipes on the side of the house groan under my weight as I climb higher, fingers gripping cold metal, arms shaking from both exhaustion and the weight of everything.

And then I reach the balcony.

I knock once.

The curtain shifts. A moment later, the door cracks open, and Amit is there—barefoot, half-asleep, hair a mess. His eyes are heavy with sleep until they land on me.

On my face.
On my red-rimmed eyes, my clenched jaw.
And just like that, he’s awake.

“Again?” His voice is low.

I nod.

“How bad?”

I swallow hard. “Pretty bad.”

Amit doesn’t ask anything else. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t lecture, doesn’t say it’s late, Sharma. He just opens the door wider.

And I step inside.

“Come on.”

Amit doesn’t wait. He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the window, the one in his room that leads up to the roof.

“You’re gonna get me killed,” I mutter.

“Please,” Amit scoffs. “If anyone’s killing me, it’s my mom, and only if she finds out.”

Then, just like that, he’s climbing out, pulling himself up effortlessly, swinging one leg over the ledge until he’s perched on the roof like a stray cat.

I hesitate.

Not because I’ve never done this before—I have. But because my mind is still back in my house, replaying my father’s voice, the way he dismissed the entire thing like it was nothing.

“Sharma.” Amit’s voice pulls me back.

I look up.

He’s sitting on the edge now, looking down at me, waiting.

“You coming or what?”

So I go.

The roof is cool beneath my back, the night stretching out above us—black velvet, endless, dusted with stars.

Neither of us say anything at first.
We just breathe.

Amit is beside me, arms folded behind his head, staring at the sky like he can read something in it that I can’t.

I close my eyes, let the wind press against my skin, let the night settle around me.

Then—his voice, low, easy.

“Wanna talk about it, or should I start making up conspiracy theories until you forget you’re upset?”

I exhale.

“The second thing sounds nice.”

“Alright.” A pause. Then, completely serious—”The moon is a hologram.”

I snort. “What?”

“Think about it,” he says. “Too round. Too convenient. Government’s been lying to us, Sharma.”

“Amit—”

“What if the real moon is just a floating Costco?”

I shake my head, letting out something that almost sounds like a laughing.

“There it is.” Amit nudges my shoulder, grinning. “Took you long enough.”

The stars blur slightly, my eyes burning. I swallow past the ache.

“It’s just stupid,” I say quietly.

Amit doesn’t press, but his voice softens.

“Your dad?”

I don’t answer. But I don’t need to.

Amit just shifts closer.

The warmth of him settles against my side, and my body reacts before my mind does—tensing for half a second, before slowly, inevitably, sinking into it.

“You really wanted to sing, huh?”

I nod.

Amit doesn’t say you can still do it or your dad’s wrong—because that’s not the point. That’s not what I need to hear.

Instead, he says—”Sing now.”

I blink. “What?”

“Sing now,” he repeats, easy, unbothered. “No stage. No audience. No rules. Just the moon and me.”

I huff out a laugh. “That’s stupid.”

Amit just shrugs. “And? I climbed a roof for you, Sharma. The least you could do is serenade me.”

I shake my head.

But I sing.

Soft at first, barely above a whisper. The words feel too raw, but Amit is beside me, and the night is big enough to hold everything I’m too scared to say out loud.

Amit listens.
Eyes closed, arms still behind his head, completely still.

When I finish, there’s a pause.

Then—”Not bad.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Simon Cowell.”

Amit laughs, turning his head toward me.

I do the same. And for a moment, we just look at each other.

The city hums below, but up here, everything is still. Quiet. Safe.

Amit exhales, rolling onto his side, propping his head up on his hand.

The night air is soft against my skin, thick with the scent of rain that never came. The city hums below us—distant, quiet, forgettable. Up here, it’s just us.

“You know you’re not gonna stop, right?”

I glance at him, blinking back into the moment. “What?”

His fingers move absently, brushing against my wrist before curling around it. Warm. Steady. His thumb lingers, tracing small, thoughtless patterns against my pulse.

“Singing,” he says, voice low. “You won’t stop. Even if you think you will. Even if you pretend you have.”

Something tightens in my chest.

Amit notices.
His fingers tighten slightly, just for a second, like he’s grounding me.

Then, before I can say anything, before I can breathe—he moves.

He leans in.

Not much, not enough for it to be something I can’t ignore—but enough for his breath to skim my cheek, enough for his hand to shift to my jaw, enough for his fingers to press lightly against my skin.

Enough for me to know that if I tilted forward—just a little—our mouths would meet.

My heartbeat stutters.

Amit notices that, too.
But instead—his lips brush against my forehead.

Slow. Unhurried.
Not fleeting. Not absentminded.

Amit lets it linger. Long enough for his breath to warm my skin, long enough for my eyes to flutter shut, long enough for something inside me to break apart quietly, without warning.

I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.

His fingers trace the edge of my jaw, slow, careful, before sliding away.

But he doesn’t pull back completely.

Instead, he tugs me forward, wrapping an arm around me, pulling me against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And—somehow, it is.

His chest rises, steady against mine. His breath ghosts the side of my face.

I should say something. I should move. I should make a joke, push him away, pretend this isn’t what it is.

But I don’t.
Because in a long time I feel okay. And I let myself close my eyes, let myself sink into the warmth of him, let myself be held.

Amit sighs, a small, quiet sound that settles into my bones.

Then—”You’ll be okay, Sharma.”

And I believed him.