Chapter 21

My phone rings.

The sound feels too loud against the stillness of the afternoon, pulling me out of my own head like a hook catching in my ribs.

I stare at the screen.

Raj.

A hesitation catches in my throat.

Does he know?

Has he watched it?

Did someone tell him?

The thoughts press against me, but I shake them off before they can settle. Before they can dig their claws in.

I exhale, rub a hand down my face, and pick up the call.

“Hey.”

Raj’s voice is soft.

Not careful, not cautious, just… soft.

And he doesn’t ask.

Not where I am, not what happened, not why I left the debate like my life depended on it.

Just—

“What are you doing?”

I blink at the sky. The sun hangs high, the wind brushes against my skin, the road stretches out in front of me, empty and indifferent.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just sitting.”

I don’t mention that I’m sitting in the middle of nowhere, that my jeans are covered in dirt, that my body is still exhausted from breaking apart in a place where no one could see.

Raj hums on the other end. “You know, Sharma, I was just thinking… Someday, in the distant future, if I randomly called you and asked what you were doing, would you ever always say other than ‘just sitting’?”

I huff out a small, tired laugh. “That’s a lot of faith in me, Raj.”

“I have to believe someone I know is going to do something impressive. Arya’s lost cause, so it has to be you.”

“Arya’s going to beat you up one day.”

“She’s tried,” Raj says. “I’m still standing.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head, but for the first time today, I don’t feel like my own thoughts are trying to suffocate me.

“Do you want to hang out?” Raj asks, casual, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Like I didn’t just leave my house in rage.

Like I didn’t just run until my body collapsed.

Like I’m still Dev and he’s still Raj and things haven’t changed.

I hesitate for half a second.

But then—

“Yeah.”

Because anywhere is better than home right now.

Anywhere is better than being alone with my own mind.

Raj makes a satisfied sound. “Cool. I’ll come pick you up. What’s the address?”

I glance down at myself. My jeans are a mess of dirt, my hoodie is creased and stained, my hands are still dusty from where I pressed them into the ground.

I should go home. Change my clothes. Maybe fix myself.

But I don’t.

Instead, I push myself up, shake off the dust as best as I can, and move to sit on a stone nearby.

“I’ll send you my location.”

“Got it.”

A few minutes pass. The wind moves through the trees, ruffling my hair, whispering against my skin.

And then—

The black car slows to a stop.

The window rolls down, and Raj leans out, eyes scanning the empty road, the trees, the absolute middle of nowhere I have apparently ended up in.

Then he looks at me.

Then back at the surroundings.

Then back at me.

And smirks.

“Okay, so—funny story,” he says, resting his arm on the window. “When you sent me the location, I kinda assumed you were at home. Like, a normal person. Not… stranded in what looks like a prime spot for a murder documentary.”

I sigh. “Just say you were scared and move on.”

“I wasn’t scared. I was just mentally preparing myself in case this was an elaborate trap. Like, what if you lured me here to rob me? Or worse—what if you didn’t want me to find out that your actual house is a top-secret spy headquarters?”

“Yes, Raj. You caught me. My real identity is James Bond.”

“Damn. Should’ve known. It’s always the quiet ones.”

I roll my eyes, stepping toward the car. Raj gives me a once-over, from my dirt-streaked jeans to my hoodie that has seen better days.

“You look good.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah. Very… ‘I just fought a tree and lost’ kind of vibe. But in, like, a chic way.”

We both half-laugh at that, the kind of tired amusement that doesn’t take effort.

Raj unlocks the door, and I slide in.

The car is too clean, smelling like leather and something faintly citrusy. It feels too put together compared to me, sitting here in my dirt-covered clothes like I just crawled out of a disaster movie.

Raj pulls back onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against it absently. Then—

“So,” he continues, “I’m guessing… a fight?”

I don’t answer.

Raj nods like that’s confirmation enough. “With?”

“Who do you think?”

“Ah.” He pauses. “The man, himself?”

I let out a short breath. “Got it in one.”

“Classic. How bad?”

“Bad enough.”

Raj doesn’t press.

He just nods, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. That’s the thing about him. He never pushes. Just leaves open space, lets me talk if I want to.

I don’t.

So we sit in comfortable silence as the car speeds through the city, past familiar roads, past restaurants I used to eat at, past buildings that have existed longer than I have.

And then—

We pull into his house.

Or, well. His mansion.

Because calling it a house feels like a disservice.

Well ofcourse. When your dad owns the school—and its branches coast to coast— you have to live in a mansion. Like it or not

The driveway alone could fit my entire childhood apartment twice. The house itself stretches wide, modern, massive—all glass and sleek lines, looking like something out of a real estate magazine.

I stare up at it, unimpressed.

“Subtle.”

“Right?” Raj grins. “Very understated. Just a humble little place to rest my head at night.”

“No one needs a house this big.”

“That’s what I keep telling my parents. But instead of listening, they just keep buying more furniture. At this point, I think we have more couches than actual people.”

We step inside, and the air shifts immediately—cooler, quieter, bigger.

The ceiling stretches high. The floors gleam. The place is too neat, too empty, too curated.

I glance around. No voices. No movement.

“Where is everyone?”

Raj drops his keys onto the sleek marble counter. “Not here.”

I frown. “No one?”

“Nope. Just you and me.” He grins, tossing himself onto the couch like he’s been waiting all day for this. “That’s why I was bored.”

The house is too quiet.

Not the uncomfortable kind of quiet.

Just empty.

Like the walls are used to voices but aren’t expecting any today.

Raj walks ahead, hands in his pockets, moving with the kind of ease that makes it obvious he’s used to being alone here.

I follow, my gaze drifting over the long, stretching hallway, the framed photos lining the walls.

“Damn,” I murmur, pausing to look at one. “Your parents really committed to the whole ‘rich and powerful’ aesthetic, huh?”

Raj turns, smirking. “I know, right? Very corporate. Very intimidating. My dad used to joke that if we ever went bankrupt, we could at least sell these frames for profit.”

I raise an eyebrow, shifting to the next photo. It’s an older one—his parents standing side by side, dressed in formals, looking like they walked straight out of a business empire. His mom is beautiful, all sharp cheekbones and sleek hair.

“You look like her,” I note, glancing at Raj.

He grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was one.”

Then I look closer. His dad is standing stiffly beside her, posture straight, composed. His gaze is piercing, striking—green.

The same exact green as Raj’s eyes.

“But those aren’t your mom’s,” I say without thinking. “Your eyes.”

Raj’s smirk fades slightly, just for a second.

“No,” he says, voice quieter. “They’re his.”

I look at him, but his expression is unreadable.

Then, offhandedly—too offhandedly—he says, “She’s not alive.”

The words settle in the air. I feel the weight of them immediately.

“Oh,” I say, the response feeling inadequate. “I—sorry.”

Raj shrugs. “It’s been a long time.”

His voice isn’t heavy. Isn’t bitter.

But it also isn’t light.

I don’t push.

Raj clears his throat. “Come on, I’ll show you my room. Try to control your excitement.”

Raj’s room is surprisingly normal.

Messy, but not too messy. Huge, obviously, because everything in this house is too big.

And very Raj.

There’s a shelf filled with debate books, thick ones, with titles I don’t have the energy to read. Some philosophy books, which makes sense. A few comics, which is unexpected. A gaming console, which is even more unexpected.

I walk over to the shelf, pulling out a random book. “‘Moral Responsibility and Free Will’? Jesus Christ, Raj.”

Raj flops onto his bed, stretching like he’s just had the longest day of his life. “It’s a light read.”

I snort, placing it back. Then I gesture to the gaming console.

“You don’t seem like a ‘video games and chill’ kind of guy.”

“I contain multitudes, Sharma.”

“Yeah? What’s your favorite game?”

“The Sims.”

I narrow my eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“I absolutely am.”

I shake my head, flopping into the chair by his desk. The exhaustion is still in my bones, but this is better—sitting here, bantering, existing in a space that doesn’t suffocate.

Raj stretches, then eyes me. “You don’t have any hobbies, do you?”

I scoff. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I have hobbies.”

“Name one.”

I open my mouth—then close it.

Raj smirks. “Exactly.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“What do you even do in your free time?”

And before I can think, before I can stop myself, I say, “Music.”

It slips out so easily, so naturally, that I don’t even process it until it’s too late.

Raj raises an eyebrow. “Music?”

I hesitate. “I—”

But he’s already leaning forward, intrigued.

“Interesting. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t matter.” I shift in my seat, regretting saying anything.

But Raj doesn’t let it go.

“My mom was into music too,” he says, voice a little quieter.

I look at him.

“I don’t remember much about her,” he admits, glancing at the ceiling. “But I do remember that. She used to sing sometimes. Just… little things. Random songs. Stupid lullabies.”

There’s something distant in his voice. Something I recognize.

He shrugs. “I don’t know why I remember that more than anything else. But I do.”

I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything.

Raj suddenly perks up, eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Wait.”

I blink. “What?”

Before I can react, he grabs my wrist.

“Come with me.”

“Raj—what—?”

But he’s already dragging me out of his room, down the wide staircase, toward the other side of the house.

“What are you—?”

“Shhh, it’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.”

I doubt it.

He stops in front of a large set of doors, pushes them open, and gestures dramatically.

“Welcome.”

I step inside.

It’s huge.

The room is warm, spacious, opening up to a garden on the other side. A glass door stretches from wall to wall, the sun filtering in, making everything glow softly.

But my eyes catch on something else.

A piano. Sitting right near the windows, polished, waiting.

“It was hers,” Raj says from beside me.

I exhale. “Your mom’s?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I glance at him, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is fixed on the piano, something almost fond in his expression.

“I don’t think I ever heard her play,” he murmurs. “But I like knowing it’s here.”

I nod. Because I understand that.

Raj looks at me suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“So. You play, right?”

I immediately step back. “Nope.”

“Come on.”

“Raj, absolutely not—”

But he’s already grinning, pushing me toward it. “Dev, this is your moment.”

“This is literally not my moment.”

“Live a little.”

I groan, running a hand through my hair. This is a bad idea.

But when I turn my head, Raj is watching me.

Not mockingly. Not with his usual arrogance.

Just curious.

And for some reason, that’s what makes me relent.

I sigh, stepping forward. Pressing my fingers against the keys.

And then—

I play

I hover my fingers over the keys, not pressing down, not playing—just thinking.

I don’t know what to play.

I don’t know what to do.

The weight of the piano under my hands feels wrong, unfamiliar in a way that makes me hesitate.

“I’m more of a guitar guy,” I admit, shifting awkwardly. “I know the basics of piano, but I’m not… great at it.”

Raj tilts his head. “That’s fine.”

I frown. “Then why am I here?”

“Because.” He shrugs. “You play, and I don’t. That’s enough reason.”

“Flawless logic.”

“I know.”

I exhale, shaking my head, glancing down at the keys. Still unmoving.

Then, after a moment, Raj says, “I don’t remember much about her.”

I look at him.

He’s still watching the piano, fingers idly tracing the wood, his usual energy dialed down, softened.

“I don’t remember her voice, not really,” he continues. “Or the way she used to talk, or the way she walked, or the perfume she wore. Just… pieces. Random things. And even those don’t feel real sometimes.”

I don’t say anything. Because I know that feeling.

That strange, slow loss. The way memories fade at the edges like old photographs, details slipping away before you realize they’re missing.

Raj exhales. “But sometimes, when I’m not thinking about it, I hear this… melody. A lullaby, I think.”

I blink.

“I don’t remember the words,” he murmurs. “But the tune is still there. Stuck somewhere in my head, like it’s waiting for something.”

He shifts, and before I can react, he sits next to me.

So close.

His shoulder barely brushes against mine, his arm resting lazily on the edge of the piano. The sunlight catches his face, painting golden streaks across his cheekbones, his jaw, his lashes.

Then— He hums.

Softly.

Like the memory itself is fragile, like it’ll slip away if he’s too loud, too certain.

The melody is gentle, slow, warm in a way I don’t expect.

I watch him.

His eyes flutter shut, lips barely parted as he hums the tune, his body relaxed, like he’s not thinking about anything—just remembering.

And then–I play.

The notes come in hesitant, matching his melody, fingers pressing down lightly, slowly, until it fits—until the music settles around us, draping over the room like something almost sacred.

The sound is small, delicate.

But it belongs here.

Right here.

Raj hums, I play.

And for once—

For once, the silence between us means something else.

The last note fades, but neither of us move.

The air feels thicker, like the sound is still hanging between us, refusing to disappear completely.

Raj exhales, a small breath that almost sounds like awe.

Then—

“You’re good.”

He’s grinning, ear to ear, like I just revealed a secret talent.

I shake my head, rubbing my palms against my jeans. “I just—picked up the tune. It wasn’t—”

“No, Sharma,” he interrupts, still smiling. “You’re actually good.”

I don’t respond.

Because I don’t know how.

We sit there, silence stretching, something unspoken settling between us.

Then, softly—

“My mom loved music.”

Raj tilts his head, curious.

“Not in a ‘she was good at it’ way,” I clarify. “She was a horrible singer.”

Raj chuckles. “So bad it was a crime against humanity?”

“So bad it could’ve been classified as noise pollution.”

He snorts, shaking his head.

“But she loved it,” I continue. “And as far back as I can remember, there was always—music.”

Raj doesn’t say anything.

So I keep going.

“If she was cooking, there was music in the background. If she was doing the dishes, music. Cleaning? Music. Laundry? Music. It was just… always there. Filling the house, the air, everything.”

The memory feels warm, curling in my chest like something I haven’t let myself hold in a long time. She used to hum while folding clothes. Even the creases in my shirts felt like music.

“On my seventh birthday, she bought me my first instrument. A tiny keyboard. Nothing serious, just something to mess around with. But after that, she kept buying me things, like she was trying to plant this idea in my head before I even knew I wanted it.”

I swallow, exhaling slowly.

“She made me love music. And for a long time, it was ours. We played together, sang together—badly—but we didn’t care.”

I smile faintly.

“It was just… ours.”

Raj watches me, his expression softer than usual.

But I don’t let myself linger in the memory.

Because I know where it leads.

I know where it always leads.

To the house.

To the moments that felt like music wasn’t just sound—it was protection.

To the times when silence felt too heavy, when the weight of things left unsaid settled over everything, and music was the only thing that filled the gaps.

Dad was always working.

Always away.

And in his absence, music was what made the house feel full.

But then—

Then the fights got worse.

The silences stretched longer.

And slowly, music wasn’t a comfort anymore. It was just noise.

I don’t know when we started drifting, when we started losing whatever that was.

I don’t know where that version of us disappeared.

And after that, music stopped being ours.

It became mine.

And then—

Then it became Amit’s.

I don’t say that part out loud.

I don’t tell Raj how music turned into late-night sessions in my room, Amit sitting cross-legged on my bed, demanding song after song while I rolled my eyes and played anyway.

I don’t tell him how Amit would hum along, off-key, obnoxious, laughing through the lyrics like he was trying to ruin them on purpose.

I don’t tell him how Amit’s presence made music fun again.

How it made it feel like mine.

I don’t tell him how, when Amit left—music left with him.

I just sit there, fingers idly tracing the edge of the piano, staring down at the keys like they hold something I can’t name.

Raj shifts beside me.

Then, gently, deliberately—

He presses a single key. A sharp, quiet note rings out, small against the silence.

Raj tilts his head. His eyes lingering on me…his breath steady as he breaths those words.

“You’ll be okay, Sharma. We’ll be okay”