Chapter 22

25th July.

Amit’s birthday.

The first one in seven years that we won’t celebrate together.

I slide the glass door open, stepping onto the balcony, and the warm air wraps around me like an old memory. The sun is climbing, golden and unbothered, like it doesn’t realize today isn’t like every other day.

Across from me—Amit’s balcony.

Empty.

It looks wrong.

Amit used to make sure we spent the entire day together. Every single year. No excuses. No last-minute football practice, no “I’m busy.” On July 25th, I belonged to him.

I close my eyes, and just like that—I’m back there.

***

Two years ago.

Amit’s room looks like a crime scene.

There are football jerseys draped over the chair, his school bag half-open with books spilling out, a collection of tangled earphones on the desk, socks that should have been declared hazardous material, and a plate with three-day-old Maggi just sitting there like a biohazard.

And in the middle of this chaos?

Amit.

Sprawled on his bed, stretched out like he owns the world, tossing popcorn in the air and missing half of them.

And me? Suffering.

Because on the TV screen, playing for the fourth damn time in my miserable life, is Chak De! India.

“Amit, for the love of everything good in this world, not this movie again,” I groan, flopping onto the bed dramatically.

Amit doesn’t even look at me. “Shut up, this is a classic.”

I wave a hand at the screen. “It’s a two-hour-long advertisement for sports brands. It’s literally just Shah Rukh Khan yelling at people in slow motion.”

“And yet,” Amit says, smug, “here you are, watching it again.”

“Not by choice! I’m being emotionally held hostage in this room.”

Amit grins, completely unbothered. “That’s called tradition, loser.”

I glare at him, crossing my arms. “You know, you could have spent your birthday with your football team. They practically worship you now. I’m sure they would’ve thrown you a grand celebration. A cake shaped like a football. Maybe even a jersey with ‘Amit The Great’ printed on it.”

Amit sighs, not even pretending to take me seriously. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being factual.” I scoff, sitting up. “You spend all your time with them now. The least you could do is act like you remember your best friend exists.”

Amit finally looks at me, raising an eyebrow. “Are you jealous of a bunch of sweaty guys who can’t even solve basic algebra?”

“I don’t know, Amit, am I?” I gesture wildly around the room. “It’s not like I went from seeing you every day to only catching glimpses of you between practice and matches. It’s fine, though. I’ll just schedule an appointment next time I want to hang out.”

Amit rolls his eyes, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Oh my god, Sharma.”

“Oh my god, Amit,” I mimic, scowling.

Amit laughs, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“The idiot who is being held hostage to watch this movie for the hundredth time.”

Amit doesn’t answer immediately. He flicks another popcorn piece in the air, misses, then shrugs.

“I wanted to spend my birthday with my favorite person.”

The words land too casually, like they mean nothing. But they sit in my chest like they mean everything.

I hesitate. Blink at him. Then— “That’s weird. Your mom isn’t here.”

Amit hurls an entire pillow at my face.

“You have to ruin everything, don’t you?”

***

The memory flickers, dissolving into the present.

Yes, I did. I did ruin everything.

I open my eyes.

The balcony is still empty. The sun is still warm. And Amit is still gone.

The sun is too bright, too indifferent.

I lean against the railing, staring at the emptiness of Amit’s balcony. I can still picture him there, legs dangling over the edge, tossing crumbs to birds that never showed up, phone pressed against his ears talking to me like we weren’t just a few feet apart.

“Sharma, tell me why our school gives us homework during summer vacation.”

“Because they hate us.”

“Correct. Now tell me why I should do it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Exactly. This is why you’re my best friend.”

I exhale. Press my fingers against my temple. Fuck.

What’s he doing right now?

Is he celebrating? Is there some other idiot next to him, rolling their eyes as he forces them to watch Chak De! India for the hundredth time?

Would he have called—if I hadn’t tried first?

I pull out my phone before I can stop myself. Amit’s name is still there.

Still saved. Still waiting. Like an idiot. Like me. I hesitate. This is stupid.

I know what’s going to happen. But I do it anyway.

I hit call. The phone rings.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

“The user you are trying to reach does not exist.”

I pull the phone away, stare at the screen. Just like every time before.

I shove my phone back into my pocket, grip the railing too tight.

If he was going to disappear like this, why the fuck did he make me addicted to him so much in the first place?

***

I go downstairs with the kind of heaviness that settles in your ribs. The kind that tells you something’s coming, even if you don’t know what.

Dad is at the dining table.

He’s sipping his tea, reading the newspaper like this is just another morning. Like yesterday never happened.

I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Last night, when I got home, he had already gone to bed. I had braced myself for today. For the yelling, the lecture, the sharp words that were waiting.

But when I sit down at the table, nothing happens.

Just—silence.

I pick up a piece of toast. I feel his eyes on me. Not angry. Not irritated.

Soft. It throws me off.

I glance up, expecting him to look away, to clear his throat and pretend like he wasn’t staring. But he doesn’t.

I swallow, taking a slow bite of toast, forcing myself to act normal. My mother moves around the kitchen, and the tension sits between us like a third person.

I keep waiting. Waiting for him to say something.

For him to ask where the hell I was yesterday. For him to ruin this uneasy peace.

But he doesn’t. And somehow, that makes it worse.

I clear my throat, pushing back my chair. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Mom barely looks up. “I have some chores, Dev. Your dad will drop you.”

I freeze.

I blink at her. Then at him. Then back at her.

“What?”

Dad shifts, setting his cup down. “I’ll drop you.”

Mom gives him a look—one that says more than words ever could.

And then, before I can protest, he quickly stands up, like he’s been waiting for this moment.

I stare.

Oh.

Oh, he’s trying to make up? It’s so obvious now that I almost laugh. I almost tell him he doesn’t have to bother. That I don’t care.

Not anymore. That I’d rather walk. But instead, I just grab my bag and head for the car.

The air-conditioning is too high.

The radio plays something soft, something forgettable, and Dad clears his throat three times before finally speaking.

“How’s school?”

I stare out the window. “Fine.”

A pause.

“Studying well?”

“Sure.”

Another pause.

Dad grips the steering wheel tighter, and I can tell he’s reaching for something. Some way to undo what happened, some way to talk to me without actually talking.

He tries again. “Your exams will be coming up in a few months, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Focus on them.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Right. Because I’ve been such a model student.”

He exhales through his nose, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Typical.

It’s always been like this. When he’s mad, he knows what to do. When he’s trying to fix things, he’s completely lost.

I almost feel bad. Almost. But then I remember yesterday.

The argument. The words I threw. The words he threw. And I’m still too mad to meet him halfway.

So I turn back to the window, and the car fills with silence again.

The car stops near the entrance. I unbuckle my seatbelt, ready to escape.

“I’ll come to pick you up,” Dad says, voice casual.

I pause. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

I was about to say something, maybe argue, maybe scoff, maybe ask why now? Why suddenly?

But then I see something.

Aman.

Standing near the road, phone pressed to his ear, eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

He’s waving at rickshaws, none of them stopping.

I glance back at Dad. “Wait here.”

Then I step out, heading straight for Aman.

His movements are too fast, too frantic, like his body is barely keeping up with whatever storm is raging inside him.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

I step forward. “Aman?”

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge me.

His hand keeps waving at the traffic, but the rickshaws pass by like he’s invisible.

I get closer, my stomach tightening at the way his jaw is clenched, the way his fingers are shaking around his phone.

“Aman,” I say again, more urgent now. “What happened?”

Still nothing.

And then—

He turns. And I see his eyes.

Tears glistening. Not fallen, not yet, but hanging on the edge of breaking.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stares at me, like he doesn’t know where he is, like his mind is somewhere else entirely.

Then he exhales sharply, tears himself away from the moment, and goes back to waving down rickshaws.

Like I’m not there.

Like nothing exists except getting out of here.

Something snaps inside me.

I grab his wrist, firm, pressing, unyielding. “Aman. Talk to me.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. But his fingers twitch slightly under my grip.

His throat bobs.

And then—

A single word. Barely a sound. Like saying it makes it real.

“Mom.”

That’s it. That’s all. But it’s enough.

The pieces click, my body moving before my brain can catch up.

“Come with me.”

Aman just stares.

I turn back, gesturing toward the car. “Get in.”

His whole body freezes. He looks at the car. Then at me.

And I see it—the unease, the hesitation, something raw flickering in his expression.

Like he doesn’t know if he can trust this. Trust me.

I tighten my grip on his wrist, but not rough. Not forceful. Just there.

“It’s not an offer, Aman.”

Something shifts in his gaze. Something tired. Then, slowly, he moves.

Follows me to the car.

I open the door. He slides in, stiff, back pressed straight against the seat like he doesn’t belong there. Like this is wrong.

Dad watches us, eyebrows slightly raised, but he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me.

I look back.

For the first time in years, we actually communicate through just that.

Drive. Dad shifts gears.

“Where?”

Aman’s voice is barely above a whisper. “City Hospital.”

Dad nods. The car starts moving. Aman turns to the window, staring out, his face blank, his hands clenched into fists.

I keep looking at him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just lost.

The second the car stops, Aman throws the door open and bolts.

Not a second of hesitation. No glance back. Just pure instinct, pure urgency—like nothing else in the world exists except getting inside that hospital.

I blink, still catching up to what’s happening, my hand frozen on the door handle.

He’s already halfway to the entrance. I should let him go. This isn’t my place. This isn’t my problem.

But then I glance at Dad. And he just understands. His hand barely lifts off the steering wheel, a small gesture. Go.

So I do. I push open the door and run after Aman.

By the time I catch up, Aman is already at the desk, hands pressed against the counter, voice urgent but controlled.

“Anjali Mehta. Admitted today.”

The receptionist clicks something on the monitor, barely looking at him. “Relation?”

“Son.”

That one word comes out sharp. Firm. Like he’s holding onto it to keep himself steady.

The receptionist nods, scanning the screen. “General ward, room 307.”

Aman doesn’t waste a second.

He spins on his heel and heads for the elevator.

I don’t even think. I follow. It’s just us.

The walls of the elevator feel too small, too tight with the weight of what’s happening.

Aman doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move.

His hands are curled into fists, his whole body tense, like he’s forcing himself to hold it together.

His face is completely blank, but I can see it—the way his shoulders are pulled too tight, the way his breath is too controlled, the way he keeps his eyes locked on the floor numbers like if he blinks, something inside him will snap.

I want to say something.

Anything.

“It’ll be okay?” That’s a lie. I don’t know that.

“She’s strong?” That’s meaningless.

“I’m here?” Why would that matter?

So I say nothing. And so does he.

The doors slide open, and Aman is already moving.

The smell of antiseptic clings to the air, sharp and clean, drowning out anything else.

Aman doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside first, moving toward the hospital bed like he’s being pulled there.

I stay at the door, unsure if I should even be here.

But then I hear the doctor speaking, and I stay.

“Overwork. Weakness. Stress.”

The words are simple. Clinical. But in the quiet of the room, they feel heavier.

“Her body is exhausted,” the doctor continues. “She hasn’t been taking care of herself. Lack of proper meals, lack of rest… she needs to slow down.”

Aman nods.

Once. Twice. Too stiff. Too quiet.

“She’ll be fine,” the doctor assures. “She just needs time. And someone to make sure she actually rests.”

Aman nods again. Doesn’t speak. Just turns to the hospital bed.

His mom is asleep. And she looks small.

I don’t know if it’s the lighting, the hospital gown, or the thin blanket pulled over her, but she looks—fragile.

Like someone Aman doesn’t know how to protect.

He moves closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like if he steps wrong, the whole room will crack open.

He sits beside her bed. Doesn’t touch her. Just watches her for a second, breath shallow and careful.

Then, finally, he speaks. Soft. Unsteady.

“You never listen.”

She doesn’t stir.

Aman exhales sharply, pressing a hand over his mouth, fingers digging into his skin like he’s trying to keep himself from breaking.

Then, even softer—

“You scared me.”

Something tight coils in my chest.

I step back toward the doorway, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t be here. Because this moment—it’s not mine.

This fear, this exhaustion, this love hidden in frustration—it belongs to Aman.

So I stay quiet. And I let him have it.

The hallway is quiet, except for the distant hum of monitors and the occasional shuffle of nurses moving past.

I sit on the bench outside, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the tiled floor.

Aman has been inside for a while. I don’t know why I’m still here.

Maybe because I know what it’s like to sit in that kind of silence, to watch someone you love lying there, looking too small, too fragile, knowing you can’t do anything about it.

Maybe because I don’t want him to come out and feel alone.

The door creaks.

I glance up as Aman steps out, the door clicking shut behind him.

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time, and moves toward the bench. He doesn’t look at me, just sits down beside me, posture slumped, shoulders looser than before but still carrying something heavy.

There’s a long pause. Then, finally, he speaks.

“Thanks.”

It’s quiet. Barely there.

But there’s something in his voice—something not fully settled, something still tight—and something aches in me when I hear it.

I don’t think. I just move.

I slide my hand across the space between us and press my fingers into his open palm.

His hand is warm. A little cold at the fingertips.

Aman stills.

His breath hitches—just slightly, just enough for me to notice. His fingers twitch under mine, like he doesn’t know whether to pull away or hold on.

He doesn’t pull away.

I squeeze, just a little. “She’s fine.”

Aman turns his head, eyes locking onto mine.

Behind the thin frame of his glasses, his gaze is unreadable.

Like he’s searching for something.

Or maybe realizing something.

His lips part slightly, but no words come out. Then, a slow, deliberate nod.