Chapter 23

“Alright, Sharma. Pick a ride. Any ride.”

The fair is alive around us. Neon lights and motion, voices blending into the hum of carnival rides, the sharp scent of fried food thick in the air. It’s loud, almost too much, but Amit moves through it like it’s his kingdom, like every flashing sign and whirring ride is here just for him.

“None of them.”

Amit clicks his tongue. “Wrong answer.”

Before I can protest, he grabs my wrist and pulls me forward, through the crowd, through the night. His fingers are warm against my skin, solid, certain, and I should pull away, but… I don’t.

Because this is Amit.

And for some reason, tonight, that feels like enough.

The whole day still feels unreal.

The stage. The lights. The way my voice almost wavered before I saw Amit in the crowd-arms crossed, watching like he knew I was about to nail it.

And then, right before I went up- His hand, grabbing mine, squeezing once.
His breath, warm against my ear.

“Good luck, Sharma.”

Two seconds. That’s all it was. But it burned-the feeling of his fingers wrapped around mine, the heat of his words pressed against my skin. And I must’ve carried it with me because when I sang-

I wasn’t nervous anymore.

Now, hours later, the memory still hums under my ribs, restless and strange, like I’m carrying something too big to hold.

I shake the thought off as Amit drags me toward a roller coaster.

“Amit, no.”

“Sharma, yes.”

“Amit, I’ll kill you.”

“Then do it after the ride.”

We lock in, the harness clicking over our shoulders. Amit turns toward me, grinning like a lunatic, eyes catching the flashing carnival lights like a scene from a movie.

“Hey, Sharma?”

I exhale. “What?”

He leans closer, voice low and dramatic. “If we die, I just want you to know I called dibs on haunting you first.”

And then-

We drop.

***

“I need all of it.”

Amit is practically vibrating in front of the prize booth, already handing over his money like a man on a mission.

“You are wasting your life savings,” I tell him.

“Incorrect. I am investing in happiness.”

The first ball goes wide. The second barely grazes the target before bouncing off. He exhales sharply, shaking out his hands before reaching for more cash.

“Sharma. I swear to god.”

By the third round, I cross my arms. “Let me know when you’ve finished funding this guy’s college tuition.”

He glares, but he doesn’t stop. He’s focused now, brows furrowed, tongue pressed against the corner of his upper lip, fingers flexing before he grips the next ball. He doesn’t even blink as he lines up his shot, body going still in a way that’s completely unlike him. And I-

I shouldn’t be watching him this closely. I shouldn’t be noticing the way his jaw tightens, the way his muscles shift under his jacket, the way the flashing carnival lights reflect in his eyes, turning them gold for half a second.

I shouldn’t be holding my breath as he throws.

The ball hits the target with a sharp thunk.

For a second, Amit just stares at it, like his brain hasn’t caught up yet. Like he doesn’t believe it actually happened.

Then he explodes.

“HOLY SHIT-“

Before I can even process, before I can breathe, he’s on me.

A collision of warmth, laughter, arms slamming around my shoulders, knocking the air from my lungs. His entire weight crashes into me, sending me stumbling back a step, but he doesn’t let go. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, breathless and so pleased with himself, his ridiculous, full-body joy pressing into my chest.

“I FUCKING DID IT, SHARMA!” he yells, like the entire carnival needs to know, like this isn’t a scam of a game that robbed him of half his money.

He’s loud. Too loud. His laughter is sharp against my ear, his breath warm against my neck, and I should be shoving him off, should be scoffing at how dramatic he’s being-

But I don’t.

Because the weight of him is solid. His arms are tight around me, fingers gripping the back of my hoodie like he’s holding on. His heart is hammering against my ribs-so close, too close, like it’s inside me, like it’s mine.

I feel it everywhere.

The heat of him. The way he smells-warm, like sweat and sugar and something unmistakably Amit. The way his voice crackles with unfiltered happiness, so genuine, so real, like winning a stupid carnival game is the most important thing in the world.

And maybe-maybe, for him, it is.
Maybe that’s why I can’t move.

Because suddenly, I want to be part of it.

I want to hold onto this, onto him, onto the way he laughs without hesitation, the way he throws himself into joy without bracing for impact. I want to bottle up the way he feels-his warmth, his weight, his Amit-ness-and keep it, keep him, like something I can hold in my hands.

I don’t realize my fingers have curled into the back of his jacket until he pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes bright, grin still stretched wide across his face.

“Sharma, I am a god.”

I exhale-too sharp, too shaky. “You’re an idiot.”

“A victorious idiot,” he corrects, then suddenly thrusts something between us.

A stuffed turtle.

“For you, my dear idiot.”

I blink at it. Then at him. He’s still too close, still buzzing with triumph, still watching me like he expects me to make a big deal out of it.

“Why do I need this?”

“To remember this moment. When I single-handedly won you a symbol of my eternal greatness.”

I should roll my eyes. I should shove it back at him. But I don’t.

Because my fingers are already curling around the soft fabric. Because his smile is softening, just slightly, just enough that it feels like this-this stupid, tiny turtle-isn’t just a joke. It’s him.

And I–I don’t want to let go.

***

We walk.

The fair fades behind us, its sounds stretching out into the distance, into something soft, endless, half-remembered. Amit’s footsteps match mine, his arm occasionally brushing against mine in that effortless way that should mean nothing.

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. But tonight it does.

Tonight, something about Amit under these lights, Amit pulling me through a crowd, Amit laughing beside me like he belongs there, like he always will-

It feels like everything.

Like something I should be holding onto. Like something that should last forever.

By the time we sneak onto Amit’s roof, the night has settled deep, sky stretching out above us in a flood of navy and silver, stars pressing against the vast quiet.

We’re lying flat on our backs, side by side, shoulders barely touching. The air is cool, the wind soft against my skin. The fair is a blur in the distance now, just a haze of neon lights and leftover laughter. But up here?

Up here, the world feels small.

“We’re high schoolers now,” Amit says, voice softer than usual, like he’s tasting the words for the first time.

I hum. “Yeah.”

“We should be different now.”

“Are we?”

He turns his head toward me, grinning. “I mean, obviously, Sharma. We are now mature, sophisticated individuals-“

I snort. “-who spent the last two hours screaming on carnival rides.”

“Exactly.” He folds his arms behind his head, stretching out like a cat. “Pure, undeniable sophistication.”

I shake my head, but I’m smiling.

The city moves beneath us, the sky stretching wide above us. Everything feels too big and too close at the same time.

“Okay,” Amit says, “what do you think high school’s actually gonna be like?”

I exhale, thinking.

“Dramatic,” I say finally. “Like a soap opera where everyone thinks their problems are the most important thing in the universe.”

“Bold words from someone who once refused to talk to me for an entire day because I accidentally ate the last piece of pizza at your house.”

“That was different. That was betrayal.”

“That was childish, Sharma.”

“So is everything about you.”

“Fair point.”

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head, staring at the sky.

“Okay, your turn,” I say. “What’s your guess?”

“High school?” Amit tilts his head, pretending to consider. “I think it’s just gonna be more of this.”

“More of what?”

“Us.”

His voice is so casual, so certain, like it’s not even a question. Like there’s no possible future where we aren’t right here, in each other’s lives, in each other’s space.

Something warm settles in my chest.

The air is cooler up here, threading through my hoodie, and for once, Amit isn’t filling the silence with endless chatter.

The stuffed turtle rests against my stomach. I don’t know why I brought it up here. I don’t know why I’m still holding onto it.

“Okay, predictions,” Amit announces, shifting onto his side to face me.

I glance over. “About what?”

“High school. Us. The future.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Make a wild guess, Sharma. Bet you’ll be wrong.”

“Fine.” I pretend to think, fingers absentmindedly tracing the soft curve of the turtle’s head. “You’re going to fall in love with some unfortunate soul who doesn’t know what they’re getting into.”

Amit grins-wide, easy, too easy. But something about it feels…off. Stretched at the edges, like there’s something else beneath it.

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. If you had a crush, I’d know about it.”

“Would you?”

There’s something about the way he says it. Light. Careless. But not.

“Of course.”

Amit doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just watches me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. His fingers twitch against the fabric of his hoodie, gripping, releasing, gripping again-like there’s something he wants to say but won’t.

“Huh.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

Amit just smiles, slow and quiet, before turning back to the sky.

But I know him. I know him. And that wasn’t nothing.

“Your turn,” I say.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Amit hums. “You’re gonna be a heartbreaker, Sharma.”

I choke on my own breath. “What?”

“I mean, look at you.” He gestures vaguely at me. “You’re the ‘mysterious brooding guy’ people are gonna write bad poetry about.”

“That’s literally the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“No, the worst thing I’ve ever said to you was that one time I told you Santa wasn’t real-“

“I ALREADY KNEW, AMIT.”

He laughs, full and bright, unfiltered in a way I don’t think he is with anyone else.

And I-

I don’t know what to do with the way that makes me feel.

I shift slightly, my fingers still curled around the stuffed turtle resting against my chest now.

Amit rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, head tilted as he looks at me.

“You know you were perfect today, right?”

I blink. “What?”

“At the function.” His voice is softer now, none of the usual teasing. Just Amit, looking at me like I hung the stars instead of just standing under them. “You know you were perfect.”

Something in my chest goes tight.

I swallow, turning my face away. “Shut up.”

“Not happening.”

The words are light, but he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t let it go. Just keeps looking at me, like he’s waiting for me to hear him.

I exhale slowly, staring up at the sky. The wind moves between us, cool against my skin, but Amit is still warm beside me, his arm so close I could shift just an inch and-

I don’t.

But Amit does.

He moves without hesitation, without thought-like it’s the easiest thing in the world-his arm curling around me, pulling me into him, solid and certain. The way he does when I’m too tired to argue. The way he does when he thinks I need it. The way I never push him away.

His breath is warm against my hair, his heartbeat steady where I rest against him. The weight of his arm around me isn’t heavy, isn’t demanding. Just there. Like it belongs. Like I belong.

I should move. I should roll my eyes, make a joke, remind him that we are too old for this.

But I don’t.

I stay.

Because I want to.

“It was perfect, Sharma,” he murmurs again, softer this time, like he knows I won’t believe him, but he needs to say it anyway.

And then, before I can think, before I can brace-

His lips press to my forehead.

Soft. Quick. Something that should be nothing. But it isn’t.
It isn’t.

My fingers tighten around the turtle, my breath catching somewhere in my throat, but Amit just exhales, his arm still around me, his warmth still steady.

Like he’s done this before. Like he’s always known.

The wind shifts. The moment lingers. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what to call it.

So I don’t.

“You really think things won’t change?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.

Amit doesn’t answer right away.

He just looks at me-not startled, not thrown, just… considering. Like he’s already had this answer for a long time.

Like he’s just been waiting for me to ask.
Finally-soft, certain, unshaken-

“Not for us.”

***

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