Chapter 25

Highschool

The bus is too loud.

Not just regular loud. Not just voices and laughter. It’s the kind of loud that belongs to other people. The kind of loud that makes you realize you’re not part of it.

Someone’s yelling in the back, something about practice, about a match, about a joke that probably started weeks ago. Amit’s teammates take up the last few rows, their laughter crashing over each other like waves, easy and uncontained. The whole bus feels like theirs. A moving locker room. A space that exists for them and only them.

I shift in my seat, letting my forehead rest against the window. The glass is cool against my skin, grounding in a way the rest of this isn’t.

Amit is beside me.

But not with me.

He’s sitting here, yeah, but his body is half-turned toward them, catching pieces of conversation, nodding along, grinning at things I don’t understand. He’s here, but his attention isn’t. It hasn’t been for a while.

I pull out my earphones, shove them in, and close my eyes. Not because I’m listening to anything, but because if I don’t, I’ll keep looking at him. Keep noticing the way his shoulders shake when he laughs, the way he smacks his hand against the seat in front of him, the way he—

Belongs there.

And maybe that shouldn’t feel like a thing, but it does.

Because for the longest time, I was the person Amit belonged with.

It used to be us. Our own rhythm, our own jokes, our own world that didn’t need anything else. School in the morning, sneaking snacks in class, hanging out after school, being dumbasses together in ways that probably looked ridiculous to anyone else.

We were a team.

Now, at lunch, I watch as his teammates call him over. Pat the seat beside them. He hesitates for half a second—just long enough for me to hope—but then he goes.

Now, in class, he sits with them, talks to them, walks with them. I see the way he slips into their conversations like he’s always been there. The way he lets them pull him into something bigger, something I can’t reach.

And me?
I’m still here.

Same seat. Same routine. Same place. But every day, he moves a little further away.

Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe this is just how things go. Maybe nothing’s actually changing.

But then again—
Maybe it is.

Maybe things change, no matter how tightly you hold on. No matter how many promises you make on rooftops, under moonlight, when the world feels small enough to believe in forever.

Because forever is easy to promise when it’s just the two of you, when the night is quiet and nothing is pulling you in opposite directions. But in the daylight? In hallways and lunchrooms and locker rooms filled with people who don’t know the history written in your hands?

Forever starts to feel a lot like before. And before is just another way of saying gone.

***

The sky is bleeding orange, the sun slipping lower, casting shadows over the football field. The air is thick with sweat, grass, and the sharp, electric energy that always lingers after a match. The game is over, but Amit is still moving.

I should be used to it by now-the way he loses himself completely on the field. The way the world stops existing when he plays, how everything else-school, home, me-fades into nothing. But I’m not.

I never am.

Because there’s something about watching him like this.

Unrestrained. Unshaken. Unbelievably effortless.

Amit isn’t just fast-he’s fluid. His movements are instinctive, like he’s made for this, like the game runs in his blood. He’s smiling, bright and sharp, his focus razor-thin, completely locked into the rhythm of it all.

And for a second-for a heartbeat-I wonder what it feels like.

To be that certain about something.

To give yourself so completely to something that nothing else matters.

I feel my fingers tightening around the rusted metal bleachers. My breath is caught somewhere in my throat, but I don’t let myself acknowledge it. Instead, I watch.

Watch the way he pushes back his damp hair with the sleeve of his jersey, barely out of breath. Watch the way he grins when one of his teammates shoves his shoulder, laughing at something I didn’t hear. Watch the way the late sunlight hits his skin, bronzing the edges of him, turning him into something that feels-

Untouchable.

Because in these moments, he doesn’t belong to me.

He belongs to the field. To the game. To the world of teammates and strategy and camaraderie that I’ll never quite fit into.

And maybe that’s why I feel the way I do.

Because Amit is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.

And I don’t know if I can say the same about him anymore.

I don’t realize I’ve been staring too long until Amit turns, eyes scanning the bleachers-searching for me.

And then he finds me.

And he smiles.

That stupid, crooked grin that makes something in my ribs feel misplaced, like my heart forgets what it’s supposed to be doing.

“Why do you look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life?” Amit calls as he jogs toward me, wiping sweat from his forehead.

I roll my eyes, standing as he gets closer. “Because I am. The game made me realize my entire existence is meaningless.”

Amit snorts, bumping my shoulder as he passes. “Yeah, yeah. We can discuss your existential crisis after food.”

Right. Food. Like always.

The best part of the day was always after school.

The game ended, the field emptied out, and while everyone else rushed home, Amit and I did what we always did—took our time.

It had started as an excuse. Amit hated going straight home, and I… well. I never really saw the point of rushing back either. The bus ride wasn’t about getting somewhere—it was a transition, a space in between responsibilities. A pocket of time where we could exist without thinking too hard about anything else.

And, of course, there was food.

Every afternoon, we’d get off at some random stop, wander into the nearest place that smelled remotely edible, and Amit would spend too much money.

Always.

It didn’t matter how much I rolled my eyes, how many times I told him to stop burning through his entire wallet like he was funding a small army. Amit had zero concept of restraint. He’d order enough to feed three people, shove a plate toward me with a grin, and say, “Shut up, Sharma, you’re eating this.”

And I always did.

Because this was our thing. The stolen hours between school and home, the mindless arguments over who got the last fry, the way Amit would toss his arm over the back of the seat like he belonged there—like we belonged there.

I step down from the bleachers, already pulling my phone out to check the time. “Hurry up, or the bus’ll leave-“

But Amit doesn’t move.

I pause.

And then I notice it.

The shift.

It’s not obvious-not something anyone else would catch. But I do. Because it’s in the way his shoulders tense, just slightly. The way his jaw tightens before he forces his expression back into something neutral.

The way his hand flexes at his side, like there’s something he doesn’t want to say.

I frown. “What?”

Amit scratches the back of his neck, glancing toward the team, who are still gathered near the goalpost. When he looks back at me, the grin is still there-but something about it feels… off.

“So, uh-” He clears his throat. “I’m gonna go with the team today. They’re all hanging out after practice, and I figured-y’know. Why not?”

Why not?

The words drop into my stomach like a stone.

I don’t react. Or at least, I don’t let myself react.

Because if I say something now-if I ask why, if I remind him that we always go together, that this is our thing-it’ll sound stupid. Clingy.

So instead, I force my voice to stay casual. “Oh. Cool. Yeah.”

Amit watches me, and I know-I know-he catches the slight delay in my words, the way my hands tighten around my phone.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, he doesn’t.

I exhale through my nose, tilting my phone to check the screen. “I’ll text my mom, then.”

Amit hesitates. Just for a second. Then-

“You don’t have to.”

I look up. “Huh?”

Amit shifts on his feet, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I mean-Vikram’s going that way too. You could go with him instead.”

Silence.

What.

My fingers tighten around my phone.

I open my mouth to say something-anything-but I can’t.

What does that even mean?

Because there are a hundred different ways to read this, and none of them feel good.

Because Amit never lets me just go home. Because he knows that the bus rides aren’t about the destination-they’re about the time in between, the time we steal for ourselves.

And yet.

Yet, he’s doing this.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t matter.

I force a smile. Shrug. “Yeah. Sure. Makes sense.”

Amit nods, looking relieved. “Cool. Yeah. Alright.”

And then leans just enough to whisper, “He thinks you’re cute.” And he winks.

But there’s something off with this teasing.

Something hidden between that heartless wink and half smile.

But I don’t think I want to read that.

Not now when—

I’m being replaced.