Chapter 30

Aman walks into the classroom like he always does—silent, calculated, like the concept of urgency has never applied to him. He moves to his usual seat, front row, corner spot, where no one can sneak up behind him, where he can see everything without having to be seen.

I watch him, like I always do. Not on purpose. Just… out of habit.

He sits. And then—he turns.

Which is already weird. Aman doesn’t turn. Aman sits, Aman stares straight ahead, Aman ignores the world until the world has no choice but to ignore him back.

But today, his eyes flick toward me.

I lift a hand, give him my usual lazy wave. The kind that usually gets me nothing but a brief, barely-there nod before he looks away like acknowledging my existence is a favor.

Except this time—he waves back.

An actual wave. Not a nod. Not a flicker. An honest-to-god wave.

I freeze.

Then I grin. Big.

Not because it’s funny. Because it’s weird. And I like weird. And then—his gaze shifts.

The warmth in my chest snuffs out.

Because he’s not looking at me anymore. His eyes land on Raj, sitting beside me, legs stretched out, pen flipping between his fingers, radiating effortless confidence like the world exists purely for his entertainment.

And just like that—the moment fractures.

Aman’s body stiffens. His hand lowers, movements suddenly too precise, too controlled, like he just realized he did something wrong.

Raj, for his part, notices immediately. Of course he does.

His pen pauses mid-spin. For a second—just a second—his smirk slips.

And the air between them turns cold. It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it’s there.

The kind of tension that isn’t new. The kind that doesn’t flare up out of nowhere but has been sitting there, rotting, waiting for an excuse to crawl to the surface.

Then, the door swings open.

Mrs. Rao walks in, followed by Mr. Mehta, and just like that, the moment suffocates under the weight of routine. Conversations die, chairs scrape against the floor as people settle in, and Aman finally—finally—turns away, back to staring at his notebook like the past thirty seconds never happened.

Raj leans back in his chair, slow and easy, fingers tapping against the desk. I don’t have to look to know he’s still thinking about it.

Same.

Because what the hell happened between those two?

I know Aman. He doesn’t just hate people for sport. He tolerates, ignores, moves past. But with Raj? That was something else. That was resentment, and resentment needs history to exist.

And Raj?

Raj doesn’t just let things slide, but he also doesn’t engage unless it’s worth it. And whatever happened with Aman, Raj has decided it isn’t.

Which means it was. Once.

I scowl at my textbook, flipping a page I haven’t actually read. What the hell did I just walk into?

A piece of paper. Folded. Raj.

I sigh, unfolding it. A single word is written in the center.

Hi.

I stare at it. Then at him.

He raises an eyebrow, completely serious. Like this is some high-level diplomatic communication.

I grab my pen and write back:

We’re literally sitting next to each other.

I pass it back.

Raj reads it, nods. Then writes something. Folds it. Slides it back.

I unfold it.

But this is more dramatic.

I suppress a laugh, shaking my head. Of course. I scribble back:

And unnecessarily complicated.

Raj reads it. Then—without breaking eye contact—he rips the paper in half.

I stare at him, appalled. “What—”

“Evidence,” he says simply. “Destroyed.”

I gape at him. “That wasn’t classified information, you psycho.”

Raj shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “You never know.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, because if someone found out you wrote hi on a piece of paper, you’d be sentenced to life in prison.”

Raj tilts his head. “You’re missing the bigger picture.”

“Oh, please enlighten me.”

He leans in slightly, voice low and entirely too serious for this conversation. “Think about it. All major espionage networks rely on coded communication, and paper trails are the easiest way to get caught.”

“This isn’t espionage, Raj. You sent me a one-word note in biology class.”

Raj ignores me. “That’s why the best spies never write things down. Or if they do, they use invisible ink.”

I blink at him. “You’re the captain of the debate team, not MI6.”

“That’s exactly what I’d say if I were MI6.”

I exhale, pressing my fingers to my temples. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Before I can refute that, Mrs. Rao clears her throat at the front of the class. Raj, ever the expert at evading consequences, immediately straightens and looks ahead like the picture of academic excellence.

I glare at him. He smiles without looking at me.

And somehow—I don’t feel like scowling anymore.

***

By the time school ends, it’s raining.

Not the poetic, cinematic kind. The cold, miserable drizzle that seeps into your clothes, makes everything smell like wet pavement, and ruins your entire mood.

I stand under the school’s front awning, waiting for Mom.

She’s late. Again.

I exhale, stuffing my hands into my pockets. The rain blurs the streetlights, makes the world feel gray and stretched thin, and I don’t realize I’m staring at it too hard until—

“I don’t hate rain, Sharma.”

Amit’s voice. Clear, uninvited.

I don’t even try to shake it off. I know how this goes. Memories aren’t polite. They don’t wait for permission.

We had been stuck under a bus stop together once, watching rain crash against the pavement.

“Liar,” I had said, nudging him. “You complain every time.”

Amit had huffed, crossing his arms. “I don’t hate rain. I hate the aftermath of rain.”

“The aftermath?”

“Yeah.” He had sighed dramatically. “Wet socks. Damp jeans. The way your hair sticks to your forehead. Mosquitoes. It’s all awful.”

“So you hate rain.”

“No,” he had said stubbornly. “I hate what comes after it.”

I hadn’t thought much about it back then.

But now, standing here, half-soaked in the smell of rain and regret, it doesn’t feel funny anymore.

Because maybe I don’t hate thinking about Amit.

Maybe I just hate what comes after it.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. I need to stop.

And then—

“Sharma.”

A voice way too close.

I blink, pulled out of my thoughts. Raj. Soaking wet.

Standing in the middle of the rain, arms spread out, blinking up at the sky like he’s just been personally betrayed.

I stare. “What are you doing?”

Raj turns to me, eyes wide, expression grave.

“Sharma,” he says. “I’ve just realized something deeply disturbing.”

I sigh. “That you don’t own an umbrella?”

“No,” Raj says, stepping closer. Dripping. “Something worse.”

I don’t ask. I should’ve walked away.

But then he takes another dramatic step forward, rain running down his face, entirely too serious for a person who looks like a drowned cat.

“Dev,” he says gravely, “this is sky water.”

I blink. “What.”

“This,” he gestures wildly at the rain, completely unbothered by the fact that he is standing directly under it, “is sky water. It’s been floating around up there for weeks. Months. Maybe even years. And now it’s falling back down on us.”

I squint. “You mean rain?”

“Yes, but think about it,” Raj insists. “How much of this has been through other people’s lungs? How much of this was—” he waves a hand, “—inside society?”

I stare at him.

“You’re trying to tell me rain is recycled spit.”

“And piss.”

“Raj, it’s literally just condensation.”

“Condensed spit, sweat and piss.”

I could walk away. I could pretend I didn’t hear him.

I close my eyes. “I’m ignoring you.”

“You can’t ignore the truth, Sharma.”

“I absolutely can.”

Raj takes another step forward.

“You’re avoiding the real issue here,” he says, eyes glinting. “The fact that—at this very moment—sky is peeing on us.”

I open my mouth. Then shut it. And despite everything, despite the spiraling thoughts still hovering at the edges of my mind—

I snort.

Raj grins like he just won a game I wasn’t even playing.

“See?” he says. “This is why I’m your favorite person.”

“You’re not.”

“Lies.”

Before I can argue, he grabs my wrist.

“Come on,” he says, already dragging me forward.

I resist, instinctively leaning back. “Raj, what—?”

“Shut up,” he says. “You’ve been standing there looking tragic for ten minutes. This is unacceptable.”

“I’m dry. I’d like to stay dry.”

“And I,” Raj says solemnly, “would like to see you suffer.”

And then—he yanks me straight into the rain. It’s cold. It’s awful. It’s completely ridiculous.

I splutter, jerking back, but Raj has a grip like a damn vice.

He laughs, spinning in place like a lunatic, arms spread wide, letting the water hit him full force.

“Look at you,” he teases. “Standing all stiff. You look like a businessman who just divorced his wife and forgot to pay the alimony.”

“You’re stupid,” I tell him, pushing my wet hair out of my face.

Raj smirks. “You like stupids.”

The rain slides down my skin, cold at first, then colder still, sinking into me like it belongs there. It traces the curve of my jaw, slipping past my collar, spreading slow and deliberate, seeping into fabric, into skin. It clings.

The air is thick with the smell of wet pavement, of damp earth, of something that feels older than this moment. The kind of scent that lingers, that settles deep in your lungs like memory, like a weight you forgot you were carrying.

The sky stretches above, endless and gray, curling into itself in slow-motion grief. Clouds pressing down, heavy with something that never quite falls all at once—just drags, just lingers.

I let it soak through me, let it press against the edges of my thoughts. Let it stay.

I close my eyes. Tilt my head back.

Breathe.

Amit had hated this. The way rain lingers, ruins.

“It sticks to you,” he had complained once, watching water drip from the bus stop roof. “You can’t just wash it off. You carry it with you, whether you want to or not.”

I hadn’t understood what he meant back then.

I think I do now.

The worst part of rain isn’t the falling.

It’s what it leaves behind.

I exhale, softer this time. Letting the air slip out between my lips.

“Feels like something’s dissolving,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Like the whole world is washing itself away.”

There’s a pause. Then Raj’s voice. Quiet. Right beside me.

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

I open my eyes.

He’s still standing there, soaking wet and utterly unbothered, watching me—not with curiosity, not with amusement. Just watching.

Like he understands.

Like he doesn’t need to know what’s breaking inside me to know that something is.

My fingers curl slightly at my sides.

“Some things shouldn’t be washed away,” I say, barely audible over the rain.

Raj doesn’t miss a beat. “And some things shouldn’t stay stuck.”

Something shifts between us. Not loud, not obvious—just enough to be noticed.

I watch him for a second longer, the weight of his words settling somewhere in my chest.

Then he blinks, tilts his head, and says, “You look like a sad Victorian child staring at the ocean.”

I blink. “What.”

“You know. Like a ghost of a boy who died of tuberculosis or something. All tragic and wistful.”

I squint at him. “That’s the worst thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Raj grins. “Glad to be of service.”

I huff a breath, shaking my head, and step back under the awning. The rain drips from my hair onto my collar. Raj follows, still grinning like an idiot.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t have to.