Chapter 32

The door swings open, and Mom walks in, balancing a tray of snacks and drinks like she already knows this room is a battlefield.

Arya, dramatically sprawled on the floor like a fallen soldier, immediately reincarnates.

“Oh my god, Aunty,” she gasps. “You are the only person in this house who cares about me.”

Mom chuckles, setting the tray down. “I thought you three might need a break.”

Arya grabs a glass like she hasn’t seen liquid in decades. “Finally, some respect.”

Raj, meanwhile, is half-sprawled on my bed, one leg hanging off, scrolling his phone like this is a vacation.

Arya points at him accusingly. “Aunty, please observe. One is completely useless. The other is Dev.”

Mom laughs. “And what have they done to deserve this slander?”

“Nothing,” Arya says, outraged. “Dev has contributed exactly zero good ideas, and Raj is…” She gestures at the human disaster on my bed. “That.”

Raj, without looking up, raises a lazy hand. “I provide aesthetic value.”

Arya glares. “You provide suffering.”

Mom, still smiling, kneels beside Arya and picks up the script pages. She actually reads them, flipping through the dialogue thoughtfully.

I expect her to say something vague and motherly—good job, keep working, proud of you, etc.

Instead, she tilts her head and says, “Hmm. What if this moment had a parallel later? Something subtle—like a phrase that repeats, but the second time, it’s devastating instead of hopeful.”

Arya freezes.

Then—her eyes widen like she’s just heard the voice of God.

“Aunty.”

Mom smiles. “Yes?”

“That’s fucking brilliant.”

Mom laughs. “That’s what happens when you read too many books. And language.”

Arya springs to her feet. “Sorry! And where are these books? I need them. I need guidance. I need enlightenment.”

Mom stands, clearly amused. “Come, my child. I will show you the way.”

Arya practically drags her out of the room. The door clicks shut behind them.

Raj is still half-sprawled on my bed, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting on his phone like he forgot it was there. His legs are stretched out, one foot tapping idly against the mattress. He’s not even looking at me. Just… existing.

Like he belongs here.

Like he’s always belonged here.

And for some reason, that thought sticks in my throat.

I shift, pretending to focus on Arya’s script. Ignore the way something feels weirdly different.

The silence settles.

Then—Raj flips onto his side, props his head up on his hand, and watches me.

“You’re weirdly quiet,” he says.

I scoff, not looking up. “It’s called focus. You should try it sometime.”

Raj hums. Like he’s amused. Like he’s figuring something out.

I keep my eyes on the page, waiting for him to get bored and go back to his phone.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he stretches his arms over his head, shifts slightly—his shirt rides up a little—and then he says, “So. This is what your room looks like.”

I blink. “That’s usually how it works, yeah.”

Raj smirks. “I just mean—you’re full of surprises, Sharma. I assumed you lived in organized chaos.”

I roll my eyes. “What, like Arya’s tornado of a bedroom?”

Raj chuckles. “That or something worse. Like the ’emotionally tortured artist’ vibe. A lot of candles. Sad poetry. Existential dread.”

I scoff. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Raj hums again, pretending to study the ceiling.

Then—he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking back to me.

“Relax,” he says, voice lazy, unbothered. “You’re cute when you panic, but you’re cuter when you’re comfortable.”

My brain short-circuits.

My entire body freezes.

Raj notices. Of course he does. His smirk lingers just a second too long.

Like he’s waiting to see what I do with it.

I swallow. Look away.

And Raj knows he won.

Then—

Raj suddenly sits up. Not slowly. Not lazily. Just up. All at once.

I blink. “What?”

His eyes flick to me, bright with some new idea that’s clearly about to ruin my life.

“Oh,” he says, like he just remembered something, “you said you were a guitar guy, right?”

My stomach drops.

My pulse skips.

I say nothing.

Raj doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t understand what it means.

Because he leans in slightly, tilting his head, grinning just a little. “So,” he says, casual, unbothered. “Where’s the guitar, Sharma?”

My stomach drops.

The question lands like it always does. Not loud. Just deep. Just sharp. Like a blade you forgot was still inside you.

I don’t react right away. I keep my face blank, keep my hands still, keep my pulse from slamming into my ribs.

I don’t look at him. “Why?”

Raj shrugs, stretching his arms over his head, his shirt riding up slightly. “Because I wanna hear you play.”

Like it’s that simple. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just throw a match into gasoline.

I force a breath through my nose. It’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything.

But my body doesn’t get the memo. Because suddenly, I feel like I’m somewhere else.

Some other room. Some other night. Some other voice.

“Come on, play something. You know I like it.”

“Just one song, Dev. One song, and I’ll shut up.”

“I won’t judge, I swear.”

Amit’s voice. Amit’s grin. Amit, sitting exactly where Raj is now.

I blink. Shake my head. Force myself back into right now.

Raj is still watching me. Still waiting.

I clear my throat. “Haven’t played in a while. Not happening.”

Raj hums. Like he’s considering something.

Then, he smirks. “What, you scared? What if you’re bad now?”

Something inside me snaps.

It’s fast. Immediate. Sharp enough that I don’t have time to reel it back.

“I’m not scared,” I spit, voice tighter than it should be. Too fast. Too sharp.

He catches it. Of course he does. His smirk falters for a heartbeat, just enough to piss me off even more.

But he doesn’t stop. He never fucking stops.

“Then prove it.”

The book in my lap slams shut before I even know I’ve moved.

“Not everything is a game to win, Raj. Not everything is about proving something. Jesus—” I stand up, heart in my throat, hands shaking. “Why do you do this? Why do you keep poking and—God, it’s a guitar, not a fucking sword in the stone. You think I’m just being dramatic? That I’m what—lazy? Scared? You don’t know shit, okay?”

My voice cracks on that last word. Embarrassing. Pathetic. I feel it all hit at once.

“Why can’t you just—let things be?” My voice is rising. I can hear it, can’t stop it. “Why do you always have to push? About rain. About guitar.

Why can’t you just leave things alone?

Like they’re not yours to fix.”

It comes out colder than I meant. Quieter, too. But final.

Raj goes still.

The teasing evaporates. His smirk fades, his body shifts, his fingers still against the mattress.

For the first time tonight, he really looks at me. Not cocky. Not amused.

Just… looking.

Like he’s reading something written on my soul, hidden underneath my skin.

Something I didn’t mean to show. Something I didn’t even know was visible.

His fingers twitch—just barely—before stilling again, like he’s fighting the urge to move, to reach, to ask. His jaw tenses, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes.

And for a moment—just a breath, just a heartbeat—he looks at me like he knows.

It makes my ribs feel too tight. My skin too thin.

Because if Raj is seeing something, it means I let him.

And I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he noticed, or the fact that, for one terrifying second, I wanted him to.

The silence stretches.

Then, he exhales—soft. Careful.

“Okay,” he says, voice steady, “Okay.”

He doesn’t push again.

Doesn’t make a joke.

Doesn’t smirk like he won something.

He just lets it go.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because Amit never let it go.

Amit would’ve kept prying, kept laughing, kept dragging me past the parts of myself I didn’t want to face.

But Raj?

Raj sees the line—and stops.

And for some reason, that unsettles me more than anything else.

I swallow. Look away.

Raj stretches, falling back against the mattress, grabbing his phone like nothing happened.

Like the moment never existed.

And I let him erase it.

Because I don’t know what else to do.

The silence stretches.

Then, finally, he exhales, rubs a hand down his face, and says, “So… what now? Do we fight? Stare at each other until one of us combusts?”

I let out a sharp breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite anything.

Raj watches me for another second before shaking his head.

“Damn. If you keep rejecting me like this, Sharma, people are gonna think I have bad game.”

I scoff, grabbing a stray paper off the floor just to have something to hold. “People already think that.”

My heart still thudding in my chest.

Raj grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wow. Unnecessary. Hurtful. Borderline cruel.”

I don’t reply. I can’t.

Because I know what he’s doing.

He’s pressing reset. He’s shoving the moment away before it can get any heavier.

And I let him.

I focus on the pages in my hands, the ones I’m not even reading. Raj picks up his phone again, scrolling aimlessly.

It should feel normal.

It doesn’t.

Then—

The door slams open.

“BOYS.”

Arya marches in like a storm in human form, Mom trailing behind her, looking way too amused.

“Your mother,” Arya declares, waving her script like a sacred text, “is a literary genius. A visionary. A gift to humanity. Meanwhile, you two—” she jabs a finger at both of us, “have done nothing but waste oxygen.”

I blink at her. “You were gone for twenty minutes.”

“And yet, in those twenty minutes, I have evolved. Unlike you two, who—” she gestures wildly at us, “have done absolutely NOTHING.”

Mom chuckles, shaking her head. “I’ll leave you three to it. I have work to do.”

Raj nods politely. Arya is still buzzing with energy.

I stay quiet.

Mom pauses just for a second before leaving, eyes flicking toward me. Noticing something. Not saying anything. Just… noticing.

Arya claps her hands together. “Alright, pack up, losers. We’re done here. Raj, drive me home. Dev, I expect you to read this script and validate my genius.”

I hum in response, barely processing it. Raj grins, already stretching.

They move toward the door, Arya still talking nonstop about motifs and emotional depth.

I exhale, telling myself the moment from earlier is over.

And then—

Raj stops at the door.

Just for a second.

His hand rests against the frame, fingers tapping lightly. Like he’s about to say something. Like he’s still thinking about it.

I should say something first.

I should shove the moment away, crack a joke, reset things before they have a chance to settle.

But I don’t. And neither does he.

For the first time all night, Raj isn’t smirking.

He isn’t teasing, isn’t trying to get a reaction out of me.

He’s just watching.

Like he knows something’s off. Like he knows I’ve been holding something too tightly between my ribs, waiting for it to disappear.

Like he’s waiting for me to stop pretending.

My fingers curl against my knee. The weight in my chest presses heavier.

I need him to leave. I need him to look away first.

But he doesn’t.

And maybe—maybe that’s the part that bothers me.

He just lets the silence sit there. Unspoken. Unanswered.

Like he’s letting me decide what to do with it. And I hate that. Because I don’t know what to do with it.

I swallow, finally dragging my eyes away. “You’re blocking the door, Mehra.”

Raj exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh.

But something close.

Then, with one last glance—one last pause, just enough to make my pulse trip over itself—he steps away.

The door swings shut behind him.

I stare at it.

Not moving. Not breathing. Not understanding why the room suddenly feels different now that he’s gone.

Because nothing happened. Nothing changed. Nothing should’ve changed.

I press my knuckles against my temple. Exhale slow.

Then—before I can think too hard about it—I reach over.

And lock the door.