Chapter 38

The bus stops with a groan, brakes hissing against the wet pavement. The door swings open, and I step out, pulling my hoodie over my head as the rain greets me with a cold slap.

I move quickly, crossing the empty stretch of road, water splashing against my ankles. The bus stop isn’t much—just a metal bench under a rusted shelter, the old advertisement board half torn, edges curling from the damp.

I stand beneath it, shaking water from my sleeves, my breath fogging slightly in the cold air. The streetlights flicker, their glow stretching out in long, golden streaks over the wet road.

There’s no one else here.

Just me and the rain.

I pull out my phone, fingers stiff from the chill, and the screen lights up—three messages from Raj.

Raj: What’s up?

Raj: You home yet?

Raj: Sharma?

I don’t click on them. I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the leftover weight of his voice in my head. You left. The way his eyes lingered on me when Priya’s hand was still on his arm. The way he caught me staring, the way I—

I exhale sharply, locking the phone and shoving it back into my pocket. The sound of the rain grows louder, filling the silence where my thoughts should be.

Then—

A noise.

A distant hum, low and familiar, cutting through the downpour.

I turn my head, heart giving a strange, uneven stutter as a bike approaches the bus stop.

Two people. Helmets on. Their headlights cast long, shifting shadows over the road as they slow down, pulling up just a few feet away from where I’m standing.

I tell myself they’re just stopping for shelter. The rain. That’s all.

But my chest is already tight. My fingers already curling into fists inside my pockets.

Because something about this feels wrong.

One of them turns slightly, helmet tilting, and I see it.

The jacket.

The color.

The way his shoulders hunch just slightly, the same way they did before.

The bike engine cuts out. My pulse jumps, slamming against my ribs.

The rain keeps falling, hitting the pavement in sharp, endless taps, but the moment they remove their helmets, the sound disappears.

Because I know them and they know me.

One of them swings his leg off the bike, shaking out his wet hair, stretching like this is just some casual run-in. The other stays seated, his fingers drumming lazily against the handlebar. They don’t look surprised.

They were expecting me.

Or maybe, they weren’t. But now that I’m here, it doesn’t matter.

Rohan tilts his head, eyes flicking over me. A split second. A full assessment. Then he grins.

“No fucking way. Dev Sharma.”

I feel it, then. That slow, awful weight pressing down on my chest.

Because I recognize his voice.

Because my body knew before my mind did.

Aryan exhales through his nose, something like amusement passing through his features. “Well, shit. We were just talking about you the other day.”

My pulse jumps.

Rohan shakes his head, almost fond. “Didn’t think we’d see you again, man.”

Man.

Like we’re friends.

Like this isn’t something that still wakes me up at night.

I force my lips to part, but my throat feels too tight. The words won’t come.

Rohan steps closer, just enough to make me notice. “Didn’t expect to see us either, huh?”

I should say something.

I should leave.

But I’m back there.

Back in that bathroom.

Back against the cold tile, my shirt bunched in someone’s fist, my wrists aching from how hard I was shoved.

“Fucking disgusting.”

“Bet he liked it. Look at him.”

“You like when guys touch you, don’t you?”

The memory slams into me like a fist, knocking the air straight out of my lungs.

Rohan exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “That was, what—last year?” He clicks his tongue. “Damn, time flies.”

Flies.

Like this is just something that happened.

Like it was just another shitty day in high school.

Aryan sighs, shifting against the bike. “Hey, man, it wasn’t personal.” He says it so casually, so easily, that my skin crawls.

I don’t say anything.

I can’t.

“Come on,” Rohan presses, nudging my shoulder lightly—too fucking lightly. “You’re not still holding onto that, are you?”

I jerk back instinctively, but he just laughs.

Like it’s funny.

Rohan shakes his head. “Guessing you never told anyone, huh?”

My chest tightens.

Not my parents. Not my teachers. Not anyone.

Because what would I have said?

That after a video got viral, I was followed into a bathroom and shoved around?

That someone whispered something awful in my ear while I tried to pretend I wasn’t there?

That they pissed on me and laughed as if it was the funniest thing the civilization had ever witnessed?

That I stood there and let it happen because fighting back would’ve made it worse?

It would’ve sounded like nothing.

And that’s exactly what Rohan is saying it was.

Aryan tilts his head, frowning slightly. “You are quiet.”

I swallow, willing my voice to work. I need to get out of here.

I reach into my pocket, fingers curling around my phone. My knuckles feel stiff, the cold making my grip awkward. I don’t even know what I’m planning to do—call someone? Text Raj? Just hold onto something real?

I don’t get the chance to decide.

Rohan notices. His eyes flick down to my hand. “Oh, right.” His voice is lighter now, like he just remembered something. “That video’s still out there, isn’t it?”

My fingers tighten around the phone.

He doesn’t say it with malice. That’s the worst part.

He says it like he’s reminding me.

Like it’s just a fact.

Aryan glances at him. Rohan shrugs. “Some copies always stick around.”

I feel sick.

“Relax,” Rohan says, laughing like we’re actually friends. “I mean, we wouldn’t wanna send it anywhere. That’d be fucked up.”

The words should be reassuring.

They’re not.

Because he follows it with, “But, you know. It’s always good to stay in touch. You should save my number.”

I can’t breathe.

He pulls out his own phone, unlocking it with a swipe. “Here, man. Give me yours.”

I don’t move.

His eyebrows raise, and for the first time, his voice loses some of its lightness. “Dude. You think we’re gonna steal your phone?”

Aryan chuckles. “Damn, Sharma. We’re not criminals.”

No.

They’re not.

They’re just normal guys. Guys who played football. Guys who went to parties. Guys who walked through school like they owned it.

Guys who could hurt someone with a video clip in their hands.

My fingers feel numb as I pass him my phone.

I don’t remember saving his number. I don’t remember anything except standing there, heart hammering against my ribs, like I’m seventeen again and trapped in that fucking bathroom.

Aryan sighs, stretching his arms. “Well, guess we’ll see you around.”

Rohan tosses my phone back, easy, like he never even thought about keeping it. Like this whole thing was just casual.

Like I’m the only one who actually remembers what happened.

The bike engine rumbles back to life. They drive off.

And I? I stay frozen.

The rain keeps falling. The world keeps moving. But I’m still back there.

***

The rain has stopped.

The streets are slick, water pooling in uneven dips in the pavement, reflecting the glow of streetlights in distorted halos. My feet move without thought, my body pulling itself forward like it remembers the way home even when I don’t.

I don’t feel my fingers anymore. I don’t feel my face. Just the ache in my ribs from breathing too hard for too long.

The house is warm when I step inside. Too warm. Stuffy. The scent of dinner lingers in the air—spices, something fried. The TV hums low from the living room. My parents are still awake.

I toe off my shoes, drop my bag by the chair. Everything is muscle memory.

Shoes off. Fingers dragging through damp hair.

Exhale.

I should go straight to my room. I don’t.

Mistake.

Mom glances up first. She’s curled on the sofa, a blanket draped over her legs, her face lit in flashes by the TV screen. “You’re late.”

Her voice isn’t sharp, but it’s not casual, either.

I swallow. Ignore the dryness in my throat. “Yeah.”

Dad shifts beside her, barely looking up. “What took you so long?”

“I—” My voice dies before it forms. Nothing. Everything.

Mom sits up straighter, something in her posture shifting. “Dev.”

I turn away, heading for the hallway. “I don’t wanna talk.”

“Dev,” she continues, tone light, careful. “are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. Too fast.

Mom sighs, softer now. “You know, you can tell me—”

“I said not now.”

The words snap out, sharp and sudden, like a rubber band stretched too far.

The silence afterward is louder than the TV.

I don’t turn, but I feel it. The shift. The way my mother stills.

Dad looks up this time. “Watch your tone.”

I know. I know.

I should stop. I should breathe. I should leave before I make this worse.

But I can’t.

Because they don’t get it.

Because they’re standing in a normal house, in a normal night, in a normal world—while I’m still stuck in a fucking nightmare.

“Just leave it,” I say, moving faster toward my room.

Mom stands now, pushing the blanket off her lap. “Dev, talk to me. Please.”

She reaches out—not to grab me, just to touch, just to understand.

I flinch like she’s gonna hurt me.

It’s barely there. A twitch in my shoulders, a step back. But she sees it.

And in the space of a second, her whole face changes.

I hate that I did that.

I hate that she noticed.

I hate that she looks at me like that now—like she wants to pull me into a hug and doesn’t know if she should.

Dad stands too. “What’s going on?”

I shake my head. It’s too much.

“I said leave it,” I snap, the words cutting through the room like glass.

And then I run. Past them, past their voices, past the warmth of the house that should feel safe but doesn’t.

I slam the door shut behind me. Press my back against it.

And breathe.

Too hard. Too shallow. Too loud.

Outside, the world moves on.

Inside, my parents are probably looking at each other now, confused, hurt, wondering what the hell just happened.

But here? It’s quiet. too quiet.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

I should change out of these clothes. I should dry my hair. I should—

I should stop thinking. But my brain won’t listen.

“Didn’t think we’d see you again, man.”

Man. Like we’re old classmates. Like we shared football practice and cafeteria tables and memories that don’t wake me up at night.

I exhale sharply, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes. Why can’t life just be simple?

Why can’t I just have a normal day?

Normal people go home, eat dinner, complain about homework, sleep without seeing faces they never want to see again. Normal people don’t have to wonder if a year is long enough for people to forget about a video that never should’ve existed.

Normal people don’t have to wonder how many times their name has been typed into a search bar.

I don’t even realize my hands are shaking until I look down.

I press them against my thighs. Hard. Hold them still.

Okay.

Breath.

Everything is okay.

It’s okay.

It has to be okay.

Because what else can it be?

If I say it enough times, maybe it’ll turn true. Maybe the words will sink into my skin, crawl into my bloodstream, force my heart to beat in time with them.

But—

Okay would be if Amit’s arms could pull me out of this darkness. If they could break through the static in my head, through the weight in my chest, through the thick, suffocating black of this night and wrap around me like they used to. Like they still belong there. Like he’s still mine to run to.

If he whispered “I got you” against my hair, voice low, steady, certain—like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like I was someone worth having. Worth saving.

If I could step out of this body, out of this night, out of myself.

If I could rewind. Undo. Unbecome.

The night of the school festival, maybe. When Amit was still laughing at me for tripping on my own shoelaces, still throwing an arm over my shoulder like it was instinct. When I still believed that would never change.

Okay would be if I hadn’t let go, if I wasn’t this.

This skin. This mind. This body that still remembers hands that don’t belong to Amit.

My fingers twitch toward my phone.

I don’t know why I do it—why I even let myself think about it. But before I can stop myself, before I can remind myself that it’s pointless, I’m already typing his name.

Amit.

The contact is still there. The number, still saved.

For a second, I just stare at it. At the familiar name. At something that once meant safety, laughter, someone who always answered.

And then I press call.

I imagine his voice.

“Hey, Sharma. You lost again?”

That stupid smile in his tone.

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

A hollow, mechanical voice. Distant. Final.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

I just sit there, phone still pressed to my ear, like if I stay still long enough, the line will clear. Like if I just wait, Amit will pick up.

Like if I just believe hard enough, he’ll still be here.

But he’s not.

I exhale slowly, pressing the phone to my forehead. The cold screen burns against my skin.

He’s gone, Dev.

He’s gone.

The weight of it sinks into my ribs, curling into something small and ugly. The kind of grief that isn’t loud, isn’t dramatic—just quietly endless. A dull ache that never stops.

Then—my phone buzzes.

Amit?

My hand moves before I can think.

I look down.

Raj.

Ofcourse Raj.

Not Amit.

I stare at the screen, heart still caught somewhere between the past and the present.

I should pick up.

But what am I supposed to say?

Raj would ask where I went, why I left, if I’m okay.

And what would I tell him? That I’m drowning? That I don’t know how to be anymore?

The screen dims, then lights up again.

Another buzz.

A message.

“You alive, Sharma?”

Part of me wants to answer.

Part of me wants to say: save me.

But I don’t want to be saved right now.

I just want it to stop hurting

I type out a response. “Yeah.”

I don’t send it.

Backspace.

Lock the phone.

Let it buzz again.

“Sharma?”

I don’t answer.

What am I supposed to answer? To tell?

I don’t have that in me right now.

To give lies to his “how are you doing, Sharma.”

I can’t say I’m okay yet.

Because tonight I’m not. But tomorrow I’ll have to be again

Because okay is a reflex. A mask I can slip on without thinking.

Okay is the lie you tell so often, even you start to believe it.

Okay is knowing that if I fall apart, no one will be there to put me back together.

Okay is a decision. A habit so deeply ingrained that even when I want to break, my body doesn’t let me.

Okay is what I have to be.

Because if I stop being okay—I don’t know what else I will become.

And I don’t have the courage to know that.

Not tonight.