Chapter 39

Breakfast is silent.

Not the comfortable kind-the kind where Mom hums under her breath, where the TV murmurs in the background, or where Dad flips through the newspaper like the world isn’t falling apart.

No. This is something else.

This is a silence that has weight. The kind that happens when people know something is wrong but don’t know if they should say it out loud.

Mom glances at me. Not directly. Sideways, cautious. Like looking at me too closely will set something off.

I don’t react. I don’t even acknowledge it.

I eat because I have to. Because pushing the food away would mean admitting something is wrong.

And if I do that, they’ll ask.

And if they ask, I’ll have to answer.

And I can’t.

Not today.

Dad doesn’t speak either. He flips a page in the newspaper, but he’s not reading it. Not really.

No one asks why I didn’t come out for dinner last night, why my door was locked.

And I know they’re scared of the answer.

The car ride is the same.

Quiet. Heavy. Like the leftover rain from last night seeped into the air and decided to stay.

I don’t check my phone.

I don’t look at Dad.

I don’t even think.

Because thinking requires energy.

I just sit there, breathing in the smell of stale air and old leather, waiting for the ride to end.

***

The classroom is the same.

The same humming fluorescent lights. The same chipped desks, worn smooth by restless hands. The same half-broken fan overhead, tilting slightly as it creaks, rattling like it’s barely holding on.

Like me.

I sit down. Open my book. Force myself to exist.

I don’t check what page I landed on. I don’t even see the words.

Then I feel it.

Raj.

His presence locks onto me the second I enter, like I’ve thrown something off-kilter just by being here. Like he was waiting for me to show up.

“Sharma.”

His voice is easy, like it always is. But there’s something else. Something underneath.

A test.

I don’t answer. I turn a page.

He shifts beside me, and I know he’s watching. I don’t need to look to confirm it. He always watches too closely.

“You get my call last night?”

The words land like a weight.

My fingers press into my pen. I focus on the paper. Keep my breathing even. Keep my body still.

Raj exhales sharply, like he’s trying to be patient. Like my silence is pulling something taut inside him.

“Dev.”

There it is. My name, said in that way only Raj says it. Like it means something. Like it should pull me out of wherever the fuck I am right now.

But I can’t. There’s nothing left to pull.

I keep flipping pages. I don’t even know what I’m looking at anymore.

Under the desk, Raj’s knee bumps mine. It’s casual. Accidental, maybe. But it takes everything in me not to move.

“So we’re doing this?” Raj’s voice shifts, lower, closer, cutting through me. The teasing is gone—there’s something else there. Something raw and sharp. “Did I piss you off again?”

I feel my jaw lock, the pressure building tight behind my teeth. I should say something, make a joke, throw him off. Anything to keep the weight of his attention off me.

But my chest is heavy. My ribs feel too tight.

And I spent last night pressing my hands into my chest just to make sure I was still here, still real, still something more than a collection of bruises and frayed edges.

“Come on, Sharma,” Raj’s voice drops, quieter, too careful. “What is it? Just say it.”

And that—that—is the last thing I can take. The line snaps. The heat rushes up, burning my throat, tightening my chest.

I slam the book shut before I even realize I’ve done it.

“For fuck’s sake, Raj,” I snap. My voice is a crack, a wound torn open. “Not everything is about you. Leave me fucking alone.”

Silence.

Instant absolute silence.

The weight of too many eyes turning toward me at once.

Fuck. I was too loud.

My pulse hammers in my ears, too fast, too loud. My eyes flick to Raj before I can stop myself.

He’s still. So still.

His expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t crack. Just watches me with something I can’t read—something sharp and cut open. Something that makes my chest twist in ways I can’t control.

I see it—the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something behind his eyes.

Hurt.

I have hurt him.

I try to swallow, but my throat is locked. My fingers dig into the edge of the desk, grounding, desperate. I should apologize, should say something, should fix it—

But Arya’s voice cuts through, loud and sharp and perfectly timed.

“Mom, dad, are you guys divorcing?”

The classroom bursts open with laughter, chatter, shifting chairs. The spell is broken. The weight dissipates, and yet it’s still here, pressing under my ribs.

I glance at Raj, but he’s already turned away. Shoulders tense, jaw locked. Not looking at me.

I did that. I did that.

The room moves on, like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just crack open in front of everyone.

But Raj doesn’t look at me. Not once.

I don’t remember when the room emptied.

When the class moved to the hall.

When the projector started humming.

When Aman handed me the cue cards before staring at me for a second too long like he saw something into my eyes but decided to ignore it.

I don’t remember when I followed him and Ishan to the board.

I just remember standing there.

The lights too bright.

The air too thin.

My voice sounding like someone else’s.

Slides changing. People watching. My mouth moving.

Like I rehearsed this in another life.

I don’t remember what I said.

Only that I said it.

Because I had to. Because it was expected.

And that’s what I do, right?

I perform. I endure. I survive.

Even when I don’t feel alive.

***

If hell had a soundtrack, it would be the mix of hot glue guns, folding chairs scraping the floor, and Priya’s voice saying, “Let’s try to keep things positive, yeah?”

We’re less than five hours into play prep, and I already want to throw myself off the auditorium stage scaffolding. Arya’s pacing near the backdrop boards, trying not to combust while Priya calmly rewrites the blocking she spent two weeks obsessing over.

“Shouldn’t the angel descend from stage left? It’s more visually balanced,” Priya says with that gentle, yoga-teacher smile. Her voice never rises. She doesn’t bark orders. She guides, suggests, inspires. And somehow, everyone listens to her like she’s Moses holding a glittery clipboard.

Arya’s jaw tightens, but she nods. Doesn’t argue. Not yet.

She adjusts her headphones and mutters something under her breath.

It’s her play. She’s the writer, the director, the mind behind the entire damn thing.

And Me? I’m in props.

By choice. But not mine. By Arya’s choice.

I’m sitting cross-legged in a pile of cardboard swords and fake ivy, stabbing a dull pair of scissors into a roll of duct tape and pretending I’m not dissociating.

I didn’t sleep last night. At all. Not with the memories clawing at the insides of my skull. Not with the image of Rohan’s face when he saw me in the hallway. Not with my body still remembering what it felt like to be seventeen and cornered and no one doing a thing about it.

And now Raj won’t even look at me.

He’s here. Of course he’s here. He’s part of the student council and this whole fest is his domain. But he walks through the auditorium like he doesn’t know me. Like we didn’t share a hallway. A car. A moment. Like I didn’t snap at him in class and call him out in front of twenty people—and even if I had a reason, he doesn’t know that.

So this is what it feels like—to be invisible to someone who used to look at you like you mattered.

He gives instructions to a volunteer standing five feet away from me. Doesn’t glance in my direction. Doesn’t acknowledge I exist. His voice is calm, clipped, like he’s reading from a rulebook. Like I’m a piece of backdrop scenery that didn’t pass quality check.

Arya plops down beside me without warning, snatches the scissors from my hand and starts slashing through a roll of gold ribbon like she’s plotting someone’s murder.

“You okay?” I ask, just to say something.

She doesn’t look up. “Priya’s voice makes me want to eat drywall.”

Fair.

Across the room, Priya’s leading a warm-up circle. Everyone’s beaming.

Arya tears the ribbon in half. “You?”

I don’t answer. She doesn’t push. We sit there. Me, numb and spiraling. Her, furious and shrinking.

***

The sun is bleeding out—spilling orange and pink across the sky, a slow, tired surrender. The air is cooler now, the kind of chill that settles under your skin when the day is dying. Most of the students are gone, their laughter and chatter fading echoes. The school feels emptied out, like it’s taken a breath and let it all go.

I catch sight of Raj.

Leaning against the fence post like he’s waiting for someone. One foot braced against the iron. Hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. The sky behind him is pale pink and bruised, like the day didn’t end cleanly.

He hasn’t seen me yet.

I could leave. I should. I tell myself that with every heavy step, but my feet keep moving anyway. I don’t know what I’m hoping for, but I know I can’t just walk past him. I can’t walk away, not when there’s still this hollow, aching, unfinished mess between us.

I walk toward him. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s habit.

Like I didn’t ignore his calls. Like I didn’t pretend not to see his texts. Like I didn’t snap at him in front of half the class like he was some arrogant parasite who dared to care about me.

He doesn’t look up.

I still stop next to him.

“Hey,” I say, too light, too casual. “You survived the glitter apocalypse.”

Raj’s eyes stay forward. “Yeah”

I force a laugh. It comes out thin. ” I think.

Arya’s… probably gonna stab Priya soon. Or herself.”

It sounds funnier in my head.

“Sure.”

I shift my weight. The silence between us is a void.

“I think the angel costume actually looks decent,” I say. “Which is tragic, considering I hot-glued my hand to it twice.”

Raj hums.

Just that.

No smile. No eye contact. No familiar quirk of his mouth like he’s holding back a joke.

I try again.

I don’t even know why I’m trying.

But I do.

Because if I stop talking, I’ll have to hear the silence between us.

“You, uh… You heading home?”

He nods.

I glance toward the parking lot, hoping, maybe, stupidly, that he’ll ask if I need a ride.

His car pulls up. His driver gets out, pops the back door open.

Raj straightens. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even do that thing where he half-smirks before walking off.

He just goes.

Past me.

Around me.

Like I’m air.

I watch him slide into the car and shut the door behind him.

Like this was always the plan.

The engine starts. The car pulls away. And I’m still standing there, blinking at the place where he just was.

I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until the taillights disappear around the corner and it slips out of me—shaky and useless.

The gate groans as I push through it. The street is mostly empty now. The wind picks up, brushing against my skin like it knows something I don’t.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

It’s just Raj

Just Raj who used to pass me stupid notes in class and smirk like it was a secret language.

Just Raj who sat on my bed like it was his. Who laughed with his whole mouth.

Just Raj who never asked me to explain anything—but always saw everything through his beautiful green eyes.

Just Raj who made me feel like I was safe. Like I was seen.

Just Raj who stayed.

And now walks past like I don’t even exist.

Not because he’s cruel.

But because maybe I was never worth staying for to begin with.

just Raj.

I dig my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, and I start walking.

I don’t look back.

Because I don’t think I could survive knowing someone decided to leave me.

Again.