Chapter 41

The auditorium is a mess of half-finished props, wires snaking across the floor, and people running around pretending they know what they’re doing.

And somehow, I’ve been roped into helping.

I don’t know when it happened, but at some point, someone shoved a roll of tape into my hands, and now I’m fixing things. Securing a fraying piece of fabric, adjusting the backdrop so it doesn’t collapse mid-scene, handing over tools like I know what I’m doing.

It’s… not terrible.

“Sharma, hold this,” someone calls, tossing me a prop dagger. I catch it just before it smacks me in the face.

“Why do we even need a dagger?” I ask, flipping it in my hand.

“Symbolism,” Jasir sighs next to me.

“She just likes blood,” I mutter, setting it down, glancing at Arya.

Up on stage, Arya and Asim are already mid-scene.

Arya stands below the stage with the script in one hand, pencil tucked behind her ear. Her patience is hanging by a thread.

“Asim,” she calls, sharp. “Emotion. You’re confessing love, not reading a weather report.”

Asim leans against the fake balcony railing like he’s got nowhere better to be.

“I am emotional,” he says. “You just refuse to recognize my range.”

“Your range,” Arya says, “currently goes from bored to slightly more bored.”

A couple people in the auditorium snort.

Asim pushes off the railing and tries again, delivering the line with exaggerated intensity.

“My heart—” he pauses dramatically, hand over chest “—belongs to you.”

Arya pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Why,” she asks slowly, “do you sound like a villain monologuing before pushing someone off a cliff?”

“I’m adding depth.”

“You’re adding court-ordered therapy.”

He grins down at her.

“You’re just mad because I’m stealing the scene.”

“You’re stealing oxygen, trying giving something good performance back,” Arya snaps.

He tilts his head, studying her.

“Interesting. You weren’t this tense during the blocking rehearsal yesterday.”

“I was exactly this tense.”

“No,” he says lightly. “Yesterday you only threatened to replace me once.”

A faint pink creeps up Arya’s neck.

He laughs under his breath like he won and resets for the line.

Then—

“Hey, guys—sorry to interrupt…”

Priya’s voice floats across the auditorium.

And the air shifts.

I don’t even look at her.

Arya does.

And that’s the problem.

She steps forward with her perfect posture, her clipboard, her smile. That helpful tone she always wraps like gift paper around criticism.

“I was just thinking,” she says, all lightness and leadership, “maybe if Asim stood slightly left of the tree prop, it’d give Arya a cleaner visual from the front. Just an idea. I’m pretty sure—Arya must have thought about that too.”

Arya doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

But I see her fingers twitch around her script.

I know that twitch. That’s the Arya equivalent of a panic attack.

This is her play. Her script.

And now it looks like she’s being corrected in front of everyone by the girl who always sounds like she’s already in charge.

And I don’t even think. I just move.

“Priya!” I call, louder than I mean to.

She turns, blinking. “Yeah?”

I grab the nearest prop—some front drape or curtain that still hasn’t been hung properly—and wave it like it’s been waiting for her specifically.

“This piece keeps falling out of frame, and you’re the only one not covered in chaos. Can you hold it while I check the spotlight angle?”

She hesitates. Her gaze flicks from me to Arya, calculating something I don’t have time for.

Then she smiles. “Sure.”

She steps toward the scaffolding. I guide her there quickly. My hands are too tight. My jaw’s locked. I hate how fast I’m breathing.

“Just hold it here—perfect. And lean in slightly so I can see the angle.”

She does exactly that.

What I don’t realize until a second too late—

is that her white blouse brushes directly against the open bench of stage paint. Deep violet. Undiluted.

She freezes.

Looks down.

Then up.

Her mouth parts. I wait for it—the shriek, the lecture, the performative grace.

But she just says, tightly:

“…It’s fine.”

“It’s a bold color,” I offer. Too quiet. Too flat. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.

She stares at me. Long. Hard.

Then walks off with fast, clipped steps.

I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since she opened her mouth.

Beside me, Arya appears like a shadow, eyes wide.

“You did that on purpose?” she asks, half-whisper, half-awe.

“I was trying to keep her away from you,” I say. “Didn’t think it’d go that far.”

Her gaze flicks to the paint, then to where Priya vanished.

She huffs a laugh. “You’re a menace.”

“No,” I say, quieter. “I’m just tired of watching people make you feel small.”

She looks at me. Really looks.

Then nods. Just once.

We don’t say anything else. We don’t need to.

***

The thing about working with the props team is that no one actually knows what they’re doing. Everyone’s just making things up as they go, which, honestly, is the best part.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor while Aditya and Jasir wrestle with a giant foam halo that refuses to stay attached to the fake pillar.

It tilts. Slowly. Dramatically.

Then drops.

Aditya catches it just before it hits the ground and glares at the pillar like it personally insulted his family.

“I swear,” he mutters, adjusting the tape again, “if this thing falls during the play, I’m leaving. I’m walking straight out of the auditorium.”

Jasir leans against the stage, watching like it’s live entertainment.

“You can’t leave,” he says calmly. “You’re the one who insisted you could ‘fix the props situation.'”

Aditya scoffs. “Yeah, because the props situation was you hot-gluing feathers to cardboard and calling it ‘angelic.'”

“They were aesthetic feathers.”

“They were from someone’s broken pen.”

The halo tilts again.

All three of us watch it in silence.

It drops.

Aditya catches it again with a groan.

“See?” Jasir says immediately. “That’s a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

“That this entire production is cursed.”

I reach over and hand Aditya another strip of tape.

He takes it without looking at me.

“Thank you,” he says flatly.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

Jasir squints at me suddenly.

“You’re weirdly calm about this whole thing.”

I shrug. “I’m not the one fighting with a halo.”

Aditya finally gives up and slides down to sit on the floor beside me, breathing out like the pillar personally exhausted him.

“I hate this play,” he announces.

“You loved it yesterday,” Jasir reminds him.

“That was before Arya made us—”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

Arya’s voice rips through the auditorium like the wrath of an ancient god.

We all freeze. A chair scrapes against the floor. Something clatters. Then—

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

The entire auditorium stills. Every single head turns toward the stage.

Arya stands in the center, gripping a swath of fabric like it personally insulted her ancestors. Next to her, Raj—hands in his pockets, looking vaguely amused, like he finds her rage entertaining.

From the props section, I already know this is going to be my problem.

Jasir mutters, “Uh-oh.”

We get up, making our way toward the inevitable disaster.

Arya is glowering at Raj like he personally sat down and weaved the fabric himself just to ruin her life. “What part of soft, ethereal movement made you think of this?” She shakes the fabric violently.

Raj raises an eyebrow. “It’s fabric.”

Arya makes an offended noise. “Oh, thank you, Raj. I thought it was cement. God, what would I do without your expert analysis?”

Raj shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

Behind me, Aditya snickers. Jasir mutters something.

I step forward, eyeing the material in her hands. Too stiff. Too structured. It won’t flow the way she wants. I reach out, running my fingers over it, and I immediately know what it is.

“Tussar silk,” I murmur. “We don’t need this. We need chiffon or at least something with a softer drape.”

Arya’s head snaps toward me. “Wait—you know this shit?”

I blink. “Uh. Yeah?” I shrug, glancing down at the material again. “My grandmother used to work with fabric. Tailoring, embroidery. She used to make all sorts of stuff.”

Arya squints at me like I’m some kind of rare artifact.

Raj, however, just tilts his head slightly, watching me with an unreadable expression.

“So you’re saying we need to replace all of it?” Arya asks.

I nod. “Yeah, unless you want your ‘ethereal movement’ to look like it was made out of cardboard.”

Arya, snapping back into director mode, claps her hands once. “Okay. Amazing. Fantastic. Dev, congratulations, you’re officially my fabric consultant. Raj—” She turns to him with murder in her eyes. “You’re taking him with you to return this disaster and buying the right one.”

Raj blinks. “I’m what?”

“Taking Dev. Buying fabric. Correcting your crimes.” Arya waves a hand. “You’re the one who got this mess. You fix it.”

Raj looks at me. I look at Raj.

The air between us tightens—an invisible pull neither of us are acknowledging.

Then Raj exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he mutters, eyes flicking back to Arya. “But if I crash this car on purpose, just know it’s your fault.”

Arya beams. “Noted! I’ll send sympathy flowers to the emergency room. Now go. Before I set this place on fire.”

I glance at Raj. He glances back.

We both know there’s no way out of this.

So we go. The school is chaos.

Not the productive kind. The “fest is in a week, so let’s pretend we’re working while actually slacking off” kind.

The entire hallway is a minefield of half-built stalls, tangled extension cords, and people loudly arguing over stupid things. Near the courtyard, a group is trying—and failing—to set up a game booth, except their entire stall looks one push away from collapse. Somewhere else, two guys are testing out a “How Fast Can You Chug Soda” challenge, which I’m 100% sure no teacher approved.

And in the middle of it all?

Raj and I. Walking through the madness. Holding bags of terrible fabric. In complete, soul-crushing silence.

It’s weird.

Raj is tense.

Not in an obvious, dramatic way. He isn’t glaring at me or making a big deal out of walking beside me. But I can see it in the way he moves.

The muscle in his jaw keeps ticking. His grip on the bag handles is too tight. His shoulders? Coiled, like he’s holding something back.

I clear my throat. “So, um—” I gesture toward the barely-standing stall in the courtyard. “Guess the fair’s gonna be… interesting.”

Raj nods.

A single, short, bare-minimum nod.

I try again. “Think anyone’s actually doing work, or are we just embracing the chaos?”

Raj shrugs.

I risk another glance at him. His fingers flex against the bag strap. His jaw tenses again.

This is so bad.

“Listen, if you want to just dump me on the side of the road instead of taking me to the shop, I totally understand. This is your chance.”

Raj doesn’t even glance at me. “If I did that, Arya would kill me.”

“Fair point. But at least you’d be free from this nightmare fabric mission.”

He shrugs.

He doesn’t look at me.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just keeps walking.

***

Raj’s car moves steadily through the evening traffic, the engine barely making a sound.

The inside of the car smells faintly like new leather and something clean. No clutter. No wrappers. Not even dust on the dashboard.

I shift in the passenger seat, the fabric bag Arya shoved at me crinkling in my lap.

Raj’s hands stay fixed on the steering wheel. Ten and two. Like he’s taking a driving test.

Neither of us speaks.

The silence stretches long enough that it starts pressing against my ribs.

“So,” I say finally.

Raj doesn’t react.

I glance around the car. “Do you clean this every day, or is this just how you live?”

Nothing.

A second passes.

Then, without looking at me, he says, “I like things organized.”

His voice is calm. Neutral. Like he’s answering a question in class.

I nod slowly.

“Right. Of course.”

The signal light clicks as he changes lanes.

I rest my elbow against the door, watching the road blur past.

“You know,” I say after a moment, “most people at least pretend to talk when they’re stuck in a car with someone.”

No answer.

Raj’s jaw tightens slightly. That’s it.

I press my lips together, then exhale through my nose.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Silent treatment. Got it.”

Traffic slows ahead of us. Raj eases off the accelerator.

I glance at him.

He still hasn’t looked at me once.

Something uncomfortable settles in my chest.

“You could at least look at me,” I mumble quietly.

The words come out before I can stop them.

Raj’s fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

For a second, I think he might say something.

He doesn’t.

He just keeps his eyes on the road.

I drop my gaze to the bag in my lap, tracing the edge of the fabric with my thumb.

The quiet stretches again.

This time heavier.

After a moment, I lean forward and reach toward the radio.

Before I can touch it, Raj’s hand moves.

He doesn’t hit me. Just catches my wrist and moves it away from the console.

The contact lasts barely a second.

Then he lets go.

“Please don’t,” he says.

His voice is low. Controlled.

Not angry.

Worse.

Careful.

I stare at my hand for a moment before pulling it back into my lap.

“Right,” I say.

Raj exhales slowly through his nose.

Neither of us speaks after that.

Outside, the town blurs past—faded shop signs, headlights smeared against the glass, the occasional honk in the distance. The car hums smoothly over the road, but inside, it feels like something is cracking open.

I don’t know why this is hitting me like this.

I wasn’t expecting this—him, like this.

Raj not looking at me.

Raj not teasing me.

Raj not taking my name like it’s the sweetest sound in the world.

And maybe it shouldn’t bother me this much. Maybe I should just let it go, let him have this, let him be bitter and distant and cold.

But it does bother me.

Because it feels like something is missing, broken, lost.

And I don’t know why I care.

I don’t say anything after that.

Neither does he.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and unmovable, and I let it.

The car stops, but Raj doesn’t move.

For a second, we just sit there, the air between us too thick, too sharp, too filled with everything we aren’t saying.

He doesn’t turn towards me. Not once.

I could say something. Break the silence. Maybe make a joke. Maybe remind him that we’ve done this before—that we’ve walked into a hundred different places like this, side by side, cracking comments, filling the space with noise.

Or maybe I could tell him I’m sorry.

I could say I miss him.

But I don’t think he’d believe either.

Raj steps out like he can’t get away fast enough.

I follow, slamming my door shut just a little louder than necessary—

as if that could mean anything at all.