Chapter 48

I haven’t moved. Not really.

The room’s gone dark on its own, like even the light gave up trying. Outside, I can tell it’s night, shadows thicker, the air colder but I never got up to check. I didn’t eat. Didn’t change. The only thing I’ve done is breathe, and even that feels like a mistake.

I’m lying on my side, eyes open, staring at nothing. Just the jagged line where the wall meets the floor.

The glass is still there. Scattered across the floor like frozen lightning. Shards of my reflection I couldn’t look at anymore.

My hand twitches. It wants to reach for my phone.

Wants to check.

Wants to know-did Raj text me? Did he change his mind? Did he say anything? Anything at all?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

No.

No.

You’re not allowed to want that.

The thought claws its way back up anyway; what if he did? What if he did message me and I’m just sitting here, letting it rot?

My fingers flex. My palm burns.

Then nails dig in. Hard.

Just enough to hurt. Just enough to silence the part of me that still hopes.

I slap the edge of the mattress. Once. Twice.

It doesn’t help. Because I still want him.

I still want Raj. God, I really want him.. I want to hold him, shake him and yell at him-

Tell him that he’s not the only one fighting for it. He’s not the only wanting it. I equally want him.

And I hate myself for it.

You don’t get to want something kind after everything you’ve done.

Knock.

It’s soft. Hesitant.

I stay still. Pretend I didn’t hear it.

Another knock. Slightly louder this time.

Then the door creaks open.

I don’t look.

Footsteps. Careful. Slow. Then-stopped.

Silence.

“Dev?”

My father’s voice.

I close my eyes harder.

“I-uh-I knocked,” he says, awkward, like I’m a stranger in his house. “I didn’t think you’d be asleep.”

I don’t respond.

He steps inside anyway. I hear the crunch of broken glass under his shoe. He stops again. Probably looking around. Seeing the mess. The cracked mirror. The clothes on the floor. Me, curled in bed like a ghost in my own skin.

“Dev,” he says, gentler now. “Talk to me.”

I inhale sharply. “Why?”

He blinks. I don’t have to look at him to know it. I feel it. That pause. That small hurt he’s not sure he’s allowed to show.

“Because I’m here,” he says.

I sit up slowly, the ache in my back sharp and familiar. I look at him now. Really look.

And something inside me snaps.

“You’re here now?”

He straightens, caught off guard. “I know I wasn’t always-“

“No,” I cut in, voice rising. “You weren’t. You weren’t there, Dad.” My throat burns. “You were never there when I needed you. You were always too tired. Too busy. Too distracted. And now-now, you want to play the concerned father?”

His mouth opens, but I don’t let him speak.

I’m not done.

“You don’t get to show up now and act like I’m something you can fix.” My voice cracks. “I’m not your project. I’m not some delayed responsibility you can patch up with warm words and late-night check-ins.”

“Dev-“

“Leave me alone.”

I’m crying now. Angry, pathetic, shaking tears that I try to blink away and only make it worse.

“Please,” I whisper. “Just…go.”

He stands there, still as stone, and for a second I think he might try again.

But then he nods. Swallows.

And leaves.

The door clicks shut.

And I’m alone.

Again.

***

I don’t remember falling asleep. I just remember crying.

And crying again.

And then at some point, I think I stopped; either because I ran out of tears or because my body gave out before my brain did.

Morning comes like a slap.

Not a gentle shift in light or warmth. Just this dull, gray weight pressing into my skull. My head feels packed with cement. My jaw is clenched so tight it aches down to my neck. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to rot.

I don’t want to move.

I don’t want to stay.

I don’t want to exist in this room, or in this body, or in this day.

My phone buzzes against the floor near my bed. I flinch at the sound.

Arya.

Of course.

I don’t pick up.

She’s probably calling about the play-rehearsals, cues, costumes, chaos. I know her. She’s trying to keep it all moving because someone has to. Because I’m clearly not.

But I’m too tired. Too empty. I feel like I’m made of dust and skin and nothing else..

My eyes are half-lidded, dry. My mouth tastes like nothing. Like dust. I think I’m awake, but it’s hard to tell because nothing feels different. The ceiling is the same off-white patchwork of shadows and faint cracks it’s always been. I stare at it until it blurs.

I don’t move. Not because I’m making a choice, but because there’s nothing in me to make one.

I close my eyes again. Sleep swallows me like it’s doing me a favor.

***

I don’t know what wakes me.

Maybe the sound of the broom. The soft scrape against the floor. Maybe the slight shift of air when the window opens. Or maybe it’s just that the room’s changed temperature-like the day moved on without me and didn’t care if I kept up.

I blink slowly. The light is bright. Too bright. It’s almost noon. I know that without checking the clock. The sun is stretching across the floor like it’s showing off.

My mom is on her knees sweeping up the broken glass.

She doesn’t say anything when she notices I’m awake. Just glances up, gives a soft “Hey,” like we’re passing in a hallway.

I don’t respond. Just stare at her.

She goes back to cleaning like this is normal. Like me sleeping in my own wreckage is a Tuesday.

My shirt’s still half on the chair, half on the floor. There’s a pair of socks that didn’t even make it into the corner. The glass crunches slightly under her hand as she lifts a chunk and folds it into the dustpan.

“You’re not gonna ask?” I say. My voice is rough. Unused.

She doesn’t look at me. “Are you gonna tell?”

I blink.

She keeps cleaning.

I roll onto my side. My body feels like it’s been scraped from the inside out. I think there’s a dull ache in my wrist from when I hit the wall last night. I can’t tell if it’s real or if I’m just still in it, like my body never caught up to what happened.

She folds my jeans. Puts them on the chair. Picks up the shirt. Straightens the corner of my desk like that’s going to make a difference.

“Come eat something,” she says, like we’re done with that conversation. Like we’re ever going to have it.

“I’m not hungry,” I mutter into the pillow.

“I didn’t ask.”

I hear her feet pad across the room, the soft thud of her heel against the edge of the bedframe.

Then hands. Warm, familiar, no-nonsense hands pulling the blanket off me. I grip it tighter.

“Mom, don’t-“

“Dev,” she says.

Flat. Final.

I let go.

She pulls me up like I’m five again and faking sick to skip school. But I’m not five. I’m seventeen and I think my chest still smells like someone else’s cologne and there’s dried blood on the inside of my lip from biting it too hard last night.

I don’t have the energy to fight. Not really.

She half-drags me down the stairs, my socks sliding on the wood. I don’t even care that I look like a disaster. I am one.

The kitchen smells like toast. I sit down because she pushes me into the chair, not because I want to.

The plate hits the table.

“Eat.”

I stare at it. Bread. Butter. Jam. Like that’s going to fix anything.

She doesn’t sit across from me. Just leans against the counter and watches. Not hovering. Just… waiting.

I tear the toast in half. My hands shake a little.

I think about telling her everything. Right there, with the jam knife still in her hand. I think about saying, “I kissed a boy and then remembered another and then broke into pieces and I think I might not ever know how to be okay again.”

But I just chew. Swallow.

I’m still staring at the half-eaten toast when she starts talking to the window.

“I really need to clean this kitchen before Diwali,” she mutters, like she’s reminding herself and not me. “The cabinets are disgusting. There’s this layer of grease that laughs in my face every time I look at it.”

I say nothing.

She opens the spice drawer. Closes it. Opens it again. Shakes her head.

“And those balcony plants?” she keeps going. “Some kind of bugs in the soil. White ones. I don’t even want to Google what they are. Just know they looked bad.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. Just keeps her back to me and talks like we’re two people in the same movie but not the same scene.

“We need fertilizer. Bleach. New scrubbers. And maybe…” She exhales, soft, quiet. “Maybe we just need to get out of this house for a while.”

She finally turns.

“Come with me to the supermarket,” she says. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s air.

I blink. “I really don’t want to.”

She nods. Once. Like she expected it. Like it still lands heavy.

Then, quietly, she walks over. No big speech. No stern parent energy. Just her-standing beside me in that stupid kurti with the stretched neckline and damp sleeves, like she’s been doing this all morning and I only just noticed.

She sits next to me, not looking directly. Elbows on the table. Hands clasped like she’s praying for patience she shouldn’t have to keep praying for.

And then, without warning, she turns and puts a hand on my face. Just cups it-gently. Thumb against my cheekbone. Like she’s grounding me. Or checking if I’m still real.

“We’ve done this before, Dev,” she says, and her voice cracks just a little. “Haven’t we?”

I don’t move. But something in my chest clenches. Hard.

Her eyes search mine, soft but not pitying. She doesn’t do pity. She does reality with warmth at the edges.

“You don’t have to say anything, sweetie,” she says. “I won’t ask. I’m not… I’m not going to pull it out of you.”

She looks down for a second. Her hand’s still on my face.

“But you can’t keep going like this. You’ve cried enough over the same thing. You’ve bled every version of this story. Whatever it is now-whatever it still is-you don’t have to carry it like it’s fresh.”

Her voice is tired. Not of me. Just… of watching me unravel in the same way over and over.

And that’s what does it.

Not the words. Just the way she says it. Like she sees it-sees me-without needing to know what broke me this time.

And I just-fold.

I press my face into her shoulder. Arms don’t even work right. I’m not hugging her. I’m just holding on. Like if I let go I’ll splinter again.

Her chin rests lightly against my hair. For a moment the kitchen is quiet except for my breathing, uneven and embarrassing and loud in my own ears.

Her thumb moves once along my cheek. Slow. Absentminded. The way you calm a child after a nightmare.

Then she speaks.

Very softly.

“Whatever happened, Dev… whatever happens,” she murmurs, voice warm and tired all at once, “I’m still here.”

I feel her breath against my temple.

“You’re not alone in this. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not even when you think you are.”

My fingers clutch at the fabric of her kurti without meaning to. The cotton twists in my hand.

She lets out the faintest sigh and presses her cheek briefly against the top of my head.

She continues quietly. “I promise, I’m not here to interrogate you. But you have to promise me, you won’t try disappear on me either.”

Her hand moves to the back of my neck, warm and grounding.

“You’re my kid,” she says simply. “Which means if something breaks you, it doesn’t only belong to you anymore.”

Another small pause.

Then, a gentler tone slips in.

“So here’s the deal,” she whispers. “You breathe for a bit. You cry if you need to. And when you’re done… we go buy fertilizer and bleach like two extremely normal people.”

I huff a weak, broken laugh into her shoulder.

She squeezes me once.

“And Dev,” she adds quietly, almost like an afterthought.

“I love you. Today. Tomorrow. Forever.”