Chapter 49

It’s been days.

I’ve lost count. Three? Four? I don’t know. I stopped keeping track after the second time Mom opened the curtains and called it “morning” like that meant anything.

I haven’t been to school since—well, since everything cracked open.

Raj kissed me.

I kissed him back.

Raj saying he’s done.

And then I remembered everything I’ve spent a year trying to forget.

So yeah. School’s been a no.

My parents have been… weirdly nice about it. Obviously. No questions. Just soft knocks, untouched meals, and that awkward, heavy silence they think I can’t hear through the walls. Like I’m made of glass. Like if they speak too loud, I’ll shatter on the tiles.

The tiptoeing is worse than the yelling.

Like I’m a dog that flinches at hands.

Arya’s called me about sixteen times in the last two days. I stopped answering after the fourth. She’s moved on to voicemails now—half-rants, half-threats, half-caring. Classic Arya math: 150% volume, 0% personal space.

She’s right, though. Eventually, I have to go back.

And that’s today.

I sit on the edge of my bed for too long. Just staring at the floor like it’s gonna hand me instructions. My uniform’s still where I left it two days ago—hanging over my chair, slightly crumpled, slightly mocking.

I pull it on anyway. It still fits, unfortunately.

My hair’s a mess. I splash water on it. It helps nothing.

I look at myself in the mirror for a second too long. There’s a crack running through the corner of the glass. I pretend it’s not symbolic.

I should be thinking about schoolwork. Teachers. People.

But all I can think about is him.

Raj.

His voice.

Like he’d finally stopped trying to solve me. Like the hope in his voice had burned out..

And he should be.

Because everything I touch, I break.

First Amit. Now Raj.

I get up.

My body protests every step; muscles stiff like stone, skin too tight, like even it’s sick of holding me together.

But I move anyway. Because I have to.

Because the only thing worse than going to school is staying here.

And I don’t know what the hell this day is going to be—

But it’s another one.

When I step out of my room and down the stairs, I hear it—

Hushed whispering.

Low, urgent, slicing through the stillness of the morning like a knife being sharpened.

“Do you think he’s—”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said—”

“Maybe we should just—”

And then—

Silence.

They see me.

Both of them; Mom and Dad; sitting at the table, trying too hard to look casual.

Too still. Too composed. Like actors caught off-script.

Mom’s got that tight smile plastered on like she’s trying not to cry and host a talk show at the same time.

Dad’s hands are clenched around his coffee cup like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

And both of them are looking at me like I’m something fragile.

Like I’ll break if they speak too loudly. Like I’m not here—I’m just a shadow of the son they used to know.

And it makes my blood boil.

I don’t know why.

I don’t know what it is about the pity in their eyes that makes me want to scream—

Maybe because I’m still standing.

Maybe because I’m not broken.

Not in a way they’d understand.

I grab the glass of juice in front of me, drink it in one go without sitting down.

“I’ll take the bus,” I mutter, voice low, clipped.

Mom opens her mouth like she’s going to say something.

Dad shifts in his chair.

“Dev—”

But I’m already out the door.

The walk to the bus stop is brisk. Post-rain cold air. Harsh wind.

I welcome it.

Let it slap me awake. Sting my cheeks.

I get on. Head down. Slide into the window seat.

And then—

Buzz.

Phone vibrates in my pocket.

I check the screen.

Rohan.

My stomach drops.

For a second the bus disappears. The cold. The windows. The people.

And I’m back there.

Back when Amit had already left.

Back when Vikram changed schools.

After that video circulated.

After the whispering stopped pretending to be whispering.

After the social math of the school solved itself in the simplest possible equation.

Everyone minus Dev.

At first it was just laughter.

Not even directed at me. Just around me. Like background noise that sharpened whenever I walked past.

Boys nudging each other.

Someone muttering something under their breath.

A word that kept floating through corridors like a bad smell.

“Faggot.”

The first time I heard it clearly I told myself I imagined it.

The tenth time, I knew I hadn’t.

They started sitting two benches away. Then three. Then none of them sat near me at all.

Lunch became a performance in pretending not to care that every table had quietly closed ranks.

I ate fast. Head down.

Always alone.

And once people notice you’re alone, something changes.

It’s like a switch flips.

The laughter gets louder.

Someone bumps into your shoulder a little too hard in the hallway.

Someone else slaps the back of your head when a teacher isn’t looking.

“Relax, bro.”

“Why are you so sensitive?”

“Did we hurt your feelings, princess?”

Then the names started sticking.

“Faggot.”

“Chhakka.”

“Meetha.”

Every corridor. Every staircase. Every stupid corner of that school felt like it had an audience waiting for me to walk through it.

I stopped looking up when I walked.

Stopped answering in class.

Stopped existing as much as I could.

But that didn’t stop them.

It just made it easier.

Until one day.

Bathroom. After lunch.

I remember the fluorescent light flickering above the sinks. The floor still wet from someone half-heartedly mopping.

I had just stepped inside when the door slammed behind me.

Rohan.

And three other guys.

They spread out without saying anything at first. Just blocking the door. Leaning against the sinks.

Watching.

The way boys watch a stray dog they’ve decided to kick.

“Well look who it is,” Rohan said.

My hands had already started shaking.

“Why are you always hiding, huh?” one of them said. “Scared we’ll catch the gay?”

They laughed.

I said something then. I don’t even remember what. Probably just “leave me alone.”

My voice sounded small even to me.

Rohan stepped closer.

“What was that?”

“Leave me alone,” I repeated.

And that was apparently the wrong answer.

The first shove sent my shoulder crashing into the stall door.

Someone grabbed the front of my shirt.

The fabric twisted tight against my throat before I even realized what was happening.

Rohan’s face was suddenly inches from mine. Close enough that I could smell the gum he was chewing.

“Say it again,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

The first punch landed so fast I didn’t even see it coming.

Someone laughed.

Another shove sent my back into the stall door.

I remembered the sound more than the pain. The metal latch rattling like something trying to escape.

Someone told me to stand properly when I talked to them. Like this was a conversation. Like there were rules I was failing to follow.

My hands came up automatically, not to fight. Just to protect my face.

That made them laugh.

That was the part I remembered most clearly about those days. The laughter. How easy it was for them.

A kick hit the back of my knee and I dropped.

I remembered the coldness of the tiles under my palms.

Someone grabbed my collar and hauled me halfway up just to shove me down again.

Someone said,

“Why are you pretending? Everyone saw the video.”

Another kick.

They told me to say it.

To say the word they had been calling me in the corridors for weeks.

They pushed me fully to the floor.

And suddenly everything turned blurry. Faces became shapes. Voices detached from bodies.

They kept telling me to say it.

Each time I didn’t, another kick landed somewhere. Stomach. Side. Shoulder.

At some point someone pressed a shoe against my shoulder to keep me down.

And then someone behind me said, almost casually,

“You know what would be funny?”

I heard a zipper.

My brain didn’t understand it immediately.

Then warmth spread across my sleeve.

The smell came a second later.

And the room erupted in laughter.

That was the moment something inside me… stopped.

Not dramatically. Not like in movies where people scream or fight back.

My body just shut down.

I stopped moving. Stopped arguing. Stopped even trying to sit up.

I lay there while they laughed.

Someone nudged my leg with their shoe. Someone else said something about “helping me come out.”

There might have been a phone camera. I remembered the sound, but I wasn’t sure anymore if that part was real or something my brain had added later.

Mostly I remembered the ceiling.

Blurry white tiles. A fluorescent light flickering like it was about to die.

And the realization, settling slowly into my chest, that I was completely alone in that room.

When they finally left, the door slammed and everything went quiet again.

Just the buzz of the light.

And me.

Still on the floor.

Still breathing like something heavy was sitting on my chest.

I stayed there longer than I should have.

Partly because I couldn’t move yet.

Partly because I knew that the moment I stood up, I would have to walk back into the world and pretend none of it had happened.

By the time I finally got up, something inside me already felt… hollowed out.

I don’t remember the bus ride home that day.

I just remember walking into the house.

My mom was in the living room.

She turned when she heard the door.

And then she saw me.

My shirt. My face. The smell I couldn’t wash off no matter how much soap I used in the school bathroom sink.

She didn’t ask a single question.

Not one.

She just looked at me for a long moment.

And something in her face broke.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… quiet devastation.

She came closer slowly.

Touched my cheek.

“Dev,” she said softly.

That was it.

That one word.

And I started crying before I could stop it.

I didn’t have to explain.

She saw everything.

Every bruise. Every humiliation. Every piece of something inside me that had collapsed.

That evening she made it very clear.

I was not going back to that school.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

And just like that, the world outside our house disappeared.

For months I stayed home.

Months of sleeping too much. Sleeping too less 

Crying when no one was around.

Sometimes crying when she was right there in the room and I couldn’t even explain why.

Grieving something I didn’t know how to name.

Something I didn’t want to name.

The person I used to be before all of it.

And the worst part wasn’t just the pain.

It was seeing her watch me like that.

Helpless.

Every time she thought I wasn’t looking, I could see it in her face.

The same ache I felt.

The same question neither of us knew how to answer.

How do you fix something like this?

How do you protect your child from a world that already decided what he is?

We lived like that for a long time.

Two people moving quietly around the same grief.

Until one morning she knocked on my door.

Sat on the edge of my bed.

And said, gently but firmly,

“Okay.”

I looked up.

She smiled a little. That determined smile she uses when life has pushed her too far.

“I think it’s time we start again.”

***

Rohan name flashes on the screen again.

My body goes cold, like every part of me remembers exactly what he used to make me feel.

What he used to make me be.

I don’t pick up.

Just silence the call and shove the phone back in my pocket.

Try not to tremble.

I turn to the window.

Watch the world blur past—buildings, trees, light.

And my stomach sinks with a new kind of dread.

Six hours.

I’ll have to spend the next six hours breathing the same air as Raj.

Raj, who kissed me like he meant it.

Raj, who I pulled away from like it meant nothing.

Raj, who said, “I’m done,” and walked away like he meant that too.

How the hell am I supposed to sit in the same room as him

pretend we’re just classmates,

pretend I didn’t ruin everything?

I press my forehead to the window.

Close my eyes.

And wait for the day to start trying to kill me.