Chapter 5

The car hums softly, the steady sound of tires against the road filling the silence between us.

The city drifts past in a blur of fading sunlight and neon flickers—shops closing for the day, streetlights blinking awake, people moving through the evening like they have somewhere to be.

I don’t.

I just sit, forehead leaning against the window, watching everything pass by. The glass is cool against my skin, the vibrations of the car a dull, rhythmic pulse.

I’m tired.

Not just physically. It’s the kind of tired that sits deep in your bones, in the space behind your ribs, in the back of your mind where thoughts should be. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away, no matter how much you sleep.

Mom clears her throat softly. “So… how was your first day?”

I blink, slow. My eyes feel heavy. I try to find an answer, but the words scatter before I can catch them.

I settle on, “Fine.”

She nods like she expected that. Taps her fingers against the steering wheel. The radio is off, and the silence feels too big. She shifts in her seat. Tries again.

“Did you make any friends?”

A pause.

Arya’s voice rings in my head, loud and yet caring.

“I’ll wait. In case you run out screaming.”

“You’ll be okay.”

Raj’s steady gaze. The way he looked at me. The way he saw me.

“You know, if you keep staring at the rearview mirror, you’re going to miss the road in front of you.”

I exhale, “I guess.”

Mom smiles, a little too hopeful. “That’s nice. It’s good to have people, you know.”

I hum. It’s not quite agreement, not quite disagreement. Just a sound.

The streetlights blur into streaks of gold as we pass them. I let my eyes follow them, tracing the pattern of light and shadow stretching across the windshield.

She doesn’t ask another question right away. Just lets the silence sit for a moment. I think she knows. That I don’t have the energy to do this. To recount the day, to put things into words, to make sense of anything.

She sighs, quiet, almost to herself. “Okay.”

We stop at a red light. The glow from the traffic signal spills across her face—softens the lines near her eyes, makes the exhaustion in her expression a little more visible. I wonder if she’s as tired as I am.

When the light turns green, she exhales, presses the accelerator, and doesn’t ask any more questions.

She just drives.

And I just watch the world pass by, the buildings slip past, their windows glowing, their walls lined with lives I’ll never know.

Homes.

People inside, eating, talking, sitting together. Existing.

No one restarting. No one having to start over.

Why does it have to be like this?

Why do some people get to stay—get to have their routines, their same streets, same faces, same places—while others have to begin again and again and again, like the last version of their life wasn’t good enough to keep?

Why is just being never enough?

I blink at the reflection in the glass—my own face, too tired, too hollow-eyed, blending into the city lights.

The streetlights streak across the windshield as we pass them, golden lines breaking up the dark. I trace them with my eyes, let them pull my mind away.

Maybe that’s what life is. Just light and dark taking turns.

Maybe starting over isn’t a choice. Maybe we do it because life forces us to. Because the old version of things stops fitting, because the foundation cracks too much to hold.

Maybe that’s why we move, why we leave, why we sit in cars staring at places that don’t know us yet, hoping this time it’ll be different.

But why does it have to be different?

Why can’t it just be enough?

“Are you hungry?” Mom asks.

I shake my head.

“Did you eat at school?”

I nod.

And I just watch the city slip past, thinking about how some people stay. And the rest of us? We just keep trying to begin again.

The door clicks shut behind me when I get into my room. I don’t turn on the lights. There’s enough sunset leaking through the windows to keep the room from feeling empty.

I drop my backpack by the bed and stand there for a moment, shoulders heavy, breath slow.

The sky outside is all gold and ember now, fading at the edges. I step closer without thinking, press my palm to the warm glass.

I don’t know how long I stand there.

I don’t really think about anything.

Not school. Not the past. Not the weight in my chest.

I just watch the light thin out across the room.

The world moving on, whether I keep up with it or not.

***

The ceiling doesn’t change, no matter how long I stare at it. Same dull white, same cracks running uneven across the plaster.

But I have. That’s the worst part.

The old me would be watching some shitty romcom right now, sprawled on my bed with chips, yelling at the screen because the characters made dumb choices.

Laughing. Eating. Existing like I was allowed to.

I wouldn’t sit in the dark, waiting for the sun to convince me to move.

But now?

Now I’m the protagonist—the one who made some shitty choices.

The fan hums, blades spinning in slow circles, as if the whole world isn’t already moving too fast.

The light filtering through the window is soft, hesitant. Morning, but not quite. Early enough that I could pretend it isn’t. Early enough that I don’t have to move yet.

I don’t want to move. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to go back.

But I will. I always do.

I used to love mornings.

I used to wake up excited for school. Used to be the first one ready, bag packed the night before, uniform ironed, shoes lined up perfectly by the door. I was that kid. The eager one. The nerd. The one who actually wanted to be there.

Until I wasn’t.

Until school stopped being a place and became a sentence. Until walking into those hallways felt like stepping onto a stage, a thousand eyes waiting, expecting, remembering. Until the whispers never really stopped, even when people weren’t talking.

I breathe in, slow. But it doesn’t reach deep enough.

I shift under the blanket, the fabric too heavy against my skin. My own body feels wrong today. Some days it feels like mine. Some days it doesn’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

It doesn’t help.

I can still feel it. The weight of it. The knowing. The fact that they all know.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

Because I can’t change what they’ve already seen. I can’t go back. I can’t undo.

And I can’t make them forget.

I turn my head, staring at the faint gold stretching across the walls, spilling in through the window. It’s pretty. Soft. The kind of morning I used to love.

But all I can think about is how light never really kills the darkness.

It just postpones it.

The bed is warm, the air cool. Everything in me wants to stay here, untouched, unseen. But the clock keeps ticking, the light keeps brightening, and I know, eventually, I’ll have to get up.

Because I can’t refuse. Because it’s not a choice. Because no one asks why I don’t want to go.

And even if they did—

I wouldn’t know how to answer.

***

The smell of eggs and toast drifts through the air, warm and familiar, but it doesn’t do much for my appetite.

I step into the dining room, moving on autopilot. Mom is already seated, sipping her tea, and Dad—he’s at the head of the table, newspaper folded beside him, coffee in one hand.

He doesn’t look up.

Not surprising.

I slide into my seat, reaching for my toast. Mom gives me a small, easy smile.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning.”

Dad clears his throat, flipping a page. “So. How’s school?”

The question is casual, like he’s picking it out of thin air. Something to say.

I pause mid-bite, then shrug. “It’s fine.”

Not much else to say.

Dad hums like that’s good enough. He sets his coffee down, reaching for the paper again.

Then—offhandedly, like it’s just another passing thought—he says, “Good. Then don’t bring me excuses next time the results are crap.”

It doesn’t sting. Not really.

It’s just… expected.

I don’t react at first. Just chew my toast, my gaze fixed on the wood grain of the table, tracing the faint scratches and dents.

It’s not like he said anything cruel. Nothing I haven’t heard before.

But something about the way he says it—like my grades were ever the biggest thing wrong in my life—makes my stomach curl, just slightly.

Not enough to show. Not enough to call it hurt.

Just enough to make me want to leave.

Mom shifts in her seat, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

The silence sits there, stretching between us, not heavy enough to be unbearable—just enough to be familiar.

I push back my chair.

“I should go.”

Mom glances up, brow pinching slightly. “Dev, you’ve barely eaten.”

I grab my bag. “Not that hungry today.”

I expect her to push more. She doesn’t.

Dad? He doesn’t say anything at all.

***

The morning air is crisp, the kind that lingers on your skin, cool and quiet. The car is parked in the driveway, its surface glinting faintly under the early sun. I stand beside it, hands in my pockets, staring at nothing in particular.

The front door swings open, and Mom steps out.

She’s holding a lunchbox.

I already know what she’s going to say before she says it.

She stops in front of me, pressing the container into my hand. “Don’t take it out on food, Dev,” she says gently. “It didn’t do anything to you.”

I swallow, my fingers tightening around the plastic lid. I don’t argue. She’s right, and we both know it.

She unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and I follow. The engine hums to life, the familiar low vibration filling the space between us.

For a while, neither of us speaks. The road stretches ahead, smooth and endless, the houses blurring past in soft shades of beige and gray.

Then—”You know your dad,” she starts, voice careful, cautious, already bracing for my response.

I let out a quiet scoff, shaking my head. “Do I?”

Mom sighs, but it’s not exasperated. It’s something else. Something tired.

She stares at the road ahead, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. “Does he?” she murmurs.

Silence follows.

We both look out the window now, lost in our own thoughts.

The car slows momentarily at a red light, and that’s when I see it—

A park.

A family is there, a little boy no older than five stumbling across the grass, laughing, arms outstretched as his mother reaches for him. The father is right there too, crouching beside them, ruffling the boy’s hair, grinning like the world exists only in this small, fleeting moment.

I look away.

I don’t know why, but I do.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, my breath fogging up a small part of it.

***

The car slows to a stop in front of the school gates. The low hum of the engine fades as Mom shifts into park, but neither of us moves immediately.

She turns toward me, reaching out before I can even pretend to grab my bag. Her hand rests on my arm, warm and steady.

“Don’t overthink what your dad said,” she murmurs. “Just… go enjoy your day, sweetheart.”

Enjoy. Right.

I don’t answer. Just exhale through my nose, nodding once.

She gives my arm a small squeeze before letting go. I step out, shutting the door behind me, and watch as she pulls away. The car disappears into traffic, swallowed up by the world.

I breathe in. The air is sharp, cool against my skin.

Alright. Here we go again.

I make my way down the hall, weaving through stray students who aren’t in a hurry. My feet move out of habit, following a path I barely need to think about.

When I step into the classroom, I pause.

It’s… mostly empty.

A few students are scattered around, slouched in their seats, half-asleep, scribbling in notebooks, or staring at their phones. The usual classroom buzz—low conversations, the scrape of chairs, background laughter—is missing.

I frown.

Am I early?

I pull out my phone, check the time.

Nope. Right on time.

Then where the hell—

“Oh my god.”

A voice behind me—too loud, way too close.

Then a hand smacks my shoulder like I just dropped a pop quiz answer key.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been standing here this whole time thinking the school’s been abducted.”

I turn slowly. Arya’s face is twisted in mock horror, but her eyeliner’s a little smudged and her hair looks like she wrestled a wind tunnel.

“You’re like… two more seconds from writing a conspiracy theory blog post. ‘Where did everyone go? Was it me? Did I break the timeline?'”

She laughs at her own home, “God, sometimes I’m just so funny.”

I raise an eyebrow.

She grins, then shrugs. “Okay, fine, maybe I’ve stood in an empty room before and had a mild panic attack because I thought I died. Whatever. Not the point.”

She drops her bag onto a chair like it personally wronged her.

“There’s a football match today, genius,” she announces, like this is common knowledge. “St. Xavier’s. Bloodthirsty showdown. Our school is basically in Roman coliseum mode.”

I blink.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

I don’t answer.

She stares for half a second, then sighs like I’m her most exhausting child. “You’re a danger to yourself, Dev. But lucky for you, you have me.”

She grabs my wrist. “Come on, tragic Victorian ghost child. We’re going to the field before you wander into a janitor closet and start narrating your own death.”

I don’t move.

She yanks harder. “C’mon, let’s go.”

I sigh. Don’t resist. Not because I want to go, but because I’m too tired to fight her on it.