Chapter 7
The corridor narrows as I walk.
The noise from the field fades behind me, replaced by the dull echo of footsteps and doors slamming somewhere far off. My pulse hasn’t settled yet. It’s still climbing up my throat like it’s late to something.
Washroom.
It’s just a washroom.
New school. New building. New tiles. New everything.
I tell myself that twice. It’s not the same.
Everything’s alright.
The boys’ bathroom is near the staircase, half-hidden behind a faded sign and a cracked mirror someone stuck outside for reasons I don’t understand. There are three guys hovering near the entrance, leaning against the wall like they’re guarding it. One of them is laughing too loudly at something on his phone. Another is lighting something quickly, shielding it with his hand.
The faint smell hits me before I step inside. Smoke. Cheap deodorant trying to fight it.
They barely look at me.
One does a quick up-and-down glance, bored. Not hostile. Not interested.
Normal.
I step past them.
The door swings inward.
For a split second my body tightens anyway.
White tiles. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. Two urinals on the left. Three stalls at the back. A row of washbasins under a long mirror. The air smells like cleaning liquid and old smoke and something metallic underneath.
Empty.
It’s empty.
You’re fine.
You’re fine.
I walk toward the last stall. Always the last one. Furthest from the door. Back against the wall.
I step inside and lock it.
The click sounds sharper than it should.
I don’t move immediately. Just stand there, staring at the door, waiting for something to happen.
Nothing happens.
I exhale and unzip quickly. Don’t think. Just do it.
My muscles don’t cooperate at first. They hesitate, like they’re unsure if this is safe. I hate that. I hate that something so small feels like negotiation.
Hurry.
I stare at the metal latch on the inside of the door. At the scratch marks carved into it. Someone’s initials. A badly drawn smiley face. Someone wrote “10B sucks” in pen.
The sound of urine hitting the water feels too loud. Like it echoes. Like it announces me.
I try to go faster.
Don’t think. Don’t think about—
Tile floor. Cold against my knees. Someone laughing. A hand on my shoulder. The door slamming shut. Someone unzipping—
Stop.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Not here.
Not this place.
New school.
Different boys.
Different building.
Different story.
Remember mom had said—
“These people don’t know you. Not the you you’re scared of. They just see a boy with a bag who’s late for class.”
I flush immediately. Too quickly. The water roars louder than necessary.
And then—
The main bathroom door creaks open.
Voices spill in before it even shuts.
“Bro, I swear Captain carried that entire match—”
“I’m telling you, that defender was sleeping—”
Laughter. Shoes scraping tile. The hollow knock of someone bumping into a urinal divider.
I go still.
It’s fine. It’s just boys.
“Pass me that,” someone mutters. “Quick, before Mr Snob walks in.”
A lighter flicks.
The smell thickens.
My shoulders climb toward my ears without permission. I stare at the bottom gap of the stall door. Three pairs of shoes. One tapping impatiently.
“Yo, who was that girl sitting next to that prefect boy? The loud one. Bro, she’s kinda hot.”
“Arya?” someone says. “11B. Yeah, she’s mad though.”
“Mad is fine,” another snorts. “Hot and loud, elite combo.”
They laugh.
Normal.
This is normal.
“And who was that cute guy?” a different voice cuts in. “The one between her and Raj. Looked familiar.”
My stomach drops so fast it feels like I missed a step on the stairs.
No.
“Yeah,” someone says slowly. “I’ve seen him somewhere.”
There’s a small pause. The thinking kind.
My pulse slams against my throat.
They don’t know you. They can’t.
“Wait,” someone says, lower now. “Holy shit.”
The lighter stops clicking.
“What?”
“Is he that guy?”
That guy.
My knees buckle.
It’s not dramatic. Just sudden. I sink onto the closed toilet seat, back hitting the stall wall. The metal rattles softly and I freeze, breath caught in my chest.
Don’t move.
“What guy?”
“You know. That video from a few months ago.”
The word video splits something open behind my ribs.
The tile shifts under my vision. My hearing narrows — like someone cupped hands over my ears but left the laughter inside.
No.
New school. Different building.
“I mean he kinda looked like him,” someone says.
“Do you still have it?”
My hands fist into my jeans. I bend forward, forehead pressing against my knees without deciding to. Make yourself smaller. Smaller. Disappear.
Of course they have it.
Of course it doesn’t disappear.
Neither do I.
“Oh my god,” one of them mutters. “Bro, imagine if it’s actually him.”
They laugh — not loud. Nervous. Curious.
“Hope it’s not,” another says quickly. “We already have one of those here.”
One of those.
My nails dig into my palm hard enough to sting.
“One of those?” someone repeats.
“You know, that Ishan guy from 11C. The one everyone calls—”
“Shut up,” someone cuts in, laughing. “He’ll cry.”
They snicker.
The stall feels thinner now. Like sound moves through it too easily. Like eyes could.
They’ll pause it. Zoom in. Slow it down.
Find the frame where I look smallest.
“Even if it was him, why would he come here?” someone says.
“Yeah,” another agrees. “He’d be stupid.”
Stupid.
My mouth tastes metallic.
The conversation drifts.
“Anyway, you bringing that tomorrow?”
“Maybe. My cousin’s coming over.”
“Bro, pass it, I want one drag.”
Lighter again. A cough.
They’re bored already.
Just another topic. Just another joke.
My heart hasn’t caught up.
I stay curled on the seat, counting their movements by sound. A zipper. Water running. Shoes shifting.
The door creaks.
Voices fade.
Silence drops heavy and sudden.
The fluorescent light buzzes above me.
My hands are shaking. I don’t remember when they started.
I look down. Crescent marks in my palm.
I didn’t even feel it.
Slowly, I straighten.
Unlock the stall.
The click sounds too loud in the empty room.
At the sink, I grip the porcelain edge and lean forward until my breathing evens out enough to pass.
They didn’t know.
They can’t know.
I turn the tap too hard. Water splashes cold over my fingers. I turn it off.
The mirror catches me as I step out.
My face looks pale under the harsh light. Eyes too bright. Jaw tight.
My hands tremble as I rub them together.
They don’t know me.
They might not know me.
And even if they do—
But what if they do?
Stop.
Stop.
Don’t finish that thought.
My hands are still under the tap.
I don’t remember turning it on again.
Soap slips between my fingers, thin and slick, and I rub harder. Palm against palm. Knuckles. Nails digging into skin like I’m trying to peel something off.
Wash it off.
Wash what off?
I scrub again. Faster. My breathing turns shallow, uneven. The sound of water hitting porcelain grows too loud. My shirt clings damply to my back. I don’t know when I started sweating.
It feels like something is crawling under my skin. Like if I keep rubbing long enough I’ll reach it.
“They didn’t say your name,” I whisper. “They didn’t—”
My hands won’t stop.
I turn the tap off and then back on without meaning to. I need to wash it off.
The metal handle slips under my wet fingers.
My chest feels tight. Too tight. My lungs don’t fill properly.
I grip the edge of the sink with both hands and lean forward, shoulders shaking once, small and sharp.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
The door behind me swings open.
The sound cracks through me like a gunshot.
I jolt hard enough my hip slams into the sink. My hands shoot back, bracing against the counter like I’m about to be shoved. My body turns defensive before my mind catches up.
And then—
Raj.
He’s halfway through the doorway, looking down at his phone. The screen light reflects faintly in his glasses. He takes two steps in before he looks up.
And stops.
His eyes land on me.
Pause.
He doesn’t say anything yet.
But I see it.
Concern.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just there.
His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to ask if I’m okay.
And suddenly I’m too aware of everything.
The wet sink.
My red hands.
The soap still clinging to my knuckles.
My shirt damp at the collar.
My breathing uneven.
My eyes burning.
He can see it.
He can see I was—
What?
Crying? Hyperventilating? Falling apart in a bathroom over nothing?
Heat floods my face.
My feet move before I can stop them.
“Sorry,” I mumble, though I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.
And I bolt.
Not running. That would be obvious. Just fast. Too fast. Shoulder brushing past him. I don’t look at his face. I don’t want to see what’s in it.
I just walk.
Out of the bathroom.
Down the corridor.
Past classrooms.
Past people who don’t notice me.
Walk. Walk. Walk.
I need air.
I need distance.
I need to be somewhere that doesn’t echo.
My chest still feels like it’s vibrating.
I don’t stop until I reach that small garden between the two wings. The quiet one. The one tucked away where the noise doesn’t reach properly.
It’s empty.
Good.
The grass is still bright under the afternoon sun. Leaves move lazily overhead. The air smells like warm soil and something blooming nearby.
I walk straight to the tree.
And sit.
Not gracefully. Just drop down at its base, back pressing against the bark. The roughness grounds me. Scrapes lightly through my shirt.
I tilt my head back and look at the sky through the leaves.
Blue.
Too blue.
The kind of blue that doesn’t care if you’re breaking underneath it.
My heart is still beating wrong. Uneven. Skipping like it’s afraid of something that isn’t even here.
What the fuck have I become?
It was just voices.
Just boys.
Just stupid comments.
And I folded.
I folded like paper.
I used to walk into rooms without calculating exits. Used to laugh too loud. Used to argue with teachers just because I could. Used to exist without rehearsing how I was standing.
Now I can’t even pee in a public bathroom without feeling like I’m about to be hunted.
What is that?
Who is that?
That isn’t me.
Is it?
Or is this the real me and the old one was just… sheltered? Lucky? Lucky to have him?
I press the back of my head harder into the bark.
Old me would have rolled his eyes. Made a joke. Ignored it. Called Amit and said, “Guess what idiots are saying now.”
Old me would have heard three taps on the balcony and unlocked the door without thinking.
Or I would have climbed that stupid tree at his house.
I would have knocked thrice.
And he would have opened.
And I would have just said “hello.”
And he would have known.
Just from that.
Just from one word.
This—
This shaking. This shrinking. This hiding in stalls.
Is this what they call change?
I pull my phone out.
My thumb hovers over his name.
Amit.
It’s still saved the same way. No emojis. No stupid nickname. Just his name. Like if I keep it ordinary, it won’t hurt as much.
I stare at it long enough for the screen to dim once.
I tap it anyway.
The phone presses cold against my ear.
It rings.
One tone.
That’s all it ever does now. One hollow, distant ring, like the sound is trying and already giving up.
And then—
“The user you are trying to reach does not exist.”
The voice is flat. Polite. Mechanical.
Does not exist.
Like he was a typo.
Like he was a number that was never there.
The call disconnects.
I keep the phone against my ear for a second longer, as if maybe there was a glitch. Maybe if I wait. Maybe if I don’t move.
Nothing.
Just wind through leaves.
I pull the phone away slowly and stare at the call log.
Amit – 00:02
Two seconds.
That’s all the world allows me.
I press call again.
It’s stupid.
I know it’s stupid.
But some part of me thinks maybe today the voice will hesitate. Maybe today it’ll ring twice. Maybe today it’ll connect to something.
Maybe today something will change.
Anything. Even a voicemail. Even silence.
One ring.
“The user you are trying to reach does not exist.”
My throat tightens so violently I almost choke.
He doesn’t exist.
He existed.
He climbed my balcony at two in the morning.
He memorized the way I say “hello.”
He dragged me to his rooftop everytime he heard something more behind that hello.
He hugged me under the moon.
He bled for me.
He existed.
My fingers start shaking around the phone.
I press it to my forehead instead, like I can push the memory back in.
Call again.
It rings.
And for half a second—just half a second—I imagine him picking up.
“Sharma?” he’d say immediately, annoyed and warm at the same time. “Why are you calling me like you’re dying?”
The voice cuts through.
“The user you are trying to reach does not exist.”
The words hit differently this time.
He does not exist.
I am alone.
The kind where the one person who knew how to hold the worst parts of you simply… isn’t reachable anymore.
He’s gone.
Not just out of school.
Not just avoiding.
Gone.
Number deleted. Line disconnected. Life moved somewhere I don’t get to see.
And I’m still here.
I drag a hand over my face and it comes away damp. I didn’t even notice when the tears started.
Six months.
Six months and I still call like an idiot hoping something changes.
Like grief has an expiration date.
Like the universe might feel bad and give him back.
Something rolls softly against my knee.
I flinch violently, jerking upright, breath catching like I’ve been grabbed.
A water bottle rests against my leg.
I blink through the blur in my vision.
A wrist extends around the side of the trunk.
A watch I recognize.
Raj.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t pretend he didn’t see my shoulders shaking.
He doesn’t ask who I called.
He just nudges the bottle closer. Like that’s enough.
Did he follow me?
I don’t turn fully toward him.
I just stare at the bottle.
Wait.
For a question.
Nothing comes.
Just the breeze.
Just the faint sound of his breathing from the other side of the tree.
I pick up the bottle.
Unscrew it.
Drink.
The water is warm but it helps. It cools something raw in my throat.
Still no question.
I tilt my head back, resting it against the bark. Close my eyes for a second.
“Don’t prefects have something to do?” I mutter.
There’s a low chuckle from behind the trunk.
“Yeah,” he says lightly. “Stalking the new kid. Remember? Just doing my job.”
Despite everything, my mouth almost curves.
Almost.
The quiet that settles between us isn’t heavy.
It doesn’t press down.
It doesn’t demand anything.
It just… settles.
He doesn’t shift closer.
Doesn’t clear his throat.
Doesn’t reach for some careful, well-meaning sentence.
He stays where he is.
On the other side of the trunk.
Close enough to feel. Far enough to breathe.
And something in me loosens.
Not dramatically.
Not in a way that fixes anything.
The ache is still there, low and persistent.
The guilt hasn’t dissolved.
Amit hasn’t reappeared just because I wanted him to.
But the air doesn’t feel like it’s cutting into me anymore.
The edges soften.
My breathing slows without me forcing it.
Each inhale goes a little deeper than the last.
Each exhale doesn’t shake.
The bark against my back is rough and steady.
Solid.
Unmoving.
The kind of solid that doesn’t disappear overnight.
Sunlight filters through the leaves above us, warm against my face.
And body finally stops waiting for impact.
Stops listening for the next door to slam.
Stops bracing for laughter to sharpen.
It just… rests.
My eyes close.
On the other side of the tree, there’s the faint rhythm of someone else breathing.
Alive. Unhurried.
He isn’t fixing anything.
Isn’t filling the silence with explanations.
Isn’t asking me to be stronger than I am.
He’s just here.
And for the first time all day, the space beside me doesn’t feel empty.
It feels held.
And that, right now—
that is enough.