The day's over, and the three of us are walking toward the school gate, blending into the crowd of students spilling out of the building. The sun is already starting to dip, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Raj and Arya are ahead of me, locked in their usual back-and-forth, their voices carrying over the chatter around us.
"You're just mad because I got more votes than you, class chose me over you for the student council," Raj says smugly, giving Arya a light shove on the shoulder.
Arya scoffs, rolling her eyes. "More votes my ass. People felt pity for you. You're basically a charity case at this point."
They bicker like this often-loud, unserious, tangled in insults that somehow feel affectionate. It's familiar now. Almost comforting.
I trail behind them, half-listening. The cold's sharp today, cutting across the back of my neck. Or maybe that's just leftover static from earlier-Raj standing too still, Aman's jaw tightened, their fists clenched.
Their eyes didn't just meet. They clashed-No expression. No smirks. Just something sharp and brittle hanging between them like broken glass.
Raj hadn't joked. Hadn't even blinked.
And Aman? He didn't look scared. Just... empty.
Something about that silence stays with me. Sticks.
Raj's phone buzzes, and he glances at it before muttering, "Two minutes," and veering off toward the side gate without waiting for a response.
Arya and I keep walking. I hesitate, then-too curious, too unsettled.
"You know Aman?"
She snorts. "What, Robot Guy?"
I offer a half-shrug. "Does Raj... hate him?"
She doesn't answer right away. Her face shifts-not surprised. Not confused. Just... tired.
"Yeah," she says eventually. "Pretty sure they both do."
I glance at her. "Why?"
Another shrug. "No one really knows. They used to hang out. Not best friends or anything, but... there was a time. Then one day, something snapped. Aman turned into this cold, calculated, no-expression thing. And Raj stopped talking about it."
I frown. "That's it?"
Arya kicks at a pebble. "You'd think there was a fight. Or a fallout. Something loud. But no. One day they were in the same room. The next, they weren't. Just... silence."
That's what unsettles me the most. Not the fact that they hate each other. The fact that no one ever talks about why.
Not even Raj.
And knowing him-how loud he is, how he calls people out when they mess up-his silence feels like a secret. Like whatever happened wasn't just painful.
It was unforgivable.
***
Amit used to get into fights all the time. With his football team, with other guys, with random idiots who looked at him the wrong way. He was always on edge, like he had this endless reservoir of anger just waiting to spill over. Sometimes I wondered if he even needed a reason to fight, or if he was just looking for an excuse.
And then, every single time, I'd be the one helping him sneak into my room so he wouldn't have to go home and deal with the fallout.
I can still picture it-the way he'd climb in through the balcony, bruised knuckles, blood on his lip, his uniform torn at the collar. I'd be sitting on the floor, sorting through my first-aid kit while he flopped down next to me, stretching his legs out with a dramatic groan.
"Idiot," I'd mutter, dabbing antiseptic on a fresh cut.
Amit would hiss, jerking back. "Easy, man! That stings."
I'd roll my eyes, pressing harder just to piss him off. "Yeah, well, maybe stop getting into fights and you won't have to deal with this."
"Not my fault," he'd grumble, tilting his head back against the bed frame. "That asshole started it."
"They always start it," I'd say, shaking my head.
Amit would grin, his split lip tugging at the skin. "Because they always deserve it."
And then he'd start ranting-about whatever idiot had pissed him off, about how the fight went, about how he definitely won. I'd just listen, shaking my head at his dramatics, wiping blood off his face like this was the most normal thing in the world. Because, in a way, it was.
Amit fought. I patched him up. That was how it worked.
That was us.
Amit always exploded. But Raj doesn't seem like that.
He seems calmer. Gentler.
The engine hums covering the faint sounds of the city outside. I lean my head against the window, but I'm not really looking at anything. My mind is still stuck back there-on Raj, on Aman, on whatever the hell happened between them.
Aman got cold. They used to be friends. Then, one day, they just... stopped.
It keeps looping in my head, over and over, like a song stuck on repeat. I don't know why it's bothering me so much. Maybe because I know what it's like to watch someone change right in front of you.
***
Dinner is quiet.
Not in a peaceful way. Not in the way some families sit around the table, exchanging stories about their day, laughter filling the gaps between bites.
No. This is the kind of quiet that isn't comfortable, but routine. Like the silence has lived here for so long it's just another piece of furniture.
The clink of cutlery against plates. The hum of the ceiling fan overhead. The occasional distant honk from the street outside. That's all there is.
Until Mom clears her throat.
"So," she says, too casual, like she's been waiting for the right moment to bring this up. "Your aunt called today."
I stab a piece of food with my fork. "Which one?"
Mom exhales, already bracing herself. "Your dad's younger brother's wife."
Oh. That one.
I keep my expression blank, but I already know where this is going.
Mom adjusts her grip on her spoon, swirling her dal around like she's trying to mix it into nothing. "She just... wanted to share something. Very excited."
I chew. Swallow. "Did she?"
Mom hums, lips pressing together like she's chewing on something sarcastic. "Her son got a job."
I blink. "Which son?"
"The only one that matters," Mom deadpans.
Ah.
I nod, because of course. The Golden Child. The one with the Perfect Trajectory. The one whose LinkedIn is probably already optimized for Harvard Business School.
"What's he doing?" I ask, mostly out of politeness.
"Something in finance." Mom waves a hand vaguely. "Corporate. Respectable. Your aunt mentioned three times that the company is very 'prestigious.'"
I snort. "Obviously. She probably threw in 'elite' just for flavor."
Mom sighs, tipping her head dramatically. "She tried to say it casually too. Oh, it's nothing, she said. Just a little firm. Very well-known. Very competitive."
"Must've taken everything in her to pretend she wasn't fishing for applause."
"It did," Mom mutters. "I could hear the smug through the phone. I almost applauded just to end the call."
I huff out a quiet laugh, still rolling a piece of roti between my fingers-
And then I hear it.
"At least he got a job."
The voice cuts in-not loud. Not harsh. Just... there.
I freeze.
So does Mom.
We both glance at Dad.
He's still eating, eyes on his plate. Calm. Not spiteful. Not even particularly interested. Just a quiet observation dropped like a pebble in a still pond.
But it ripples.
I don't respond immediately. I just let the silence bloom for a second-let the weight of it settle.
Dad doesn't look up. He doesn't press. He doesn't even seem to realize what he just said might sting.
Mom shifts slightly beside me. "Dev has plans," she says, even and steady.
Dad hums. "I'm sure he does."
Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just... distant. Like he's saying something safe, something that can't be misinterpreted even if it already has.
That's the thing with Dad.
He doesn't argue.
He doesn't accuse.
He just leaves space, enough for doubt to grow roots if you let it.
I press my tongue against my teeth, tapping my fingers against the edge of my plate.
Mom picks up her glass, takes a slow sip, then says, a little sharper than before, "Not everyone needs to sprint out of the gate to feel successful."
Dad doesn't reply. Just folds his napkin neatly, stands, and walks toward the living room. A moment later, the faint sound of the news murmurs from the TV.
Mom watches him go. Not angry, just... unreadable.
She turns back to me. Her eyes flick to my face, maybe checking for cracks, maybe bracing for one.
I take the last piece of roti and chew slowly. "Well," I say flatly, "guess I better start brushing up on Excel and capitalism."
Mom exhales sharply through her nose, a breath that sounds half-surprised, half-relieved. Like she expected silence. Or worse.
For a second, she just stares like she's reassessing.
Then she snorts. "Oh, absolutely. It's about time you pulled your weight. Seventeen and still unemployed? Disgraceful."
"Right?" I nod solemnly. "I've wasted too much time chasing dreams. It's time to join the stock market cult."
She places a dramatic hand over her heart. "If only we had raised you better."
"Maybe I can pivot into cryptocurrency. Really lean into the disappointment."
Mom gasps. "Dev! You don't even have a finance degree!"
I widen my eyes. "God. I'm practically unemployable."
"Sweetheart," she says, clutching her imaginary pearls, "I hate to say this-but we might have to give you away."
"Understandable."
We hold the absurdity for a moment-two straight-faced actors mid-scene-
Then Mom breaks. A quiet laugh at first, then a full-bodied shake of her head.
And for once-
Dinner doesn't feel like walking a minefield.
Just a weird little dance we both know too well.
And maybe tonight, we didn't step on anything that exploded.
***
The room is dark.
Not pitch black-just enough. Just the way I like it.
The glow of the streetlights outside is muted by my curtains, flickering faintly through the glass, stretching soft silver across the ceiling. The moonlight pools in uneven patches, shifting when the wind moves the branches outside. It's quiet. Heavy. The kind of night that presses down on you like a weighted blanket, sinking into your skin, making everything feel slow.
I love this.
The darkness.
The stillness.
The way the world fades when the lights go out.
It's soothing, like submerging underwater-where everything is muffled, distant, and the weight of reality doesn't feel so sharp. Where I don't have to be anything, don't have to react, don't have to pretend like I'm fine.
I exhale, my breath barely a sound in the quiet.
My body is tired. My eyes sting. My muscles are loose, heavy against the mattress. But my mind-
My mind doesn't know what the fuck to do with itself.
I don't even know what I'm thinking about anymore.
There's too much to think about.
Everything. Everything.
And yet, no matter how much I try to sort through it, my brain just keeps looping. Circling back to the beginning like some kind of endless maze-where I've already walked every possible path, every twist and turn, but somehow, every time I move forward, it still feels new.
Like I've forgotten the way.
Like I have to relive it over and over, trying to find an exit that doesn't exist.
I roll onto my side, staring at the dim sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor.
I should sleep.
But I don't want to.
I just want to stay here, in the dark, in the quiet, in the in-between-where nothing moves except my thoughts, where nothing changes except the shape of the shadows on the wall.
I've spent so many nights staring into the darkness.
After school, after everything, I used to just lie here-watching the daylight fade, watching the last streaks of gold disappear, swallowed whole by the night. I would stare at the wall for hours, blankly, my mind just as empty, watching the shifting shapes that came and went. Sometimes, if I stared long enough, the darkness looked like it was moving. Like it was breathing.
Like it was watching back.
When I was a child, the dark used to scare me. The unknown. The unseen. The space between what is and what could be. I used to imagine monsters lurking, waiting just beyond what my eyes could see.
Now, I don't see monsters anymore.
Now, I don't see anything at all.
And that's worse.
Because darkness isn't just something you fear. It's something you learn to live in.
It's something you stop fighting, something you stop trying to escape. At some point, you realize there's no use fumbling around, no use stretching your hands forward hoping to find something solid. Because there's nothing. Just more of the same.
If you're scared of it, you'll stay scared forever.
But if you accept it-if you sink into it-then it stops feeling so hard.
That doesn't mean it's not scary. That doesn't mean it's changed.
It just means I've gotten used to it.
It doesn't feel scary anymore.
But it doesn't stop being scary either.
Just like life.