'Here, take this.' Romil's voice is quiet, almost soft, as he hands me a water bottle.

I take it, my hand unsteady. The bottle feels heavier than it should, like everything else right now. I sip slowly, the cold water sliding down my throat, but it doesn't reach the knot that's formed there.

Without another word, I follow him to his car, the world blurring around us. I hear the distant thud of the door closing behind me as I sink into the passenger seat, leaning my head against the cool glass of the window. The city outside fades—just blobs of random shapes and colours. I don't know how I got here, why I'm here, but it doesn't matter. Nothing seems to matter at the moment.

Romil slips into the driver's seat. There's a pause, the weight of the silence settling between us, but it doesn't feel uncomfortable—just heavy. His voice is low, hesitant, when he finally speaks. 'Has this... happened before?'

The question hits harder than I expect. It unravels something inside me, pulling at threads I've tried to forget. Suddenly, the tears come, unstoppable and raw, pouring down my face before I can even think to stop them. I bury my face in my hands, trying to hide the mess I've become, but the memories surge forward, years of hurt pressing down all at once.

I'm not in Romil's car anymore. I'm eight, maybe nine, back at that crumbling government school where the boys made me dance like a monkey. I can still hear their laughter, the rhythm of their hands clapping like cymbals. They were older, bigger, louder—and I was alone. Always alone.

'Naach Jhamure Naach!'

For years, I was the girl who studied while everyone else played, who never fit in because I didn't swing broken furniture like cricket bats or played catch with dusters or steal chalk to draw on the walls. They all thought I was strange. I tried hard to become invisible. I hid in the broken toilets that no one tried to use. But anyhow they found me.

To them, I was the perfect target. Meek, friend-less, and alone. Absolutely alone.

My throat tightens, and I let out a shaky breath, pressing my forehead against the window, as if it might cool the heat rising under my skin. I don't want to cry, not here, not like this. But I can't stop.

'Okay, okay,' Romil's voice falters, thick with discomfort. 'You—uh—don't need to cry.'

I take a few dry hiccups and take a sip from his water bottle.

The car hums gently beneath me, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind. I feel the weight of years of silence, the sting of those old taunts still fresh. Dancing for their amusement. Being laughed at. Being ignored. And when I thought I'd grown out of the small little girl I was back then into a woman of stature and authority, a woman who has friends who love her, everything comes crashing down. Nothing changed. It's all the same as it was.

I don't realize that I have made an ugly face again, the one people make before crying, but it's the way Romil reacts to it with the speed of the light, I take note of the fresh set of tears falling down my face.

'I could just... I don't know. Play music? Should I do that?' He tries, panicked.

I sniff, shaking my head without looking up.

The silence stretches between us, and I can feel his uncertainty fill the space.

'Yeah, well, I never said I was good at... feelings.' He hesitates, then awkwardly stretches his arms toward me, offering what is clearly an attempt at a hug. It's so stiff and unsure that it pulls an actual giggle out of me. He drops his arms immediately. 'That didn't work, did it?'

'No,' I say through my laughter, 'No, it did not.'

He leans back, defeated but with a grin. 'You want me to take you home?'

I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek. Home feels... far, and the thought of trusting someone I barely know makes my chest tighten. 'I—uh—actually, I get motion sickness,' I lie, hoping it's enough to avoid the offer.

Romil raises an eyebrow, smirking in a way that's both infuriating and obnoxiously charming. 'Did I mention my car's a convertible?'

I blink, caught off guard by his smugness. 'Oh, well, aren't you fancy?'

He shrugs, still grinning like he's just won some prize. 'It's kind of a big deal.'

The absurdity of the whole thing catches me off guard, and I laugh, shaking my head. 'You're ridiculous.'

'And you're laughing,' he points out, his smirk widening just enough to show that he knows exactly what he's doing.

'Yeah, yeah,' I say, waving him off as I wipe my face again for any broken remnants of the tear shed that just happened here. 'Still, no thanks.'

The smile fades from his face, replaced by something softer, more serious. 'You sure? I don't mind.'

I pause, my hand resting on the door handle. A small part of me wants to accept, to let him drive me home and maybe pretend like the past few hours haven't happened. But a bigger part of me is still cautious, hesitant to trust someone who's been little more than a stranger until today.

'I'm sure,' I say softly. 'Thanks, though.'

Romil watches me for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his expression, but he doesn't push. 'Alright,' he says finally, giving a small nod. 'See you around, then?'

'Yeah,' I murmur, stepping out of the car and into the cool evening air. I glance back at him through the open window, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and wariness. 'See you and... thanks for today.'

He smiles, his phone in his hand.

As I walk away, I can still feel his eyes on me, the subtle trace of his expensive cologne clinging to the air around me. And for a fleeting moment, I wonder if, maybe, I liked his hug a little more than I expected.

At home, Papa is there, which is a surprise in itself. He's up on the roof, shirt half untucked and drenched in sweat, with a cement trowel in one hand and a water canister in the other, fixing the leak that's been threatening to turn our living room into a swamp. The sun is low, casting a warm, amber hue over the house, and the sound of the trowel scraping against the roof tiles is oddly soothing. It's the kind of sound that makes the world feel both steady and fragile, like home and chaos all at once.

When I enter the main gate, he calls down, his voice gruff but familiar. 'There's some poha left in the wok. Heat it up if you want.'

I don't want. Not at all. My stomach is still a knot, twisted up from the locker and... everything else. I give him a small wave and walk straight to the bathroom, the weight of the day pulling at my shoulders. I splash my face with cold water, hoping to wash away whatever lingering feelings the day left on me, but it doesn't work. Not really.

I lie down on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moments of the day in my head—Romil's voice, the hug that shouldn't matter but does. For a split second, when my cheek brushed against his chest, right under the crisp white cotton of his shirt, I felt something. A warmth that radiated off him, seeping through the fabric and into me. It was the kind of warmth that catches you off guard, that you're not prepared for, like standing too close to a fire on a cold night.

But it meant nothing. I tell myself that over and over.

Still, there's something uneasy twisting in my gut ever since I saw the mess in my locker. It's like the smell of rotten eggs hasn't left my mind, lingering there, festering. And then there are the library books—destroyed. Beyond salvaging. And there's no way I'm getting those books back into anything close to a "neat condition." Seven books lost to someone's cheap tricks. My mind runs over the math, the penalty will be over the two thousand rupees I'd saved from the commerce fest last month. Gone. Just like that. Because nothing in this world is free. You always have to pay your share. Always.

From the roof, I hear Papa muttering to himself, probably cursing the leak or the cement or both. The sound of his grumbling should make me anxious, but today it just makes everything feel heavier. Even home, where things should be simple and predictable, feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for the next thing to fall apart.

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A/N

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Shailey