'Fuck, what happened to you?' Romil is inside with two confident strides, his shoes abandoned outside the door.

I step back, awkwardly wedged like a sentinel against the half-open door, unsure whether to close it or not.

'I slipped,' I lie, turning my back against the door, and forcing it to close behind me.

'You kidding me?' His brown eyes examine me until they drop on my hands. 'Slipped?' He takes my hand in his. My fingers curl into a fist but not before he has seen the cuts and scratches from the last night. There are a couple of purple marks on my hand when I fell against the kitchen slab. 'You're hiding something,' he deduces, running his fingers gently against those marks.

'Why are you here, Romil?' I ask, tired of the adrenaline rush from the last two days.

He doesn't say anything but frees my hand and looks around, his hands on the shoulder strap of his bag. I take in his height against the low ceilings of our house and ask him to sit on the bed. I stack the project papers strewn across the bed to one side to give him space. He sits awkwardly at the edge.

'I—' he begins with a drawl as if unsure what to say. Then, carefully, he manages, 'I thought you didn't come to school because of what happened yesterday.' My mind plays the events of twenty-four earlier and I fail to grasp how only a day has passed between the bike-ride and now. 'I thought you didn't come because you were embarrassed.'

I scoffed. 'Embarrassed?' I consider the word and nod. 'Maybe, I was. Or still am. But that's not the reason why...'

'Yeah, I can see that.' His gaze flicks to my forehead on the giant cotton ball they've secured—not with a band-aid—but with a white bandage that wraps around my head like a mummy.

'It's a small wound. They went a little overboard with the dressing,' I explain but it doesn't really assuage the panic in his eyes.

'Did someone do it?'

'No!' The denial spills out too quickly, too sharp.

'Where's your father?' His voice is steady, like he already knows the answer.

'He's at the factory.' I try again, desperate to change the subject. 'Tea? Lunch?' I offer, but my words sound hollow.

Romil's gaze doesn't waver. 'He did it, didn't he?'

'How could you—?'

'Who else could there be, Maithili?' his voice is soft, his eyes are attentive and the look on his face... there's not a single sign of pity, but something else. Something worse. Understanding. 'The unmistakable signs of an alcoholic parent are all here. It smells like scotch whiskey in here. And phenol. You tried hard, didn't you? Scrubbing the floors to get rid of the smell, but, lemme tell you, it doesn't go away that easily. Years of drinking makes everything around you stink. The walls. The bed. The floors.' He looks past me, lost in thought.

'He didn't do it intentionally.' I acquiesce and speak slowly at first. 'My mother left us, about a year after giving birth to me. I don't have any photos of her, neither did I ever try to know more about her. She's always been a taboo in our house. It didn't take me long to understand that we don't—won't—talk about her. Ever.' I breathe deeply, pulling my knees closer to my chest, tucking my arms around them, trying to hide the bareness I feel in my pyjama shorts. 'He got into drinking right after that. He's not a bad person, Romil. He doesn't know how to deal with the grief.'

'That's why it keeps happening,' he says, folding his legs under him. 'You let them off, giving excuse after excuse, to yourself that it will be fine. Explaining their behaviour with reasoning that eludes everyone except you. But there's no redemption for drinking and causing a wreck in someone else's life. This is not—'

'Romil,' I interrupt him. 'I tried doing whatever I could. I can't abandon him. My mother did and see what happened. I thought... diluting the alcohol, at least I was doing something. But he figured it out.' I blink back the sting in my eyes, the memory of last night too fresh, too sharp.

He drags a hand through his hair, his fingers getting caught in the messy curls. 'My mom... she's not very different. It's not just drinking with her. It's—' His throat works around the words, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is rough, barely more than a whisper. 'It's everything. Her whole life is a mess. She is too chicken to split from my father who is cheating openly. I can't fix it. I can't even fight it. I just... walk away. Every time. And I hate myself for it.'

I blink, the revelation hitting me harder than I expected. 'I didn't know.'

'How could you?' He shrugs, a bitter laugh escaping him. 'I don't talk about it. Not like you did. You're brave, Maithili. Brave for trying. For staying. For caring.' He looks down at his hands, his fingers tracing the flower pattern of the bedspread. 'I can't even do that.'

'It's not easy,' I admit. 'I don't always feel brave. Most of the time, I feel trapped. Like I'm stuck between trying to help him and making the most of my life.'

'You are making the most of your life.' His eyes darken as he bites his bottom lip, that simple gesture pulling at something deep inside me. A smile tugs at my lips, mirroring his, and I feel warmth curling in my stomach.

'Thanks,' I say.

'I'm not done. I'm—I'm sorry. I—' he dithers, his eyes doing this weird little dance as he looks at me, as if he's not sure where to look at. He settles on my lips, and my heart stutters. Heat floods my cheeks, and I glance down, unable to meet the intensity of his stare.

'I want to date you,' he breathes, barely louder than a whisper.

My heart lurches, and for a moment, I'm frozen, the words hanging between us like a challenge. I lick my lips, trying to form a response, but before I can, he rushes on. 'I don't care about where you come from.' He takes my hands in his and continues, 'I want to care about your dreams. I want to be a part of them.'

'But—'

'Shh!' His finger presses lightly against my lips, silencing me. The touch ignites something in me, an electric tingle running through my body. 'I am not rushing you. Fuck, that's the last thing I want! I want us to be real. To be long term.' There's a faraway look in his eyes when he's making these promises to me. A smile at the bottom of it all. I can drown in that smile. It's intoxicating.

'But, Romil—' I start again.

'Shh!' His hand cups my cheek this time, his thumb grazing my skin in a way that makes my breath catch. Instinctively, I lean into his touch, my body betraying the protest forming on my lips. 'I want this moment to linger. Don't ruin it please.'

I close my eyes, savoring the softness of his fingers trailing down my cheek, brushing against my neck. His touch lingers just below my collarbones, his fingertips tracing slow, deliberate circles, teasingly close to the edge of my shirt. My breath stutters, my body responding before my mind can catch up. I open my eyes and gently place my hand over his, stopping him just as his fingers begin to roam further.

'You are beautiful,' he says, his voice barely more than a rasp. His hand remains against my skin, warm and insistent, his thumb tracing small, maddening patterns just beneath the fabric. The silence stretches for as long I can bear looking into his almond eyes, the smooth rise of his nose and the soft dip of a cupid bow crowning his oh-so-full-lips.

'I... I need notes,' I blurt out, the words tumbling out in a rush as I force myself to retreat from the dizzying sensation building inside me. My skin tingles where he's touched me.

His brow furrows, and then, suddenly, he laughs, a sound so genuine it pulls a chuckle from me, too. My laugh feels shaky, unsure, but it bubbles up nonetheless.

'What?' I protest weakly, unable to stop smiling. 'I do need notes. I missed today's classes and from the looks of it, I'm gonna miss more than just today...'

Romil's smile fades slowly, his expression turning serious as he pulls his bag into his lap. Without another word, he rifles through the stack of books inside. He pulls out a few notebooks, holding them up. 'Here, take photos of these.'

I blink and purse my lips and shake my head. 'I don't have one,' I say timidly.

Before I can say anything, he's on his feet, heading toward the door. As he slips on his shoes, he says, 'I'll get them xeroxed. Where is the nearest shop?'

I give him the directions, my voice sounding far more casual than I feel, my heart still racing from the weight of his words, his touch. He nods, his eyes lingering on mine for a beat longer than necessary, and then he's gone.