Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa, Yash's mother turned to his father with a look of deep exhaustion. "His state has taken such a turn for the worse this past month," she said softly. "It's time we consulted the doctor again. He isn't getting better."
His father's phone glowed with search terms like physical trauma and mental decline. He looked up, his face a mask of grief. "Dheeru and Vini were more than just friends; they were his protectors. Now that they're gone, Yash is spiralling. He can't even look at Ram." Tears tracked down his cheeks as he buried his face in his palms, overwhelmed by the estrangement of the only two boys who made it out alive.
His father looked up at his wife, his expression etched with worry. "Where is he now? Has he eaten anything at all?" He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He's lost nearly ten kilograms this month. He's just a shadow of the boy he used to be."
"He's locked himself in his room again," she sobbed, her fingers gripping his father's hand so hard her knuckles turned white. "Every time I try to reach him, he just retreats. He hides in the corner of his room like a wounded animal. Please... you have to do something. We have to save our boy."
"Enough. I'm going to talk to him today," Yash's father said, pushing himself up from the sofa with a newfound resolve. His wife caught his arm, her eyes pleading. "Please... be gentle with him. Remember, he's the only child we have left."
He gave a solemn nod, acknowledging her fear, and began the heavy trek down the stairs to the first floor, heading straight for the silence of Yash's door.
The father forced the door open, but the room remained a tomb of shadows. Yash was curled in the darkest corner, looking impossibly small as he clutched his own body with a white-knuckled grip. He was rocking slightly, his lips moving in a frantic, incoherent blabber. "Yash! Yash, what are you doing to yourself?" his father shouted, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and grief as he rushed forward to pull his son up from the floor.
As his father reached for him, Yash lashed out, shoving him back with a strength born of pure panic. "Don't touch me! Get away!" he shrieked, his voice cracking as he scrambled across the floor and dove under the desk, curling into a ball in the shadows. His father stood frozen, staring at his own palms in disbelief. They felt like they had touched ice. "You're so cold, Yash," he whispered, his voice trembling. "What has happened to you, my son?"
"Come out of there, son," his father pleaded, reaching into the shadows beneath the desk. "We love you. We can face this together." Yash recoiled as if the words were physical blows. He slapped his father's hands aside, his eyes wild and sunken. "Don't you understand?" he whispered, the sound more frightening than a shout. "If you love me, you'll die. I'll kill you just like the others. I destroy everyone I touch. Get away from me!"
He fought with everything he had to pull Yash out, reaching in to gently pat his head. "My boy, my lovely boy," he pleaded, his voice thick with tears. "Please, just get up. We'll fix this. We'll figure it all out together." But every time his fingers brushed Yash's hair, Yash flinched as if he'd been burned, violently shoving his father's hand away and retreating deeper into the shadows of the floor.
After minutes of futile begging, his father's frustration boiled over. He lunged forward, grabbing Yash by the collar and hoisting him off the floor, throwing him onto the bed. "Enough!" he roared, his face flushed with agony. "Do you even care what you're doing to us? To your mother? There are people in this world who still love you, Yash! It wasn't just Dheeru and Vini!" Yash lay there, staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes. "You don't understand," he whispered, his voice cold and flat. "You can't even imagine the pain I'm in. You have no idea what I'm feeling."
"I do understand, Yash," his father said, his voice dropping to a low, steady rasp. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped Yash's face. "In my forty-three years, I've buried more people than you can imagine. I lost my own father—a man I loved more than life itself. It felt like the world had ended, but every single time, I forced myself to stand back up." He looked deep into Yash's eyes. "Grief doesn't go away, but you don't have to let it burn you."
He took Yash's hand and led him out onto the balcony. The night air was cool, and the sky was a deep velvet, studded with a thousand indifferent stars. "Life is mortal, Yash," his father said, looking up at the silver curve of the moon. "But it has its own essence—a beauty that remains even when it's fleeting. Think of it like a slice-of-life novel, my writer kid. Every chapter has its pain, but the story isn't over yet."
Yash's tears fell freely now, wetting his father's shoulder as he was pulled into a tight, protective hug. "Look at the stars, Yash," his father whispered, gesturing toward the glowing canopy above. "They follow the same path we do. In their youth, they burn with a brilliant, blinding light—just like your friends did. But eventually, they fade, or sometimes, they go out in a sudden, violent blast." He squeezed Yash's hand one last time before gently guiding him back inside. "But the light they gave remains. Now, let's go downstairs. You need to eat."
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Yash saw his mother standing there, her eyes searching his face. The moment she saw him, she let out a broken sob and pulled him into a crushing hug. She didn't say a word about the accident or the month he'd spent in the dark; she simply wiped his tears with her thumb and led him to the table. For the first time in weeks, the smell of home-cooked food felt like an invitation to live rather than a reminder of what he'd lost.
His parents filled the air with words, desperate to reach him, but Yash remained a statue of silence. He stared into his plate, eating mechanically as if he were just going through the motions of being alive. Sensing his distance, his mother spoke softly, "Yash... Ram isn't doing well. His health has taken a turn. You should go see him." Yash didn't look at her; he tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as if searching for an answer in the shadows. "Hmm... I'll go tomorrow," he murmured. He finished his meal in silence and retreated to his room, collapsing onto his bed.
A jagged flash seared through his mind, and suddenly he wasn't in his bed anymore. He was back on that cold, hard asphalt. He saw Dheeru's mangled form, the road slick and dark with blood. "Save me, Yash... only you can do it," the memory whispered. Yash's tears soaked into his pillow as the guilt crushed the air from his lungs. "If only I hadn't been so reckless," he choked out into the dark. "If I had just reached him sooner... maybe he'd still be here."
After hours of tossing and turning—a mental juggernaut of guilt and memory—Yash finally went still. He lay paralyzed on the mattress, his breath so shallow it was invisible. He didn't move a muscle, staring blankly into the dark as if the life had finally been drained out of him. In the hollow silence of the room, he looked less like a sleeping boy and more like a body waiting to be found.
"I could have saved Vini. I could have saved Dheeru," he murmured, the words like a mantra. He gave a small, sad smile, shaking his head at the empty room. "Destiny? No, that's too easy an excuse." He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs as if preparing for a journey. "Ram is all I have now. I've wasted enough time hiding. I'll visit him in the morning—certainly." He let his eyelids fall shut, and the stillness that followed was no longer catatonic, but peaceful.
AT THE MORNING
"Mom, I'm heading to Ram's house. I'll be back late, so don't worry about lunch," Yash called out. He tugged on his shoes, layering a off white overshirt over his frame—the colour of mourning, yet clean and new. His mother froze, the word Mom echoing in the quiet house for the first time in a month. It was a small miracle. "Yes, go," she managed to say, her heart aching as she glanced at the clock. "But it's only six, Yash. Are you sure?"
"He's struggling, Mom. His asthma is getting worse," Yash said, his voice tight with urgency. He hurried toward the main gate, his footsteps echoing in the early morning quiet. He stopped for a split second, his gaze falling on the bicycle leaning against the wall. His heart hammered against his ribs—the mere sight of the wheels made his breath catch. He didn't have the stomach to touch it, let alone ride it. He turned away sharply and began to walk, his pace fast and desperate, his feet hitting the pavement with a rhythmic, grounded thud.
He walked through a world of shadows, the air biting and still. There was no sign of the sun yet; the world was bathed in a deep, eerie blue that made the empty streets feel like a dream. As he hurried, a secret weighed heavy on his heart. I didn't told mom that I had tried to call Ram twenty times—twenty times the phone had rung into the silence of his room, and twenty times Ram had refused to answer. Only once had Ram's mother picked up, her voice weary as she told him the truth: "His health is too poor, Yash. He can't talk to you."
As he rounded the corner, the world seemed to stop. There, in the dim blue light, was a girl pushing a wheelchair. It was Stuti and Himari. A wave of shame crashed over him—he hadn't seen or even thought of them for an entire month—
Wasn't she the reason for the accident? The thought flared up instinctively, but he crushed it down instantly. "No," he whispered to himself, his heart sinking. "It wasn't her. It was me. I have to stop pointing fingers and just accept the truth."