You'll be okay, Sharma.
The first thing I hear is the truck.
A low, steady rumble slipping into the quiet of the night, cutting through the dead air like a blade.
I almost don’t register it. My body is too heavy, my head too full of static. But something—instinct, dread, something old and aching—won’t let me ignore it.
My fingers twitch against the blanket. My breath sticks in my throat. A familiar, sick feeling coils in my gut.
No.
I push the blanket off, sit up too fast. The room tilts, my skull throbs, my stomach knots itself into something sharp—but none of it matters.
Because I already know.
I knew the second I opened my eyes. I knew last night, when he didn’t text me back. I knew when he didn't even pick my call.
I ruined everything.
He lost his everything.
He was already planning to leave.
I just didn’t want to see it.
I stagger toward the balcony door, breath tight in my throat, and then—
Amit’s house.
A truck parked in front. The porch light off. The taillights glowing red.
Leaving.
A slow, sick feeling curls around my ribs. No.
No. Not now. Not after everything.
Not after I finally told him. Not after I ruined everything.
My feet hit the floor before I can think, before I can stop myself. My hands shake as I shove my feet into my shoes, don’t bother with the laces, barely register the sound of my own breath—sharp, uneven, too fucking loud.
I throw the door open, step into the night—
And for a second, I think I see it.
Just barely.
A flicker of red, a sliver of movement at the far end of the street.
A truck.
I could run.
I could run.
I could stop him.
I could apologize.
The thought slices through me like lightning, too fast, too sudden, too real. My legs tense, my pulse slams into my throat.
If I move now—if I just try—
But I don’t.
I don’t.
I don’t know why. I don’t know why my feet stay frozen to the pavement, why my hands stay clenched at my sides, why I don’t scream his name until my lungs bleed.
And then the moment is gone. The street goes still.
The truck is gone.
Amit is gone.
He’s gone.
The house across the street is dark. Hollow. A ghost of what it was yesterday. Like something living has been ripped out of it.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until my hands clench into fists. Until the cold air burns my throat, sharp and unforgiving. I should move. Go back inside. Go back to bed.
But I just stand there.
Waiting for something—anything—to prove me wrong.
But I was wrong once.
I thought he’d stay.
I thought—even after everything, even after I broke him, even after I ruined everything—
He wouldn’t leave.
But he did.
My legs give out. I don’t fall—I sink, knees hitting the pavement, breath torn out of me.
And that’s when I see it.
A guitar case.
Sitting on my doorstep, like a ghost of him, like a piece of him left behind in the wreckage.
My breath catches. My chest caves in.
I don’t need to look to know whose it is. I’ve seen it too many times. I’ve held it too many times.
Amit never played. Not once. He just handed it to me, leaned back, and listened. Tapped his fingers against the case like he was the one who knew how to make it sing. Like he had all the time in the world to sit there and pretend this wasn’t something bigger than both of us.
But not tonight.
Tonight, it’s here.
But he isn’t.
Because of me.
Because of what I did.
Because of what happened that day—because I should have stopped him, I should have stopped him, I should have stopped him—
No, I shouldn’t have told him.
If I could only shut my fucking mouth—
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing my thoughts to shut up, to slow down, to stop fucking screaming at me.
But then my hands drop, and I see it.
The note.
It’s been there the whole time, taped to the front, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
I don’t want to read it.
But I already know what it says.
But then I notice something.
The tape isn’t straight. The edges are curling. Like he put it down. Then hesitated. Then picked it up again. Then stuck it back.
Like he wasn’t sure if he should leave it at all.
My fingers shake as I pull it free, smoothing the creases, tracing the familiar slant of his handwriting.
"You'll be okay, Sharma."
The words blur. I blink hard, but it doesn’t help.
My throat locks up. The cold seeps into my bones.
I won’t be.
How can I?
When you’re gone.
When it’s my fault.
When I made you go.
