The day began with clouds—not in the sky, but in Karthik's mind.
He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, staring at his own reflection. The boy staring back was no longer the one who hid behind shadows. But he wasn't entirely out of them either.
His thoughts had become louder lately. Not darker, not cruel. Just louder.
"Why would she stay with you?"
"Are you really enough for her?"
"What happens when she realizes she deserves someone better?"
He splashed water on his face, willing the voices to quiet.
Downstairs, the house was alive with the aroma of dosa and filter coffee. His mother was humming an old Ilaiyaraaja tune. The scent, the sound, the familiarity—grounded him.
But the doubts still lingered like a whisper.
School felt like a blur. He saw Ananya in the hallway between periods, waving to him with that smile that had once terrified him, now a comfort he craved.
They met at the terrace during lunch. Their unofficial, private spot.
"You look tired," she said, unwrapping her lunchbox.
"Didn't sleep much," he replied. "Brain was noisy."
Ananya gave him a knowing look. "Voices again?"
He nodded.
"I have them too, you know," she said, passing him a piece of her paneer roll. "They say things like 'You'll disappoint everyone,' or 'They only love the idea of you.'"
Karthik looked at her, surprised. "But you're always so confident."
"I perform confidence. Same way you perform quiet. Doesn't mean it's all true."
He stared at the half-eaten paneer roll in his hand.
Ananya scooted closer, her voice softer now. "You're not broken, Karthik. You're human."
He didn't respond, but the tension in his shoulders softened. He leaned his head against hers. She let it rest there.
A cool breeze passed through the terrace, lifting strands of her hair. Neither of them moved to brush it away.
After school, he walked home alone, but the noise in his head had lessened.
Ananya didn't fix him.
She didn't try to.
She just stood beside him.
That evening, Karthik sat at his desk and opened his sketchbook. It had been weeks since he'd drawn anything. The pencil moved slowly at first. Then steadily.
A sketch began to form—Ananya on the terrace, smiling in the wind.
There was no shadow in the drawing. Only light.
END OF CHAPTER 134