And I know exactly what she’s thinking.
She remembers. The conversation she overheard—with me and Ishika.
I nod solemnly. “Tad bit, yeah.”
She pushes out of the chair like it’s suddenly on fire. Like stillness is costing her something vital—her control, maybe.
She turns to face me, and for a split second, I catch her eyes. They’re unreadable. Hardened like always. But under it—God—there’s something too close to love. If I weren’t semi-drugged and stitched up, I think I’d have dropped to my knees.
“Greesha,” I say, my voice rasping. “I’m... sorry.”
She winces.
Eyes shut. Jaw clenched. Like this apology is the only one she’s ever allowed herself to accept. And it hurts to hear it.
“I never wanted to burden you with this,” I add. “It’sover. Please... believe me.Please.”
But she’s already walked too far from the bed, past the reach of my hand. Past the reach of comfort.
Her eyes open slowly. Those impossibly dark eyes that go golden in sunlight. Right now, they’re pleading. And I hate it.
“Don’t,” she croaks. Then clears her throat, steadying herself. “Don’t ever do it again.”
And I don’t know if she means the bullet or the overdose. But it doesn’t matter. The way her voice almost breaks—I understand either way.
The real hit comes when she whispers again.
“Please.”
A single word. Small. But it cracks like a faultline. Draining everything from me.
Itcostsher to say it—I can tell. It’s not a demand. Not a threat. It’s a goddamnprayer. And I’m not sure I deserve it.
The most I can do is nod. But even that isn’t something I’m able to summon. I’m not speechless. I’m just... unable to provide the solace that I once could, to her. Even without words.
So I bow my head. Like it might count for something. Like she might see it as an oath.
She turns to leave.
But just before the door swings open, she pauses in the threshold—shoulders rigid, back still to me. Hand on the knob.
And then, so quietly I almost think I imagined it, she says:
“I don’t do grief. Ican’t. So you don’t get to die.”
And then she’s gone.
TWENTY-ONE
Aadya
The moment I step out of Advik’s room, the panic I’ve been holding in doesn’t even get the dignity of settling.
Because standing there—back straight, face carved with what looks too much like heartbreak—is Vir.
I don’t have the energy for this. Not today.
“Not now,” I rasp, startled by how hoarse my voice sounds.
