Chapter 5: The Page I shouldn't Touch

“You want me to come to your flat?”

It came out more awkward than I intended. Like he’d invited me for a date, not a desperate printing errand.

Aarav avoided eye contact and scratched his neck.

He always did that when he was nervous. Not that he’d admit it.

> “Relax. It’s not some suspicious Netflix special,” he said, forcing a chuckle.

“My printer died again. Yours worked fine last time. I need to print out the research file by tonight.”

“I’ve got chai. Good lighting. And emergency snacks. That’s a win, right?”

> “You’re bribing me with chai?” I asked, crossing my arms.

> “And cookies. Top shelf.” He raised an eyebrow. “Limited edition. Strawberry cream.”

I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips anyway.

> “Fine. But if I see horror movie lighting or cursed dolls, I’m leaving.”

> “Understood. No creepy twins in hallways. Got it.”

---

The elevator creaked to a stop on the 9th floor.

His flat was at the end of the hallway—door slightly chipped, paint faded.

When he unlocked it, I instantly understood something:

This place didn’t feel like home.

It was clean, yes. Neat. Minimal.

But too minimal.

No family pictures. No clutter. No warmth.

Just white walls, pale curtains, and the soft hum of a lonely ceiling fan.

The only thing that looked alive was the small bookshelf crammed with sci-fi novels, thick textbooks, and half-filled sketchpads.

> “Wi-Fi’s acting up again,” he muttered, fiddling with a loose cable near the router.

“You can sit. Chai’s on the stove. I’ll fix this before we lose the last brain cell we share.”

> “You have brain cells?” I asked, settling on the couch.

> “One or two. They sleep a lot.”

He disappeared into the kitchen.

I glanced around.

The silence was louder here.

Almost like the walls had seen things. And never forgot.

---

I leaned back into the couch—

Thud.

Something slipped between the cushions and dropped near my feet.

I bent down.

A diary.

Black leather. Edges worn. The kind that’s been read more times than it should’ve been.

On the bottom corner, barely visible in fading ink: A.M.

Aarav Malhotra.

Something inside me said don’t open it.

But something else—something quiet and curious—said:

Maybe you’ll understand him.

And that voice won.

---

The first page was simple.

> “For the ghosts that never left.”

“And for the truth I’m not brave enough to say.”

I turned the page.

It wasn’t like a diary.

It read more like… thoughts spilled on paper. Words written in moments he never spoke out loud.

> “Everyone says it was an accident.”

“But fire doesn’t spread that fast.”

“Glass doesn’t break like that.”

I felt my chest tighten.

This was about the night.

The night that silenced half his world.

> “We were in the car. Mom was driving. Dad was teasing her about road signs.”

“My little sister was next to me.”

“She had a chocolate bar in her hand. It melted before she could finish it.”

My hands froze.

He had a sister?

I remembered now—

He’d once told me, weeks ago.

“She’s... still breathing. In a hospital. Coma.”

He’d said it like it didn’t matter.

But this…

This mattered.

> “I was behind her. I remember the way she laughed at Dad’s bad joke.”

“Then a flash. A sound. Like thunder and metal and screams, all at once.”

> “When I opened my eyes, the windshield was gone. So was half the car.”

> “Mom didn’t move.”

“Dad wasn’t breathing.”

> “And she—she was slumped over, chocolate still in her lap.”

A tear rolled down my cheek before I noticed.

---

I turned the page.

His handwriting was shaky now.

Some words were scratched out. Some written over and over again.

> “It wasn’t an accident.”

> “I saw a man walk away. Calm. Almost like he was waiting for the explosion.”

“He turned the corner. Never looked back.”

I gasped.

He saw someone?

Did someone plan this?

I flipped again.

> “They said the brakes failed. But we had a service two days before.”

“They said it was a fuel leak. But I smelled nothing.”

“They said it was fate.”

“I say it was murder.”

I couldn’t breathe.

> “She’s still alive.”

“Breathing through machines. Sleeping through time.”

“She doesn’t know they’re gone. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she won’t wake up.”

I closed my eyes.

He’s been carrying all of this.

Every day.

Smiling.

Joking.

Pretending like he didn’t remember the sound of his sister’s laughter before the world caught fire.

---

“Rhea.”

I jumped.

Aarav stood in the doorway, holding two mugs of chai.

And staring directly at the diary in my hands.

---

For a long moment, no one moved.

The clock ticked behind us like it was holding its breath too.

Then he stepped forward.

Quietly.

Gently placed the mugs down.

And extended his hand.

I gave him the diary.

He didn’t open it.

Just held it like it was a part of him. Like letting someone else see it took something out of him.

> “Some pages,” he said softly, “aren’t supposed to be read out loud.”

> “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

“I didn’t mean to… I just…”

He shook his head.

> “It’s okay.”

“You read it. You didn’t laugh. You didn’t run.”

“That’s already more than most.”

I blinked away tears.

> “Your sister…” I began. “She—”

> “Still fighting,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Her favorite word was ‘someday.’ So I still visit her and tell her stories. In case she’s listening.”

> “And the man who—”

I paused.

He looked at me.

Eyes suddenly sharper.

> “Some truths,” he said, “aren’t ready yet.”

---

Later, when I left his flat, I didn’t say much.

But that night, I sat on my bed and cried for someone I’d never met.

A girl who should’ve woken up with chocolate on her hands.

And a boy who carried all the pain for everyone else.