Chapter 8: Picking Up the Pieces

Rohan left.

For the first time, I left him speechless.

Before he left, he flew into a rage and overturned the package of Arjun’s belongings on the table.

The thunk of the box hitting the wood echoed through the flat, startling the old wall clock into chiming the half hour. Rohan slammed the door behind him so hard the Ganesh idol on the TV stand wobbled. Only then did I breathe again.

Arjun exploded instantly.

"See? He’s already smashing things and nothing’s even happened yet. What about in the future?"

"Meera, he has a violent streak. You absolutely can’t marry him."

He nagged, clearly trying to change the subject.

There wasn’t much in the package.

A few photos, a glass jar filled with folded paper stars.

Nothing of much value.

But seeing the glass jar shattered and the red stars rolling everywhere—

Arjun looked heartbroken.

I knew these stars. In the first year of high school, he begged me to teach him how to fold them.

He said he wanted to fold 520 stars and give them to the girl he liked before the board exams—as a confession.

I refused.

Mocked him for being cheesy, laughed at him for being like Bhima with a needle and thread.

"Who’d want that kind of confession these days?"

He blushed and told me to mind my own business, saying he was into old-fashioned, pure love.

So many years passed.

I never knew who he gave that jar of stars to.

Nor did I know who anonymously sent me these things.

Though, for a moment in the bathroom just now, I’d wanted to ask—

But seeing Arjun picking up the stars one by one, as if he wished he could come back to life—

My curiosity vanished instantly.

The red stars looked like tiny, crumpled hearts scattered across the table. My hands moved of their own accord, collecting them gently, as if by saving these little things, I could save something bigger—something already lost.

Arjun hovered beside me, watching each star I picked up. His expression softened, the cocky schoolboy replaced by something quieter, almost tender.

"I’ll do it."

I found a box, swept the stars into it, and ignored his nagging like an old aunty.

I turned and went back to my room.

But when I closed the door, I saw him walk through the wall after me.

"Why’d you come in?"

He paused, his tone natural. "It’s raining hard outside. I remember you’re afraid of thunder."

My heartbeat stuttered.

I stared at his face.

Until he scratched his head awkwardly and looked away.

But it was winter in Pune now. There was no thunder.

"And you’re a ghost. I’m more afraid of you than thunder."

The silence between us was soft, tinged with an old affection, an unspoken longing. Even ghosts, it seemed, could be shy.

Arjun…