Kabir unzipped the main compartment of his laptop bag. Pulled out the laptop—carefully, like it might break if he wasn't gentle. Then the second zipper. Charger. Mouse. The Walking Dead mousepad.
He arranged everything on his desk. Laptop in the center. Mousepad to the right. Mouse on top. Charger plugged in, cord looped neatly so it wouldn't tangle. He did this every time. Same order. Same placement. Some people thought it was weird, but Kabir didn't care. There was something comforting about it—the ritual, the familiarity.
He sat down, cracked his knuckles, and opened the laptop.
Left 4 Dead 2. Dead Center campaign. Map two: The Streets.
The loading screen flickered on. He selected his character—Ellis, always Ellis—and the game dropped him into chaos.
Infected everywhere. The common ones stumbling forward in waves, arms outstretched. A Boomer waddling out from behind a car. Kabir shot it before it got close, bile exploding across the pavement.
"Reloading!" Ellis's voice crackled through the speakers.
A Hunter pounced from a rooftop. Kabir spun, fired, missed. The thing tackled him, claws tearing into his health bar. His AI teammates shot it off him.
"Thanks, Coach," he muttered.
He pushed forward, adrenaline spiking every time a horde spawned. Molotovs for clusters. Pipe bombs when things got tight. A Witch sitting in the middle of the street—he crouched, moved around her slowly, holding his breath even though she couldn't actually hear him.
Then a Tank.
"Oh, come on."
The ground shook. The Tank charged, throwing a chunk of concrete that missed by inches. Kabir backpedaled, unloading his assault rifle, switching to the shotgun when it got close. His teammates were somewhere behind him, barely keeping up.
The Tank went down. Kabir exhaled.
He kept playing. Map after map. The mall. The finale in the atrium.
When he finally finished Dead Center, the sun had set outside his window. The room was dark except for the glow of the screen.
His mother's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Kabir! Dinner!"
He blinked, stretched. His back was stiff from sitting too long, but he felt good. Lighter. Like the game had burned off some of the weight pressing down on him.
He went downstairs with energy—actually happy for once.
Dinner was normal. His father was already sitting at the table, his mother serving rice and chicken curry. Kabir slid into his seat, still riding the high from the game.
"How was your day?" his mother asked.
"Good. I finished Dead Center."
His father looked up. "Dead what?"
"Dead Center. It's a campaign in Left 4 Dead 2. My cousin gave it to me."
"Aryan?"
"Yeah."
His father nodded slowly, like he was trying to understand but didn't quite get it. "That's nice of him."
"Yeah, it was."
They ate. His mother asked about school. Kabir told her about History class, about the throwball game. She told him about her day—she'd gone to the market, picked up vegetables, talked to the neighbor about some wedding coming up.
His father didn't say much. Just ate, occasionally nodding along to the conversation.
It felt... normal. Almost like a real family dinner. No yelling. No tension. Just three people eating and talking.
Kabir finished his plate, stood up to take it to the sink.
"Kabir."
His father's voice stopped him mid-step.
He turned. "Yeah?"
"Tomorrow. You leave school at the same time, right?"
Kabir froze. The warmth from earlier drained out of him.
"What?"
"From school. You finish at three-thirty?"
Kabir didn't answer. Just stared.
His father set down his fork. "You do, right? Same time as today?"
Kabir's throat felt tight. He nodded once.
His father nodded back, then stood and walked toward his room without another word.
Kabir stood there for a second longer, then turned and went upstairs.
The energy was gone. The lightness. All of it—just gone.
He tried to do his homework. Opened his notebook, stared at the Math problems, but the numbers didn't make sense. His mind kept circling back to the same question.
Why did he ask that?
Was his father picking him up again? Taking him somewhere else? Another building, another man, another handoff?
Kabir pulled out his diary, flipped it open.
March 31st. 9:45 PM. Father asked what time I leave school. Same as yesterday. I think he's picking me up again.
He closed the diary, shoved it into his bag, and got into bed.
Sleep didn't come.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling fan, thinking. About his father. About Avni. About everything that felt like it was spinning out of control.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under.
The alarm went off at 6:30 AM.
Kabir slapped it off, groaned, dragged himself out of bed. He felt like shit. His eyes were heavy, his body sluggish. He hadn't slept enough—maybe three, four hours.
But then he thought about Avni.
If he went to school, he'd see her. Maybe they'd talk. Maybe she'd stop being weird.
That got him moving.
He brushed his teeth, took a shower, got dressed. His mother helped with breakfast—made parathas, set out chai—but Kabir did most of it himself. Packed his bag. Double-checked his books. Made sure the diary was in there.
He left early, walking instead of waiting for a ride. The school wasn't far.
But the whole walk, his mind was stuck on the same loop.
Why does he want to pick me up again? What's he doing? Where is he taking me?
By the time he reached the school gates, he was frustrated. Tired. Angry at everything and nothing.
Vihaan was waiting near the entrance.
"Yo, Kabir!"
Kabir walked over, dropped his bag on the ground, sat down on the steps.
Vihaan sat next to him. "Dude. What's up with you?"
"Nothing."
"Don't give me that. You've been acting weird for days. Something's going on."
Kabir rubbed his face. "I'm fine, man. Just tired."
"You're not fine. I can see it. You barely talked yesterday. That's not you."
"I said I'm fine."
Vihaan sighed. "Alright. But you know you can tell me stuff, right? Like, if something's happening—"
"I know."
"Okay. Just making sure."
They sat there in silence for a minute. Then Kabir saw her.
Avni. Walking through the gates, backpack on one shoulder, talking to some girl from her class.
Kabir's eyes followed her automatically. He didn't even realize he was staring until Vihaan nudged him.
"Bro."
Kabir blinked. "What?"
"You're staring."
"I'm not."
"You are. And honestly, I'm not gonna stop you because this is kind of entertaining."
Avni walked past them without looking. Went straight to her usual seat—two rows ahead, near the window.
Kabir watched her the whole time.
Vihaan was grinning now. "Dude. Just go talk to her."
"What? No."
"Yes. Go. Now. Before class starts."
"Why would I—"
"Because you've been staring at her like a lost puppy for the last five minutes. And because she's clearly upset with you. So go fix it."
Kabir hesitated.
Vihaan leaned closer, dropped his voice. "Bro. I've seen a lot of things in my life. But I've never seen someone look at another person the way you look at her. Like, I don't know what it is—love, obsession, whatever—but it's there. So go talk to her before you explode."
Kabir felt his face heat up. "I don't—"
"Save it. Go."
Kabir stood up. Walked toward her desk. Stopped next to it.
"Can I sit here?"
Avni didn't look up from her notebook. "No. Go sit with Riya."
Kabir stared at her. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"You're acting weird. Like, really weird. What happened?"
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were sharp. Angry. "What happened? You want to know what happened, Kabir?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"About her. About Riya. About any of it. You just... kept it to yourself. And then when you finally said something, it was only because I asked. You didn't think to mention it before?"
Kabir frowned. "I didn't think it was important."
"Well, it is."
"Why?"
Avni's jaw tightened. She looked away. "Because we're supposed to be best friends. And best friends tell each other things. But you don't. You never do. I told you about my little brother, my family, my first crush—"
Kabir's brain caught on that last part. "Yeah you told me everything about him. How you feel around him. How does he look from your point of view but you never told me who he is."
"That's not the point—"
"You literally just said you told me everything, but you didn't tell me that."
"It doesn't matter right now—"
"It does, though. You're mad at me for not telling you stuff, but you're doing the same thing."
Avni stood up. "The difference, Kabir, is that I was waiting for you to ask. And you never did."
She grabbed her bag and walked to a different seat across the room.
Kabir stood there, frozen.
Vihaan came up behind him. "Well. That went great."
"Shut up."
They sat down. History class started. The teacher—Mr. Sharma—asked a question about the Mughal Empire.
Kabir didn't raise his hand.
Mr. Sharma looked surprised. "Kabir? Nothing?"
Kabir just stared at his desk.
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Yeah. Fine."
"You're usually the first to answer."
"I know."
Mr. Sharma studied him for a second, then moved on.
Vihaan leaned over. "Dude. You okay?"
"No."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
The rest of the day was a blur. Math—Kabir didn't solve a single problem. PT—he played throwball, but his aim was off, his focus scattered. He didn't look at the sidelines once, but he knew Avni was there. Watching. Not cheering.
At lunch, Vihaan sat with him. Avni sat alone on the other side of the courtyard.
Kabir couldn't take it anymore.
He stood up, walked over, sat down next to her without asking.
"Tell me what's bothering you."
"Nothing."
"Then stop acting like this. Sit with us. Like you always do."
"Isn't it my choice where I sit?"
"Yeah, but—"
"Then why are you questioning it?"
Kabir exhaled slowly. "Because you're my best friend. And something's wrong. And I don't know what it is, but I want to fix it."
Avni looked at him for a long time. Then she said, "The problem isn't Riya. Or the fact that you dated her. The problem is that you didn't tell me. We're supposed to be best friends, Kabir. I tell you everything. My little brother breaking windows, my family stuff, my first crush—"
"You still haven't told me who he is."
"You never asked!"
Kabir opened his mouth. Closed it. "Wait. What?"
"You. Never. Asked." She said it slowly, like she was talking to a child. "I told you I had a crush. I waited for you to ask who. And you never did."
Kabir's brain was working overtime, trying to piece it together. "So... you're mad because I didn't ask?"
"I'm mad because you don't care enough to ask."
"That's not—"
Avni stood up. "Forget it. Just... forget it."
She walked away.
Kabir sat there, completely lost.
Vihaan came over. "What happened?"
"I have no idea."
"Did she say anything?"
"Yeah. That I never asked her who her crush is."
Vihaan's eyes widened. "Oh."
"What is she even talking about?"
Vihaan just shook his head, grinning. "I don't know man. Maybe you'll figure it out."
The final bell rang.
Kabir packed his bag slowly, dreading what came next.
He walked out of the school gates. Looked around.
His father's car. Parked in the same spot as yesterday.
His father waved.
Kabir's stomach twisted, but he walked over anyway. Because he needed to know. Needed to understand what his father was doing.
"Hey," his father said. "How was school?"
"Fine."
Kabir got in the car without hesitation this time.
His father started driving.
They didn't speak. Not a word. Just the sound of the engine, the traffic outside, the radio playing some old song neither of them were listening to.
After about twenty minutes, his father turned off the main road onto a smaller one. The buildings got shabbier. The streets narrower.
Then they pulled into a large open area—a transport yard. Trucks everywhere. Big ones, small ones, tempos, lorries. Some were parked neatly in rows. Others were scattered randomly, like someone had just abandoned them.
The ground was dirt mixed with gravel, pitted with potholes filled with muddy water. There were a few makeshift sheds along the edges—corrugated metal roofs, open sides, men sitting inside smoking beedis or playing cards.
The smell hit Kabir immediately. Diesel. Grease. Something burnt.
His father parked near the edge of the yard, away from the main cluster of trucks.
He turned off the engine. Looked at Kabir.
"Stay here."
"Where are you going?"
"Just... stay in the car. And be careful. Keep the doors locked. Don't talk to anyone."
"Why—"
"Kabir." His father's voice was firm. "Stay. Here."
He got out, locked the car from the outside, and walked toward one of the sheds.
Kabir sat there, alone, surrounded by trucks and strangers and the suffocating smell of diesel.
And he waited.