On the other side of the city, Aryan sat alone, phone pressed tightly to his ear, heart pounding as he made a call he had avoided for too long.
Lia answered.
Her voice was tired. Guarded. As if she already knew this conversation would hurt.
Aryan didn't waste time. He said he hadn't wanted to tell her before. He said he thought hiding it would protect her. But he couldn't keep lying anymore. He couldn't keep carrying this alone.
He told her the truth.
He told her that Zayan wasn't replying to Zayan's messages.
He told her that every single reply—the careful words, the late-night texts, the reassurance—had been him. Aryan. Pretending. Filling the silence so no one would panic too soon.
He told her he replied to every letter she wrote to Zayan. Every question. Every desperate "are you okay?" that Lia sent into the void.
Because Zayan had already vanished.
Aryan's voice cracked as he said it felt like Zayan had run away from home the same day they all left him. The same day everyone decided distance was easier than presence. And no one noticed how quietly he disappeared.
Aryan admitted he didn't know where Zayan was.
He said the neighbors only remembered seeing Zayan leave. Just leave. No bags. No fight. No goodbye. And no one—no one—had seen him come back.
Lia's breath hitched.
Her phone slipped slightly in her hand as the truth settled in. Her heart felt like it was shattering in real time, breaking into pieces she knew she would never be able to collect again. Her soul felt hollow, scooped out, like something precious had been stolen while she wasn't looking.
Her voice came out broken, barely recognizable.
She whispered Zayan's name like it was a prayer. Like saying it enough times might bring him back. Like the sound of his name might somehow reach wherever he was hiding and remind him that someone was still waiting.
But deep down, Lia knew something terrifying.
Zayan hadn't just left a house.
He had left everyone.
And the worst part—the part that clawed at her chest and refused to let go—was the realization that he hadn't run away angrily.
He had run away quietly.
Like someone who didn't expect to be chased.
Her voice cracked as she spoke.
It wasn't a dramatic crack—there was no shouting, no crying at first. It was the kind that slips, barely noticeable, like glass fracturing under pressure. Lia asked softly, almost afraid of the answer, if Aryan knew where Zayan was. She asked if he was alright. She asked if he was safe.
Aryan didn't answer immediately.
That silence told her everything.
She swallowed hard and tried again, forcing strength into her voice, asking if maybe Zayan was with his parents. Maybe they had taken him with them. Maybe he was finally back where he belonged. Maybe this was all just a misunderstanding.
Aryan exhaled slowly, like someone preparing to deliver a wound instead of words.
He told her the truth.
He said Zayan's parents had called. They asked about Zayan—where he was, what he was doing, whether he had said anything. And Aryan, for the first time, hadn't softened his words. He told them they had no right. No right at all to ask about someone they had abandoned so easily.
"I said you have no right to ask about him now," Aryan admitted quietly. "Not after everything."
Lia paused.
Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles ached. There was a strange relief in hearing that—relief mixed with bitterness. She told Aryan he had done the right thing. She said people like them didn't deserve a child like Zayan. A boy who learned to survive without warmth, without protection, without being chosen.
"They don't deserve someone like him," she whispered.
Aryan agreed.
And then there was silence.
Not the kind filled with static or background noise—but the kind where both people are thinking the same thing and are too afraid to say it out loud. The kind where words feel useless because nothing can undo what's already happened.
They both wanted to speak.
They both had so much to say.
But no words came.
Finally, Lia broke the silence. Her voice was steadier now—not because she was okay, but because something inside her had hardened. She said she was coming. She said she couldn't stay where she was anymore, pretending everything was fine. She said they would find Zayan together—because alone, the thought was unbearable.
"I'll come to your place," she said. "We'll look for him. Together."
She explained she would come tomorrow. She said she'd ask her parents for permission. She didn't say why she needed to go, because she already knew what they'd say. She only asked Aryan if he was okay with her coming.
Aryan nodded, even though she couldn't see it.
When the call ended, Lia lowered the phone slowly.
Her parents allowed her to go—but they didn't ask questions. And that silence hurt almost as much as resistance would have. It told her they didn't understand what this meant. They didn't know that this wasn't just about finding someone.
It was about guilt.
It was about regret.
It was about the fear that they had all failed him, one by one, quietly, without realizing it.
Lia sat on her bed, staring at nothing, replaying every memory of Zayan. Every ignored message. Every "he'll be fine." Every time she assumed he was stronger than he actually was.
Somewhere out there, Zayan was breathing, living, existing without them.
And the most terrifying thought of all crept into her chest and refused to leave:
What if he didn't want to be found?
What if disappearing was the only way he knew how to survive?
She pressed her hand to her mouth, holding back a sound that threatened to escape—because once she started crying, she knew she wouldn't stop.
And in another part of the city, Aryan sat alone in the dark, phone lying face down beside him, realizing something that made his chest ache unbearably:
Zayan hadn't just run away.
He had erased himself.
And now everyone was chasing a ghost they helped create.