Bhagya grinned and came back to his senses.
The grin was brief, thin as a cut, and gone almost as soon as it appeared, but Arvin noticed. He always noticed now. Something in his friend's face, in the strange stillness that followed, left Arvin's stomach uneasy.
Bhagya brushed it off like nothing had happened, like the grin had been nothing but a flicker of distraction. But Arvin kept watching, silent, remembering what he shouldn't have read—the scattered pages of Bhagya's diary he'd found few days ago. Words scribbled in a restless hand, lines about dying and waking, about mirrors that spoke, about bodies. Pages that left Arvin sweating under his sheets at night, unsure if his friend was writing delusions… or truths too dark to say out loud.
And worse—the night Bhagya crashed at his house. He remembered how Bhagya had fallen asleep in his clothes, but woke the next morning in a different shirt altogether. That memory still clung to him like a burr he couldn't shake.
But he never dared admit it. He was too afraid of what Bhagya might say… or do.
Days bled together. Classes, conversations, shared meals. Yet beneath it all, Arvin felt a shift. Bhagya wasn't just the quiet, unlucky boy anymore—he was different. His silences stretched longer, his eyes sometimes drifting to nothing as if watching a second world the rest of them couldn't see.
Finally, one afternoon, Arvin pulled Anaya aside while Bhagya lingered at the far end of the hall.
"Just… be cautious around him," Arvin whispered. His voice was tight, low enough that only she could hear. "Don't let him notice. Don't push him with questions. Lately, he's been—different."
Anaya frowned, her gaze flicking toward Bhagya. "Different...how? He just seems…tired."
Arvin shook his head. "It's more than that. That night he came over, he slept in one shirt, woke up in another. And I—" He stopped himself before confessing the diary. The shame of having read it still burned in his chest. "Just trust me. Keep some distance when you can."
Anaya's brows furrowed, but she nodded slowly. She didn't argue, though she wanted to. Something in Arvin's tone made her swallow her questions.
That evening, classes stretched later than usual. The sun had already begun its descent by the time the last lecture ended, painting the campus in a rusted orange glow. Students spilled out of the hall, eager to get home.
Bhagya stood near the steps with Arvin and Anaya, his expression unreadable. After a pause, he turned to her.
"You should leave early," he said. His voice was firm, almost cold. "It's late. Better get home before it's darker."
Anaya hesitated. Normally, she might have teased him for worrying. But Arvin's words from earlier lingered in her head. So she only nodded, quietly, and walked off without a question.
When she was gone, the air grew heavier.
Bhagya wrapped an arm around Arvin's shoulder, casual at first glance—but the grip was iron. His voice dropped, low and cutting.
"You found my ID near one of those gangsters' bodies, right?"
Arvin froze. His breath hitched.
"What are you talking about? I—I don't know anything…" His voice cracked.
There were no eyes on them now, no crowd nearby. Bhagya's expression shifted—grin gone, replaced with something colder. He snapped, shoving Arvin against the wall with one hand on his throat.
"Don't lie to my face." Bhagya hissed. "I'm warning you. Say a word about this to anyone, and you won't just be in trouble. Your loved ones will be, too."
Arvin's heart hammered. He clawed at Bhagya's hand, nodding frantically. "Y-Yes. I won't. I swear."
For a moment, Bhagya's stare held him pinned like an insect on a needle. Then the grip loosened, and Arvin stumbled back, gasping, his throat raw. Bhagya stepped away as if nothing had happened.
"Go home," he said flatly. And then he walked off into the dimming streets.
Fifteen minutes later, Arvin still hadn't moved far. He sat frozen on a bench near the gate, trembling, his mind a mess of fear and disbelief. The bruise around his neck throbbed with every heartbeat.
Then his phone rang.
The name on the screen made his stomach twist. Bhagya.
His fingers shook as he pressed accept. For a few seconds, he couldn't even form a word. His breath was shallow, waiting for the next threat.
But Bhagya's voice came calm, almost casual.
"Arvin, are you home?" A pause. "Send me the assignment from a few weeks ago. Please."
Arvin's throat closed. He wiped at his eyes quickly, his voice breaking as he forced out: "O-Okay."
The line clicked dead.
Arvin sat there, phone heavy in his hand, tears slipping down his face. The call had been so normal, so ordinary. But the warning from minutes ago still rang louder than anything else.
He curled forward, holding himself as the last light drained from the sky, and for the first time he realized—he was afraid not just for Bhagya. He was afraid of him.