Shadow and Ember

Morning didn’t feel like morning.

Sunlight filtered through the window, but it didn’t reach Adarsh’s heart. He had been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling — not thinking, not sleeping. Just… existing.

The message from the unknown account still sat in his phone, unread since last night.

"Hey… I heard your name somewhere. You okay?"

No.

He wasn’t okay.

He hadn’t been okay since the moment Kunal said those words. Since the moment he saw the chat screen go from "online" to "blocked."

A sigh slipped from his chest, quiet and broken.

He pulled the blanket over his head. The walls were closing in again. The guilt didn’t just sit in his stomach anymore — it lived in his bones. He kept remembering Kunal’s voice. The warmth in it. The laughter. The stupid nicknames.

And then the hurt. The betrayal. The silence.

He had destroyed something beautiful.

Not because he was evil.

But because he was desperate to feel something.

Because he thought he could control the lie.

Because he was lonely.

And now?

Now, he couldn’t even look in the mirror.

He got up anyway. Stumbled to the bathroom. Splashed water on his face like that would wash away the grief.

“You’re disgusting…” he muttered to himself, jaw tight.

“Gay and a liar.”

The words stabbed deeper than any insult from others.

He hadn’t come out to anyone. No one knew. Not properly.

And now, after everything, he wondered — maybe this was punishment. Maybe this was karma’s way of telling him: “You don’t deserve love.”

He didn't even have a friend left to call.

Just his own head. And that head wasn't kind.

His fingers hovered over the mysterious message again.

He clicked on it.

"Hey… I heard your name somewhere. You okay?"

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t delete it either.

Hours passed.

He scrolled through old photos. Kunal’s blurry selfies. Screenshot conversations. Voice notes.

Then stopped at one.

A short video. Kunal was laughing — mouth open, eyes crinkled. Adarsh remembered recording it without Kunal knowing. Just watching him laugh.

He pressed play.

"Abe pagal, stop recording— I look like a monkey!"

The voice broke him.

Tears slipped down again, silent.

He tossed the phone aside. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

But the screen didn’t break. Neither did the pain.

He went outside again. Barefoot. In his old hoodie. The wind stung his skin but at least it felt real.

This time he didn’t walk far. Just to the park near his house. Sat on the cold bench. The world moved around him — joggers, dogs, children — all like he didn’t exist.

Maybe he didn’t anymore.

The stranger hadn’t messaged again. But their message still echoed in his head.

"You okay?"

What a stupid question.

No, he wasn’t okay.

But maybe that question wasn’t about fixing.

Maybe it was about being seen.

And for a boy like Adarsh, right now, being seen — even once — felt like something close to warmth.

He returned home.

Late that night, in the safety of his dark room, he unlocked the chat again.

Adarsh: “Why do you care?”

He sent it.