Page 11 of Dream On, Liar

He hesitated, clearly uncertain where my interrogation was leading him. “Since…I don’t know? As long as I can remember.”

It wasn’t his fault.

The thought pushed in, unwelcome in a familiar voice.

It wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t mine. Clearly, and still I held onto it like a railing I didn’t trust.

“Right,” I said finally, the word flat. Silence stretched again, thinner this time. “Well, it’s for me. So, I’m just going to...”

I didn’t wait for a response. I turned toward the curved staircases, deliberately choosing the one furthest from him. The closer one would’ve meant brushing past his shoulder, breathing the same air for too long. Not happening. Not when everything inside me threatened to explode.

I took the steps two at a time, pulse kicking hard, like my body hadn’t decided which way to run. By the time I reached Dev’s door, I barely made a sense of what I was doing before pushing it open, already inside, like distance alone could quiet the noise clawing up my chest.

It couldn’t.

It wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t his fault.

My heart was splitting itself down the middle, fighting two battles I didn’t know how to name—only that I was losing both.

My hands moved before my head could catch up, rifling through drawers, shelves, anything that would justify me being here when I spotted Ma’s journal.

My fingers closed around it, grip tightening like I was afraid it might vanish if I hesitated. I didn’t check if it actually belonged to her, or was another one like Raina. Didn’t question why Dev had it when it was supposed to be with Vedant. I just took it.

Good enough.

More than enough.

I turned on my heel and walked out, faster this time, the room shrinking behind me like it wanted to swallow the evidence of me being there. The hallway stretched long and narrow, and for a split second, my gaze snagged on the door across from Dev’s.

My childhood bedroom.

The handle gleamed, untouched. Closed. Like it had sealed itself the day I left and decided that was the end of it. Nothing that held importance to me no longer held a space behind those closed doors, all packed and kept in storage for the day I felt brave enough to let myself unravel about what became of my childhood.

Instead of taking a step towards it, I took the stairs. Each step sharp, deliberate. By the time I reached the bottom, Ishaan was exactly where I’d left him, like he hadn’t dared move. Like this house had assigned him a place and he’d learned not to step outside it.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Up close, the resemblance was worse. Same height. Same shoulders. Echoes in bone and posture, diluted just enough to be irritating. To be undeniable.

Strangers, stitched together by someone else’s choices.

I didn’t trust my voice to come out clean, so I didn’t try. I just headed for the front door, hand already reaching for the handle—

“Rihaan?”

I turned back slowly, every movement measured, like something might snap if I did it too fast.

For a second, he hesitated. Not long. Just enough to make it obvious he was choosing his words carefully.

“Happy belated birthday.”

The sentence landed awkwardly between us, too light for the weight in the room. Too practised, like he’d been holding onto it since the moment I walked in, maybe even longer, waiting for the right moment that never really came, and all I could do was nod.