He slung his bag back on and turned toward his department building.
They didn't talk about it anymore, but the training had never really stopped.
Shivam still practiced MMA in the evenings, tucked in the backroom of a Rohini gym with peeling posters and damp mats. His younger brother Dikshant had joined too, half as bonding, half as therapy neither of them would admit to. The bruises were part of the routine now.
Naina had picked archery as her college elective. Said it was for credit points, but everyone knew better. Her aim had only sharpened. There were whispers she hit bullseye on moving targets during practice, but no one dared ask her how.
Aanchal had joined a local martial arts class and somehow convinced them to let her bring a practice sword. It wasn't a katana, but it felt familiar in her grip. Sometimes, she texted pictures of bruises on her wrist with captions like "felt that one in the soul."
Aman, always the calmest, had gone the old-school way. Laathi training. Early mornings in a nearby park, under the guidance of a retired ustad who didn't care why he wanted to learn. He just showed up. That was enough.
Shivam adjusted the strap on his bag, walking slowly up the stone steps. A gust of wind pushed some loose dust into the air. He blinked once, and for a second, he saw a different sun, a broken tower, a white-blue sky from a different world.
He blinked again. Just campus. Just Delhi. Just heat and noise.
We called it fitness. But it wasn't.
Some part of them still believed they might need it again. That maybe… this world wasn't done breaking yet.
When someone, once in a while, slipped, mentioned the floating rocks or the way Navik fell, everyone else would grow quiet. Not angry. Just… silent. Like they'd all just remembered something they'd promised not to.
That silence always said more than any memory could. By the time the sun began dipping behind the dusty flyovers, the campus had thinned out. Students wandered toward metro gates in small groups, laughing over chai stalls or checking their phones for missed calls. Shivam sat on the stone ledge outside the café, gym bag slung on one shoulder, shirt clinging slightly from sweat. The ache in his arms from evening practice hadn't dulled the edge in his mind, not today.
Aanchal's scooty was already parked at its usual spot near the metro parking. She was wiping the side mirror with a tissue, muttering something about Delhi dust and cursed trees.
Aman leaned on the metal railing nearby, scrolling through his phone while absentmindedly sipping a juice box he'd picked up. Naina appeared a few seconds later, swinging her archery bag across her back and cracking her neck.
"Remind me again," she said, dropping her bottle into the dustbin, "why we voluntarily spend our evenings turning into action figures?"
"Because therapy's expensive," Aman offered.
"Because some part of us is still messed up," Aanchal added more lightly, smirking.
Shivam didn't respond. He just stared toward the campus gates, distracted. And then she walked in. Bhumi.
She moved quietly, like she always had, not dramatic, not invisible either. Her pastel Kurti caught the last gold streak of the evening sun, and her laptop bag was worn at the edges. Her smile was small but real as she approached the group.
"Hi, Naina. Hey Aanchal. Aman."
Her voice hadn't changed. Calm. Clear. Familiar in the way a half-remembered song could be.
Naina smiled back. "Hey, Bhumi. Didn't see you all day."
"Classes were packed. Lab got extended," she said, adjusting the strap on her bag.
Aanchal turned toward her, teasing, "Class again with this guy? You sure you'll survive?"
Bhumi glanced at Shivam for a second, just a flicker. "I'll try," she said, lips twitching into a half-smile.
He didn't answer. Didn't even nod. But their eyes met for a second, not cold, not hostile. Just… heavy. Like a door cracked open that neither of them had walked through yet.
The rest of the group talked casually, about the heat, the day's classes, some meme someone sent. Bhumi lingered for a moment, then waved softly and headed toward the footbridge.
Shivam watched her walk away, silent.
"I always feel that something about her looking like Adhivita's mother is a bit off" he said quietly, almost to himself. "Like... actually a bit Unsettling. And now she's here? In my class? My course? Why does no one else find this weird?"
Aman shrugged, not unkindly. "Maybe it's not weird to them. Maybe it is, and they're pretending it's not."
Shivam didn't say anything. His fingers tapped the strap of his bag, restless. Aanchal was already unlocking her scooter, and Naina was fumbling with her car keys. Life, apparently, was moving on.
But something in him didn't want to move with it. Not yet.
They told themselves that life had gone back to normal. That the story was over. But some stories don't close. They just pause, waiting to bleed into the next page.