Chapter: The Weight of a Tired Heart

(Rajan's POV)

Love. What a cruel, beautiful thing.

Everyone thinks I'm noble.

They look at me like I'm some kind of tragic hero—someone selfless, someone brave. I've heard it all before:

"You gave your heart to save someone you loved."

"You're proof that pure love still exists in the world."

"If only more people were like you."

But I'm not a noble man. I'm just… tired.

Tired of feeling so much. Tired of hoping, giving, breaking, and still waking up in a world where love is never as simple as it should be.

Even this new world—the one they call peaceful, the one united by something mysterious and greater than war—even here, love feels just as heavy. Maybe heavier. Maybe because I've carried it from one life to another like a shadow sewn into my skin.

I remember dying. I remember my chest cracking open like the earth itself split for her. I remember signing my heart away for someone who never even knew the depth of my love until I was gone.

I thought when I died, I'd finally find rest.

But I didn't.

---

I woke up in a body that felt too warm, too alive. A college ceremony. Familiar faces. Kabita smiling from the crowd. My name on the graduation list.

At first, I was confused. Then terrified. Then angry. And now… now I'm just numb.

It's been days since I woke up in this parallel world, but the ache hasn't faded. My memories are intact. My past life clings to me like a second skin I can't peel away. It's exhausting.

I thought I would be grateful to be alive again. I thought I would chase after her all over again. But the truth is—I don't know if I can.

Because somewhere between that hospital bed and this second chance, something inside me died. Not just physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

I gave everything to love. I gave me.

And when you give someone everything—your loyalty, your silence, your sacrifice—and they never even look back… it leaves a wound that no resurrection can heal.

---

Now there's this book. This eerie, skin-like thing on my shelf. I didn't ask for it. I didn't find it. It found me.

First it was empty. Just blank pages and a texture that made my spine itch—soft like flesh, cool like stone.

Then, one night, a page appeared. Words etched themselves out of nowhere, glowing faintly in the moonlight like a whisper I wasn't supposed to hear:

> "Find your true love. She is your key."

What key? What lock? What truth?

I don't care.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Because truth be told… I don't want to search anymore. I don't want to fall again. I don't want to give someone my heart just to watch them hold it like a glass they didn't ask for, waiting for it to drop.

I want peace.

Not romance. Not drama. Just silence. Just rest.

Is that so much to ask?

---

People always assume that those who love deeply want to keep doing it. That sacrifice is like a superpower—once you've done it once, you can keep doing it again.

But love isn't some endless spring you can drink from without cost.

It takes pieces of you. It uses you up.

And I don't know how much of me is even left to give.

---

I still see her. Kabita.

She looks different in this world. Not on the outside—her face is the same. But in her eyes, there's a storm now. A haunting. Like she remembers something, or maybe just feels it in her bones.

She's been kind. Quiet. Observing me like she knows something I don't.

I wish I could meet that softness with warmth. I wish I could reach out and tell her everything. But every time I look at her, I remember the silence of that white hospital room, the sound of my own heartbeat slowing as the doctor whispered "We have a donor."

I remember loving her from the shadows. And dying there, too.

---

Maybe that's what hurts the most.

Not that I died. But that she never knew.

I don't want to fall again. I don't want her to know me now because she's ready to. I wanted her to know me then. When it mattered. When I was real, not just a memory stitched into her second chance.

So now, I keep my distance. I play the part of the neighbor, the classmate, the friendly smile.

But the truth?

I am a battlefield pretending to be a man. And my heart—whatever is left of it—no longer knows how to beat for someone else.

---

Do I still want love?

Yes.

Yes, I do.

God, how I want someone to see me—not the sacrifice, not the story—but me. The boy who waited. The man who gave up. The soul who woke up in a world that doesn't make sense.

But I want love that is given freely. Not because some book said I'm "the key." Not because a past life is suddenly remembered. Not because someone feels guilty.

I want a love that chooses me. Even when they don't have to. Especially when they don't have to.

And if that's too much to ask… then maybe I'll stay tired. Maybe I'll stay alone.

At least loneliness is honest.

---

Let the book whisper. Let the world spin its riddles.

I'm done chasing ghosts.

Let love find me—if it dares.

.

.

Just as I let out a long sigh, staring blankly at the book with its eerie, skin-like pages tucked away on my shelf, my phone buzzed.

[Group: O.G. Gangsters - 7 Unread Messages]

I blinked.

That name. I'd forgotten how stupidly we named the group back in college—Ravi, Simran, Zayed, Priya, Anmol, and me. In this version of the world, they were still here. Still my friends. Still... annoyingly cheerful.

I tapped the screen.

Ravi:

Yo, people! FINAL PLAN—We go for that cliffside picnic spot on Sunday! No excuses. We've ALL earned this post-grad escape.

Zayed:

Yesssss. I'm bringing hookah and regrets. Mostly regrets.

Simran:

Also, we're not calling it a "picnic." We're calling it a "Soul Rebirth Retreat." Sounds fancier.

Priya:

Should we invite Kabita too? She was part of the group back then, right?

That last message made my thumb freeze mid-scroll.

I hadn't seen Kabita in the group chats yet. She'd kept her distance just like I did—probably for reasons only she could explain. Or maybe… maybe she remembered too. The thought scratched at the inside of my skull like a whisper I didn't want to hear.

Another ping.

Ravi (again):

Rajan, say something man. You in or what? Don't pull a philosopher monk act on us again.

I let out a soft, involuntary laugh.

Even in this world, Ravi still knew me too well.

---

I stared at the phone for a long minute, debating.

A picnic. On the outside, it was just a day in the sun, a blanket, food, laughter, maybe some music, and Ravi being ridiculous as usual.

But for me?

It felt like stepping into a play I no longer had the heart to perform in.

And yet… some part of me was curious.

Could I still be that person? The boy who cracked jokes, who let the sun hit his face without flinching? The boy who didn't carry memories of death, sacrifice, and hollow hearts?

I didn't know. But I wanted to find out.

I typed slowly.

Me:

Yeah. I'm in.

Three seconds later:

Ravi:

WHAAAAAAT THE DEAD HAVE RISEN HALLELUJAH

Zayed:

Somebody write this in the history books.

Simran:

Okay okay, chill. Everyone be ready by 7AM sharp Sunday. I swear to god, if one of you shows up with hangover breath…

The chat exploded in emojis and memes.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, I wasn't the tired heart.

I was just Rajan. The guy going on a picnic.

I leaned back, phone still in hand, and glanced toward the bookshelf. The book's cover was still. Silent. Watching, in its own strange way.

Whatever this world was—whatever riddles it held, whatever horrors whispered through its mirrors and locked corridors—I would face them.

But not today.

Today, I was just a friend.

And maybe, just maybe, that was a start.