The melodies you had been working on with him still lingered in the studio, your lyrics sprawled across sheets of paper, his guitar leaning against the couch. For the first time in a while, everything between you and Krish felt steady—close. He was laughing more, humming without thought, letting you scribble words into his world of sound.

Then the police arrived.

Their stern voices cut through the warmth of the music, asking for him, mentioning his father. You watched the color drain from Krish’s face as he stepped outside, and you followed, heart uneasy.

The sight of his father slumped in the back of the police car, drunk, snapped something inside him. The officers handed the man over with a warning, and left.

Krish’s jaw tightened, shoulders trembling as he dragged his father out by the arm, shoving him to the pavement. You flinched when his voice tore through the night.

“Take it! Take all of it!” He threw a bundle of crumpled notes at the man’s chest. “Drink yourself to death for all I care. I wouldn’t care if you never woke up again!”

His father’s eyes were glassy, lost. But Krish didn’t look twice. He turned, storming past you without a word, his footsteps echoing with a finality that left you frozen in place.

You stood there in the cold silence, staring at the scattered money, at the man left crumpled on the ground. A knot of concern and helplessness twisted in your chest. Krish wasn’t cruel—not really. He was breaking.

That night, you searched for him. Somehow, instinct guided you to the old playground near his building, and there he was. Floodlights buzzed weakly above as he swung a bat, hitting ball after ball into the emptiness. Every hit was too hard, too desperate, as though each crack of the bat might silence the storm raging inside him.

You didn’t call out. You just stood there for a moment, watching him. His face was shadowed, sweat at his temples, his breaths sharp and uneven. He didn’t look at you—didn’t dare.

So you walked closer, each step soft against the gravel, until you stood at the edge of the field. He swung again, the ball flying off into the dark, and his grip tightened like he’d never let go.