Just A Friend?

Chapter Eleven

It had been three weeks since Sweety vanished, and in that time, Prabhas had spiraled into a near-madness that left everyone around him deeply concerned. He had withdrawn completely, barely acknowledging Teju or even his own parents. Days passed in a haze of despair, and nights were spent locked away in his room, where the only light came from the dim glow of his cigarette as he took long, bitter drags.

Sridevi watched helplessly as her once-vibrant son became a shadow of himself. She had tried everything to pull him back from the edge. Comforting words, warm meals, even pleading with him to talk to her but nothing seemed to penetrate the fog of sorrow and guilt that enveloped him. He seemed lost, unreachable, and it broke her heart to see him in such a state.

Sridevi herself was not immune to the heavy burden of guilt. She regretted the way things had unfolded, the way she had failed to protect Sweety, to be there for her when it mattered most. She missed the girl's infectious laughter, her sweet voice that had always filled the house with joy, and her radiant smile that could lift anyone's spirits. The warmth that Sweety had brought into their lives was now gone, leaving a cold, empty void that nothing could fill.

Ragu was equally distraught, though he tried to remain strong for his wife. Every day, he watched as she cried quietly, her tears a reflection of the guilt that gnawed at her soul. Ragu would hold her close, whispering reassurances he didn't quite believe himself. He knew, deep down, that they had both played a part in Sweety's departure. They had given her false hope, only to watch as it crumbled around her, leaving her heartbroken and alone.

It was a somber Sunday, the kind that felt heavy with the weight of unshed tears and unspoken regrets. Teju arrived at Prabhas's house, her usual confidence wavering as she stepped into a space that now seemed to reject her presence. Prabhas's parents greeted her with forced smiles, their eyes betraying the unease they felt in her company. They didn't approve of her being there though they wouldn't say it out loud, the awkwardness hung in the air like an uninvited guest.

With hesitant steps, Teju made her way toward Prabhas's room. She knocked twice, the sound muffled by the thick, oppressive silence that had taken hold of the house. There was no response. Unease curled in her stomach as she tried again, but still, nothing. Worry gnawed at her insides, compelling her to twist the door handle. It gave way easily, opening to reveal a scene that stopped her cold.

The air inside was thick with the acrid scent of stale cigarette smoke, the remnants of countless smoked cigarettes strewn carelessly across the floor. The room felt suffocating dark curtains drawn tight against the world outside, the faint light that managed to seep through casting eerie shadows across the cluttered space.

And there, in the midst of it all, sat Prabhas. His once vibrant eyes were hollow, lost in a world of their own making. His face was gaunt, framed by a haphazard growth of unshaven beard that only served to emphasize the deep sorrow etched into his features. He sat on the edge of his bed, his back hunched, staring intently at something in his hands.

Teju's breath caught in her throat as she approached him. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, hoping to draw him back to the present, but he didn't even flinch. His gaze remained fixed on the object in his hands, his fingers clutching it with an intensity that spoke of desperation.

Teju's eyes drifted down to see what held his attention so completely. It was a photo frame, the glass smeared with the traces of tears. Inside was a picture of Sweety, her eyes sparkling with life, her smile radiant as the sun.

Prabhas sat on the edge of his bed, the room shrouded in the haze of his own desolation. The worn photo of Sweety was cradled in his hands, the image of her radiant smile the only light in his otherwise bleak existence. His thumb traced the contours of her face through the glass, as if hoping to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his touch, to draw some semblance of life from the photograph. His eyes, hollow and distant, were fixed on the memory of a time when everything had felt right, when his world had revolved around her unspoken presence.