Sunlight, sharp and celebratory, poured onto the university lawn, a stark contrast to the heavy black fabric of Dakshin's graduation gown. It felt less like an achievement and more like a costume for a play he no longer wanted to be in. As he stood with the throng of students, the dean's voice booming through the speakers was a distant drone. He was supposed to feel like he was standing on the precipice of his future. Instead, he felt like he was standing at a graveside.
His name was called. He walked the stage in a dream, a forced smile plastered on his face as a stranger handed him a diploma tube. The applause that washed over him felt meant for someone else—a brighter, more whole version of himself he had left behind in a library years ago. The hollow thump of the president's handshake was the sound of a door closing.
After the ceremony, the air was filled with the chaotic joy of proud families and relieved graduates. His own parents were there, his mother beaming, his father's pride tinged with a new, permanent wariness. They took pictures. He smiled. He performed the role of the Successful Graduate perfectly.
It was then that Warda found him. Her own gown seemed to hang a little looser, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
"So this is it," she said, her voice soft amidst the din.
"It is," he replied.
"I… my flight to London is next week. For my master's." She looked down, then back up at him, her gaze holding his for a long moment. "It's going to be hard to stay in touch. With the distance… new lives… you know."
He did know. He saw the unspoken words in her eyes—the quiet affection she had always carried, the hope she had gently set aside. She had been a constant, a quiet harbor in his storm, and now she, too, was sailing away.
"I know," he said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. "Good luck, Warda."
She stepped forward and hugged him, a tight, fierce embrace that felt more like a goodbye than a congratulations. "Be happy, Dakshin," she whispered into his shoulder.
And then she was gone, melting back into the crowd, a splash of black and gold disappearing forever.
He stood there, the phantom warmth of her hug fading quickly. The hollow feeling inside him expanded. Warda was gone. Anaya was gone. Everyone was moving, graduating, launching into their futures. He held a diploma that felt like a bookmark placed at the end of a tragic story, and ahead of him lay only empty, blank pages. The cap on his head was a crown of thorns, and everyone he cared about was gone.