The Actor Who Never Was

Ayaan stared at the piano in the school's music room as if it were some sacred relic.

Mrs Keating, the music teacher, had left it open during the free period, promising to be back in ten minutes. The room smelled faintly of sheet music and dry erasers. Posters of Mozart and Whitney Houston lined the walls. There were maracas in a bin and a lonely tambourine on the chair beside him.

He looked down at his hands—small, quick, smooth. His fingers hovered over the ivory keys.

In my last life, he thought, these fingers held rejection letters and audition scripts. In this one, they barely reach middle C.

He pressed a key. A low note echoed in the quiet. Then another. Slowly, carefully, he tapped out a melody—part muscle memory, part emotion. No lyrics. Just feeling.

But after a few bars, his left hand faltered.

The melody broke.

This body doesn't remember what mine did.

Frustrated, he curled his fingers into fists and set them on his lap.

Behind him, someone clapped—just once.

"Whoa. That sounded really good."

It was Zoey.

Zoey's Pov

She plopped down next to him like she'd been there the whole time.

"You always sneak in here when it's quiet?"

Ayaan shrugged. "I like it better when no one's watching."

She tilted her head. "You ever do that thing where you imagine yourself in a music video? Like—your life's a sad song, and you're walking in the rain or something?"

He didn't smile. But something about the way she said it—like it was a confession—made him look at her differently.

"You imagine that a lot?" he asked.

Zoey looked away. "Only every day."

She hesitated, then dug into her backpack and pulled out a tiny flip notebook. She flipped it open and held it out.

On the page was a drawing. A house. A girl in the window. A car driving away.

Above it, a single sentence:

"Mom says it's not my fault, but I don't believe her."

Ayaan stared.

"You too?" he asked softly.

She nodded. "You never talk about your mom either."

They sat in silence—two kids carrying grown-up heartbreak.

Zoey closed the notebook and tucked it back inside. "My dad in rehab. Again. Mom says we're fine. She lies like it's her job."

Ayaan looked at her for a long moment.

"Wanna hear something weird?"

"Always."

"I feel like I'm older than I look. Like, way older. Like, I've been through all this before. And I still don't know what I'm doing."

She smiled—sad and genuine. "Yeah. You talk like you've seen too much. I kind of like it."

For the first time, he smiled back.

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That night, Rishi Malhotra stayed late at the office, but he came home early enough to hear his son's bedroom light still on.

He knocked gently, but there was no answer.

Ayaan was asleep, curled sideways, clutching a spiral notebook to his chest.

Rishi stepped inside, careful not to wake him. He reached for the blanket to pull it over his son—but paused when the notebook slipped free and fell open.

A drawing had been tucked between the pages: crayon and pencil. A rough sketch of a small boy holding a microphone on stage, with lights pouring down and a crowd sketched in shadowy outlines.

The boy had tears in his eyes. His mouth was open mid-song.

Behind him, floating in the background, were two blurry figures: one with long hair, arms crossed, the other seated, hands covering his face.

Rishi looked closer.

He recognised the figure with its hands on its face.

It was… him.

Below is the sketch, written in simple lowercase:

If they heard me, would they stay?

He folded the notebook gently. His throat tightened. There was so much he didn't know. So much he'd missed while drowning in his pain.

Ayaan wasn't just "acting out." He was trying to be seen.

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The next morning, Ayaan found a surprise on the dining table:

A set of old sheet music.

He picked it up carefully. It was for a simple arrangement—"Yesterday" by The Beatles.

A sticky note rested on top.

Your mother used to sing this one with you.

If you want, I can help you learn the chords. –Dad

He stared at the words. They weren't perfect. But they weren't distant either.

That night, Rishi brought his old acoustic guitar out from the closet. He hadn't touched it in years. His fingers fumbled the first few chords, but Ayaan watched closely, absorbing everything.

When they reached the third line, Ayaan sang it softly—just above a whisper.

Rishi looked up in surprise, then said nothing.

They played the whole song twice—no small talk. No past. Just music between them.

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In the days that followed, music became their shared language.

Ayaan wrote short verses. Rishi taught him chords. Sometimes, Zoey joined them after school with her notebook, humming along or suggesting lyrics to accompany them.

Raghav still felt like a man trapped in a child's life, but he no longer felt like he was pretending to be one. He was learning to become.

This time, there were no casting calls. No spotlight. There is no fame to chase.

Only feeling.

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One Sunday evening, Ayaan played the part of Amnesia again, his voice now more assured.

As he finished the last line, he glanced at his dad—who had stayed by the door the whole time this time, not hiding.

Rishi clapped once. Just once. But it meant everything.

"That... that was beautiful."

Ayaan looked at him and asked, "Do you miss her?"

His father blinked, then nodded. "Every day. But I think... you're helping me remember the good parts."

Ayaan turned back to the piano. He didn't answer right away.

Then softly:

"I think music helps me forget the bad ones."

His father sat beside him, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.

And for the first time in two lives, Raghav Malhotra played not to be seen, not to be cast, but to be understood.

End of Chapter 4