────────

The ocean's colours on your face.

────────

⚠️ TW : mention of self harm ⚠️

Please DO NOT READ if this may be triggering for you in any way.

I have been through this and trust me, i get how triggering and traumatic it can be. I may not have done justice to this chapter, because obviously, Ishanvi's problems are different from mine, but if anyone read this, i hope it wasn't too bad—

The night felt colder than usual. Ishanvi sat on the floor of her dorm room, her back pressed against the bed, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her parents' words rang in her ears like an unrelenting storm, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"You're not trying hard enough."
"You're always disappointing us."
"Why can't you be like everyone else?"

Her hands trembled as she held the blade from the pencil sharpener she had disassembled earlier, her breathing uneven. The pain in her chest felt unbearable, an ache so heavy that she didn't know how else to let it out.

When the first line appeared on her forearm, a sharp sting followed by a slow, steady warmth, she exhaled shakily. But it wasn't enough. So she did it again. And again. And again. Until her forearm had a series of continuous, bloody streaks.

Suddenly, a knock shattered her haze. It was firm, insistent.

"Ishanvi, open the door."

Her heart stopped. It was Nitish.

She stared at the door, panic rising. She didn't want him to see her like this—not this broken, not this lost. But the knocks came again, and this time, his voice was softer, pleading.

"Ishanvi....I know something's wrong. Please, just open the door."

Her hand hovered over the fresh wound on her arm as blood began to bead and trickle down her wrist. With shaky legs, she stood and walked to the door. Her free hand fumbled with the lock before she finally pulled it open.

Nitish stood there, his expression shifting from worry to horror the moment his eyes landed on her arm. The blood. The blade still loosely held in her fingers.

"Oh my god, Ishanvi," he breathed, stepping inside without hesitation.

Before she could say anything, his hands gently but firmly took hers, prying the blade away and tossing it onto her desk. His touch was careful, as though he was afraid she might shatter completely if he held on too tight. He inhaled a deep sigh as he ran his hand softly over the cuts.

She let him.

"What did you do?" he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. He guided her to sit down on the edge of her bed, kneeling in front of her. His dark eyes searched hers, filled with a mix of pain, worry, and something achingly tender.

"It's nothing," she muttered, trying to pull her arm away, but he held it, firm yet gentle.

"This is not nothing," he said, his voice low but steady. His fingers brushed against the wound, and he winced as though it were his own pain. "Ishanvi, why....why didn't you call me?"

Tears streamed down her face as she finally broke. "I couldn't," she choked out. "You wouldn't understand. Nobody understands."

He grabbed the edge of her blanket, pressing it gently against her bleeding arm to stop the flow. "Try me," he said softly, his voice unwavering. "Tell me. Please."

She shook her head, her sobs growing louder. "They hate me, Nitish. They think I'm a failure. No matter what I do, it's never enough. I just... I just wanted to stop feeling like this, even for a second."

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, without warning, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She felt the warmth of his embrace, the steadiness of his heartbeat against her own erratic one.

"Ishanvi," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "you are not a failure. You're not. And you don't have to carry this alone. Do you hear me?"

She clung to him, her tears soaking into his shirt. "I don't know what to do anymore, Nitish. I feel so lost."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands cradling her face. "You're not lost," he said firmly, his eyes locking onto hers. "You're here. You're with me. And I'm not going to let you go through this alone, okay? Whatever it takes, I'll be here. I promise."

The rawness in his voice broke something inside her, but in its place was a flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

He stood and rummaged through her desk, finding a first-aid kit. Carefully, he cleaned and bandaged her arm, his movements slow and deliberate. Every touch was gentle, as though he wanted to take her pain away with each press of his fingers.

When he finished, he sat beside her, pulling her close again. They stayed like that, the silence between them heavy but comforting.

After a while, he spoke. "You know," he began softly, "the ocean has this way of healing everything it touches. The waves, the salt... they remind me of you."

"Me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Yeah. You feel everything so deeply, and sometimes it's messy, but that's what makes you so... beautiful. You're strong, Ishanvi, even if you don't see it. And I'm going to keep reminding you until you do."

Tears welled in her eyes again, but this time, they were different. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming warmth of his words. She leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't feel alone.