Armaan sat in the quiet of his thoughts, the ticking of the clock on the wall his only company. Abhira had left for the client meeting, handling a case that had required all her focus, leaving him alone in the silence of the house.

His family’s recent accusations still echoed in his mind, each word a weight pulling him deeper into a well of frustration and pain. He had been the perfect son, the one who worked tirelessly for the family firm, yet here he was, isolated by the very people he had devoted his life to. Adding to his trouble was Dev Shekhawat.

Unable to sit still with the storm of thoughts raging inside him, he decided to do something, anything to take his mind off it.

"Might as well clean up a bit," he muttered to himself, grabbing a cloth and starting to dust the living room.

As he worked his way through the shelves and tables, his eyes fell on an old wooden drawer tucked away in a corner he hadn't really noticed before.

Curious, he pulled the drawer open, revealing a tattered sketchbook, its edges yellowed with age. The leather cover was soft from years of handling, and something about it tugged at the corners of his memory. As he flipped it open, his breath hitched. The first page was a delicate sketch of a woman holding a baby, her eyes soft with love, cradling the child close to her chest. The baby’s small hand reached out, as if grasping at her warmth. Beneath the sketch, in the lower right corner, were the initials “S & A.”

He frowned, flipping through more pages, each one more tender and full of life. Sketches of the same baby in different poses—sleeping, giggling, being bathed by the mother—filled the pages. The tenderness, the care, the affection in every stroke of the pencil made his chest tighten. His heart pounded, and he traced his fingers over the initials again.

S & A.

Suddenly, a flicker of a memory bloomed in his mind like a faint light in the darkness.

His mother.

He had a faint memory of her sitting with him on the floor of their old house, drawing, sketching, and painting random things while he scribbled next to her. He could almost hear her laughter, her voice calling him her little artist as they sketched side by side. She loved sketching. Yes, she did.

His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, the sketchbook slipping from his hands. He remembered now. His mother had been fond of sketching, and those initials— S & A—they were their's, Shivani & Armaan, his mother and Him. She had always signed her sketches that way. These were her works, pieces of her soul she had left behind, and all this time, he hadn’t even known they existed.

Armaan’s chest heaved as the dam of emotions broke open, memories flooding his mind. She had sketched him, her baby, immortalizing those precious moments of his childhood. And here they were, hidden in a forgotten drawer, as though waiting for him to rediscover them. He hadn’t thought of his mother’s art in years, burying the memory deep in his heart after her death.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he pulled the sketchbook closer, his fingers tracing the image of the mother holding her child. His breath caught as his fingers caressed the mother’s face, almost as if he could feel her touch through the paper. His lips quivered, and a single tear slipped down his cheek, falling directly on the “S & A” mark, smudging the ink slightly.

“Mumma…” The word escaped his mouth in a broken sob, raw and full of longing. It was as though the years of holding it all in had finally come crashing down. The house, usually full of Abhira’s warmth and laughter, felt empty, echoing with the memories of a mother he had lost too soon.

He felt a deep ache in his chest, and before he realized it, he was gathering all the old sketchbooks, the albums, the letters, everything that had been stuffed away in that drawer. His hands shook as he cradled them in his arms, his heart racing with a mixture of sorrow and bittersweet joy. These were his mother's memories, her legacy.

With trembling legs, he stood up and made his way to his room, clutching the items as if they were the most precious things in the world. He shut the door behind him and sank onto the bed, pulling the blanket over himself like a protective cocoon. Safe in that small space, hidden from the rest of the world, he opened the first album.

The photographs were old, their edges frayed, but they held within them the story of his childhood. There was a picture of his mother holding him when he was a baby, her face lit up with pure joy, her eyes full of love as she looked down at him. Another showed him as a toddler, sitting in her lap with his tiny hands covered in paint, both of them laughing. The memories came rushing back, vivid and painful in their clarity.

He flipped through page after page, seeing his own life laid out before him. His first steps, his first day of school, his birthday parties—each moment carefully preserved by his mother. And with each image, he felt her presence again, as if she was sitting next to him, whispering in his ear, telling him stories of the days they had spent together.

But it was the sketches that undid him the most. There was one of him as a toddler, sitting on the floor, a crayon clutched in his small hand, scribbling on a piece of paper. His mother sat beside him, sketching something else, her smile soft and warm. He traced the lines of her face with his finger, wishing he could reach into the past and hold her, just one more time.

His tears fell freely now, soaking the pages, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. It was as if he was reconnecting with a part of himself he had long forgotten, a part that had been lost when his mother passed away. The grief he had buried so deep, the pain he had refused to face, all of it came rushing back in waves, crashing over him until he was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Mumma…” he whispered again, his voice cracking as he held the sketch of the mother and baby to his chest, clutching it like a lifeline. He felt like that baby again, lost and longing for his mother’s embrace, wanting to be held, wanting to be loved. The weight of everything—the accusations from his family, the burden of expectations, the pain of feeling abandoned—became too much.

But wrapped in the blanket, with the sketches and photographs surrounding him, he felt her presence. And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to grieve, to miss her, to wish for the comfort only she could give.

As he lay there, tears soaking the blanket, Armaan whispered into the silence, “I miss you, Mumma. I miss you so much.”

And though the house remained quiet, he felt her in his heart, in every stroke of the pencil, in every memory she had lovingly preserved. And somehow, through the pain, he felt a little less alone.

Armaan for long time did not move, his body cocooned under the blanket, but his heart felt unbearably exposed. The flood of memories, the images of his mother’s love, washed over him, breaking the dam he had built all these years. He clutched the sketches tighter, his tears soaking into the soft paper. His mother’s face in the drawings, so tender and full of love, was a stark contrast to the life he had lived after she passed.

After her death, everything had changed. He had been just a boy, lost in a world that suddenly felt too big, too cold. Fate had taken him to the Poddar Mansion—his father, Madhav, had insisted it was the right thing to do. He had been told it was his new home, that they would care for him, but the Poddar Mansion never felt like home.

How could it, when he wasn’t allowed to even miss her?
When he wasn’t allowed to grieve?

The first few months had been the hardest. He had cried himself to sleep almost every night, the ache of longing for his mother so intense that it felt like he was suffocating. But in that house, those tears were unwelcome. Dadi sa, with her sharp gaze and harsh words, had made it clear from the beginning—his mother was not to be spoken of.

“She wasn’t one of us,” Dadi sa had once remarked coldly, her voice dripping with disdain. To the Poddars, especially to Dadi sa, his mother was an outsider, someone who didn’t belong in their world of rules and legacies. Armaan had quickly learned to bury his feelings, to push down the pain, to forget the mother who had loved him so dearly.

But how could he forget? He had felt so lost, so broken, longing for her touch, her embrace. He would have given anything to hear her voice just one more time, to feel her arms around him when the weight of the world felt too much to bear. But it never happened. He was alone, truly alone, in a house full of people who saw him as nothing more than a reminder of a woman they didn’t care for.

The Poddar Mansion, with its grandeur and its rules, had smothered any chance of healing. His childhood there had been cold, distant, devoid of the warmth he saw in these pictures now. He stared at the albums, the sketches, and a painful realization gripped his heart: he had never been one of them. He was an outsider, even in his own home. He had tried so hard to fit in, to be the son they wanted, but it had never been enough.

The comparison hit him like a punch to the gut. In these pictures, with his mother, he was happy, carefree, loved. There was a glow in his mother’s eyes when she looked at him, a light that made him feel like the most important person in the world. But in the Poddar Mansion, that light had been snuffed out. He had been just another member of a family that saw him as a duty, not as someone to be cherished.

He closed his eyes, the tears slipping down his face as he whispered to himself, “I was never one of them. I never belonged.”

The only people who had ever truly been his own were his mother and now Abhira. They were the only ones who had ever loved him without conditions, without expectations. His mother, with her sketches and her tender affection, and Abhira, with her unwavering support, were the only two who had ever made him feel like he mattered. And yet, even now, a part of him felt unworthy of their love.

A bitter thought gnawed at him:

If only his mother had been alive, his childhood would have been different.

He wouldn’t have spent years feeling like he was walking on eggshells in a house that didn’t love him. He wouldn’t have grown up trying to earn the affection of a family that always held him at arm’s length. If she had been there, his life would have been filled with warmth, with love, with the kind of joy he had seen in those sketches.

A fresh wave of grief washed over him, and his hand trembled as he lifted the sketch of his mother holding him as a baby. His fingers brushed over her face, the strokes of the pencil so delicate, so full of life. He stared at the picture, his vision blurred by tears, and in a voice that was barely a whisper, he asked, “Why did you leave me, Mumma? Why couldn’t you stay?”

His voice cracked, and a sob tore from his throat, raw and guttural. “Why did you leave me alone? I needed you… I needed you so much.” His chest heaved as the sobs overtook him, his whole body trembling with the force of his grief. He held the sketches to his heart, clutching them like a lifeline, as if by holding them tight enough, he could bring her back, even for a moment.

“Why didn’t you stay?” he cried hysterically, his tears wetting the sketches, his heart shattering all over again. “I was so lost without you, Mumma. I didn’t know what to do, I still don’t. I needed you… I still need you.”

His cries echoed through the room, each one a plea to the mother he would never see again. He curled up on the bed, hugging the sketches and albums close to his chest, as though they could fill the empty space her absence had left in his life. The pain was unbearable, suffocating, but for the first time in years, he let it out. He let himself cry for her, for the life he had lost when she died, for the childhood he had spent feeling unloved, unworthy.

And though his tears wouldn’t bring her back, for the first time, Armaan allowed himself to feel the depth of his grief. To miss her openly. To mourn the loss of the one person who had ever truly been his own. His sobs eventually quieted into soft whimpers, but his heart ached with every breath, the pain of her absence raw and unrelenting.

But wrapped in the memories of her love, he clung to the thought that, no matter how far she was, her love still surrounded him. She was still with him, in every sketch, every memory. And for that, he let the tears fall, whispering, “I love you, Mumma. I’ll always love you.”

Armaan wiped his tear-streaked face, his body still trembling from the emotional breakdown. But as he glanced around, his eyes fell on the old diary he had found earlier. It was tucked in the drawer along with the sketches, its pages yellowed and worn with time. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he had the strength to relive more memories, but something pulled him toward it, an instinct to know more about the mother he had lost too soon.

With shaky hands, he opened the diary. The familiar, neat handwriting greeted him, his mother’s voice almost tangible as he began to read the words she had penned all those years ago.

___________

“Today, I found out I’m pregnant. I can barely contain my joy, I feel like my heart is going to burst. My little baby, my love… I haven’t even met you yet, but I already love you more than I ever thought possible. I dream of holding you in my arms, of seeing your tiny face and feeling your heartbeat next to mine. You are my miracle, my light in this world.”

Armaan’s heart squeezed painfully as he read the entry. He could almost picture his mother, a radiant smile on her face, writing these words with a heart full of hope and love. Her happiness seeped through the ink, and for a moment, he could feel her presence again—alive, joyous, and excited for the life growing inside her.

He turned the page, reading further, his breath catching as he came to another entry.

_________

“You were born today, my precious baby. September 7th, the day my world changed forever. The moment they placed you in my arms, I thought my heart would explode. You were so tiny, so perfect. I kissed your little forehead, and you scrunched your nose in the cutest way. I couldn't help but laugh, even as tears filled my eyes. My heart is overflowing with love for you. How could something so small make me feel like the luckiest person in the world? You’re my everything.”

Armaan’s fingers traced the words as if he could feel the love that had been poured into them. His mother had loved him fiercely, unconditionally, from the very first moment she held him. He could almost see her, cradling him in her arms, kissing his forehead, and laughing at his tiny scrunched-up nose. His chest tightened as he tried to remember that feeling—the warmth of being in her embrace, but the memory was faint, blurred by time and the pain of losing her.

________

“Today, you said your first word: ‘Mumma.’ Oh, how my heart soared! You looked at me with those big, innocent eyes and called me by the name I had longed to hear. ‘Mumma.’ It was the sweetest sound in the world, and I’ll never forget it. I scooped you up and kissed you all over your chubby little cheeks. You kept saying it, as if you knew how happy it made me. You, my love, are my greatest joy.”

A sob escaped Armaan’s lips as he read those words. He had been so small, so innocent, and yet he had made her so happy with just that simple word—"Mumma." The word echoed in his mind, a connection to a time when he had been loved so purely, so deeply. He could imagine her scooping him up, showering him with kisses, her laughter ringing in his ears. But that joy, that sense of belonging, had been taken from him far too soon.

________

“Today was your first birthday. We didn’t have a big party at home, but we celebrated at the orphanage. I wanted to share the love I have for you with other children who didn’t have as much. You were so happy, running around with the other kids, sharing your toys, laughing. My heart swelled with pride watching you. I wanted you to grow up knowing how important it is to share love, to be kind, to be compassionate. You’re only one, but I already see the goodness in your heart.”

Armaan’s throat tightened. He had no memory of that birthday, but the way his mother had described it, it was clear how much she had cared about teaching him values. She had celebrated him by sharing joy with others, by spreading love. It was such a stark contrast to the cold, emotionless birthday celebrations at the Poddar Mansion—grand affairs filled with people, but void of warmth.

__________

“Your first day of play school… oh, my poor baby. You didn’t want to go. You cried and screamed, clinging to my legs, begging me not to leave you. My heart broke into a thousand pieces, but I had to let you go, even though every part of me wanted to hold you close and never let you out of my sight. You’re so small, so fragile, and the world can be so big and scary. But I’ll always be there for you, my love, even when you’re out of my arms.”

Armaan’s vision blurred as tears filled his eyes again. He could almost see the scene—his tiny hands gripping his mother’s legs, terrified of being separated from her. He had cried because he had known, even then, that she was his anchor, his safe place. The pain of that memory, of knowing he had lost the one person who had always been there for him, was unbearable.

______

“I have so many dreams for you, Armaan. I want you to grow up strong and kind, to follow your heart, to be the best version of yourself. I dream of you becoming a man who knows the value of love, of family, of compassion. I want you to be happy, to find your own path in this world. And no matter where life takes you, always remember—you are loved. More than words can say, more than you’ll ever know. My love for you will be enough to guide you for the rest of your life.”

Armaan couldn’t hold back the sobs that shook his body. His mother had poured all her love, her hopes, her dreams for him into these pages. She had wanted him to live a life full of happiness, love, and kindness. But after she had gone, all of those dreams had seemed so distant, buried under the weight of grief and the cold indifference of the Poddar family.

He clutched the diary to his chest, feeling like a child again—small, scared, and lost. His mother had been his anchor, his everything, and without her, he had drifted through life, trying to find something that could fill the void she had left behind. His heart ached with the weight of that love, a love that had been lost but never truly gone.

The house was unusually quiet when Abhira returned. Normally, Armaan would be there to greet her, his smile warm and welcoming after a long day. But today, the silence felt heavy, as though the air itself was weighed down by something unseen.

"Armaan?" she called softly, stepping inside. There was no response, no sound. Her heart began to race, a sudden fear creeping up her spine. The house felt empty, lifeless, and her mind spun with possibilities—none of them good.

She rushed through the living room, her eyes scanning for any sign of him. Her breath hitched when she heard it—a muffled sound coming from their bedroom. At first, it was so faint that she thought she had imagined it. But then it came again, louder this time.

Abhira’s heart pounded in her chest as she followed the sound. Pushing the door open, she was met with a heartbreaking sight. Armaan was huddled under the blanket, his body shaking with sobs. The cries were gut-wrenching, raw, and unlike anything she had ever heard from him. Fear gripped her—what had happened? Had he been hurt? Had something gone terribly wrong while she was away?

But she knew, deep in her heart, that what Armaan needed now wasn’t panic, wasn’t fear. He needed her, just as he always did when the weight of the world became too much for him to bear. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself, and walked toward him.

Slipping her hand gently under the blanket, Abhira’s fingers searched through the warmth until they found his—cold, trembling. She held on, gripping his hand tight, offering her silent support.

The moment Armaan felt her touch, something inside him stirred. It was as though her presence had pierced through the fog of his despair, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in his grief. He yanked the blanket down, his tear-streaked face coming into view. His eyes, bloodshot and swollen from crying, met hers, filled with an unbearable sorrow that sent a shock through her heart.

“Armaan...” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she knelt beside him, cupping his face in her hands. His skin was damp with tears, his hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead. He looked so broken, so unlike the strong, composed man she knew.

He didn’t say anything—he couldn’t. Instead, with a heart-wrenching sob, he buried himself in her arms, his body shaking violently against her as the tears flowed again, harder this time. His sobs were so raw, so desperate, that they sent shivers through Abhira’s body. She cradled him tightly, her hand running through his hair as she rocked him gently, whispering soothing words even though she knew nothing could take away this pain right now.

"It's okay... I'm here... I'm right here," she murmured, kissing the top of his head, holding him close as if her embrace could somehow shield him from the storm raging inside him.

As she looked around, her eyes landed on the scattered items on the bed. Old photo albums, sketches, letters, and diaries. Her breath caught in her throat as realization dawned on her. She had seen these before—hidden away in the depths, never spoken about. She hadn’t known who they belonged to until Madhav had once, in passing, mentioned they were Armaan’s mother’s.

Her chest tightened as she looked down at Armaan, piecing together the overwhelming grief that had consumed him. He was grieving his mother—the mother he had never been allowed to mourn properly, the mother who had been erased from his life by the Poddars’ cruelty, especially by Dadi sa’s disdain for her.

Abhira placed a tender kiss on Armaan’s head, feeling his body tremble beneath her touch. He tried to speak, his voice breaking, barely a whisper, "Abhira… vo yeh… yeh sketches..." His words faltered, lost in his sobs.

"Shivani Maa," Abhira finished for him, her voice soft yet steady.

Armaan nodded against her, his arms wrapping around her even tighter, as if afraid that if he let go, he would lose her too. He clung to her as though she were the only thing keeping him grounded, his tears soaking into her shirt. She held him, letting him pour his grief into her, knowing that in this moment, she was his anchor.

She kissed his forehead, brushing away the damp strands of hair. “I’m here, Armaan. I’m with you. I’ll always be with you,” she whispered fiercely, her own tears falling as she held him tighter, wishing she could take away his pain.

Armaan, still shaking, managed to choke out, "Why did she leave me, Abhira? Why did she have to go? I needed her… I need her so much…"

Abhira’s heart shattered at the raw desperation in his voice. She stroked his hair, her fingers gentle, as she pressed another kiss to his temple. “I don’t know, Armaan. I don’t know why she had to leave, but I do know that she loved you more than anything in this world. You were her world, Armaan.”

His grip tightened around her, his body trembling against hers as the sobs tore through him again. "I miss her so much... It hurts so much."

"I know, love," Abhira murmured, her voice cracking with emotion. "I know it hurts, and it's okay to feel this pain. You don’t have to hold it in anymore. You’re not alone."

As Armaan sobbed into her embrace, Abhira rocked him gently, her hand never leaving his, her presence anchoring him to the moment. She knew there were no words to take away the pain of losing his mother, but she would be there—always—just as his mother had dreamed for him.

She would be his anchor now, his home, the love he could always turn to.

Abhira continued to cradle Armaan in her arms, her heart aching with every sob that wracked his body. She had never seen him like this—so vulnerable, so broken. As she held him, she began to notice something else. His body felt unusually warm, and his skin had a slight flush that hadn’t been there before. Frowning, she gently pulled back just enough to place a hand on his forehead.

Her heart sank. He was burning up with fever.

“Armaan,” she whispered softly, trying to get him to look at her. His face was still pressed against her, his breath shaky and uneven. “Armaan, you have a fever.”

He didn’t respond. His body was limp, weighed down not only by grief but now by the exhaustion and fever that had crept up on him, no doubt worsened by his emotional state. Abhira’s worry deepened as she brushed a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

"Armaan, we need to get you to bed. You’re not well," she urged gently, her voice steady but laced with concern.

He shook his head weakly, mumbling, "No… just… just stay here…"

His voice was hoarse, heavy with exhaustion, but Abhira knew better. His fever could get worse if she didn’t take care of him now. She kissed his forehead tenderly and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere, Armaan. But you need to rest, okay? Let me help you.”

Slowly, she coaxed him to lie back on the bed, her hand still holding his tightly as he reluctantly let go of her. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and his face, still streaked with tears, made him look so much younger, almost childlike in his vulnerability.

Abhira quickly grabbed a pillow and propped it under his head, making sure he was comfortable. She glanced around, spotting a blanket near the edge of the bed, and gently pulled it over him. His breathing was shallow, and his skin glistened with the heat of the fever, but he seemed calmer now, though clearly drained.

She kissed his forehead again, her lips lingering there as she whispered, "I’ll be right back, okay? I’m just going to get some medicine for you."

Armaan’s eyes fluttered open briefly, his gaze meeting hers with a mix of confusion and weariness. “Don’t… don’t leave me…” he murmured, his hand tightening around hers weakly.

“I won’t, I promise,” Abhira reassured him, her voice soft but firm. “I’ll just be back in a minute, I promsie.”

With that, she slipped out of the room, rushing to the bathroom to grab a cold towel and the first-aid kit where she kept some fever medicine. She quickly filled a glass of water and hurried back to Armaan’s side, finding him still curled under the blanket, his eyes closed but his breathing uneven.

Carefully, she sat beside him, placing the cold towel on his forehead. Armaan stirred slightly at the cool sensation, a faint sigh escaping his lips. Abhira stroked his cheek softly, her heart aching as she watched him struggle even in his sleep.

“Armaan, wake up for a minute,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder gently.

He groaned softly, his eyelids fluttering as he slowly came to. His gaze was unfocused, and the fever still clouded his senses. “Hmm?”

“I need you to take this, okay?” Abhira said, holding up the medicine and the glass of water. “It’ll help with the fever.”

It took him a moment, but he eventually nodded, his movements sluggish as he sat up slightly. Abhira helped him, holding the glass to his lips as he swallowed the pills with her gentle encouragement. Once he had finished, she eased him back down, smoothing the blanket over him as she pressed the cool cloth to his forehead again.

For a few moments, she sat there, just watching over him, her hand never leaving his. His breathing started to even out, and the tension in his body slowly began to fade. But her worry didn’t lessen.

Abhira couldn’t bear to see him like this—so broken, so hurt, and now sick on top of it all. She knew his emotional breakdown had probably triggered the fever, his body overwhelmed by everything he had been holding in for years. And now, as she looked at the scattered memories around the bed—the sketches, the diaries, the albums—she understood just how much he had been carrying all this time.

Her heart broke for him.

She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, whispering, “You don’t have to go through this alone, Armaan. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He stirred slightly at her words, his hand instinctively reaching for hers, even in his fevered state. She took it, squeezing gently, offering him the silent reassurance that she wasn’t going anywhere.

As the minutes passed, Abhira stayed by his side, periodically changing the cold towel and watching over him as he drifted in and out of restless sleep. She could see the toll this was taking on him—not just physically, but emotionally. His mother’s memories had opened wounds that had never fully healed, and now, they were bleeding again.

But she was here now, and she wasn’t going to let him face this alone.

Hours passed, and the fever slowly began to break. Armaan’s breathing became steadier, and his face, though still pale and worn, lost some of the flush that had marked his fever. Abhira sighed in relief, though her heart was still heavy with worry. She knew this was just the beginning of the healing he needed.

As the night deepened, Abhira lay beside him, one wrapping her arm around his waist protectively, holding him close while the other running through his locks. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder and whispered softly, “You’re not alone, Armaan. You’ll never be alone again.”

And with her by his side, Armaan finally seemed to find some peace, his body relaxing into her warmth as sleep claimed him fully.

But for Abhira, peace was a distant memory, the weight of the past few days pressed heavily on her chest. Each night, she had noticed it—the way Armaan would quietly wipe his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking, the way his body would tremble slightly before sleep finally overtook him. Almost every night since the confrontation with the Poddars, Armaan had cried himself to sleep. It broke her heart, each tear a silent plea for comfort, each sob a wound that had been reopened by those who should have cherished him.

She clenched her fists, anger bubbling inside her. The Poddars—they had done this to him. They had taken a boy who had lost his mother and twisted his childhood into one filled with rejection and conditional love. Dadi sa, especially, had poisoned so much of his happiness, never allowing him to grieve, never giving him the space to miss his mother. Instead, they had forced him to bury his pain deep within, leaving him with scars that ran too deep to heal on their own.

How could they do this to him?

How could they break someone so kind, so full of love?

She swallowed back the tears that threatened to spill, determined to be strong for him. Her gaze softened as she looked at his sleeping face, his features still marred by the faint traces of tears.

Armaan had always been someone who loved with his entire heart, unconditionally and fiercely. He had given the Poddars his loyalty, his respect, and his care, despite everything they had done. He had given them his all—and what had they given him in return?

Nothing but pain. Nothing but the feeling of being an outsider in his own family.

As she watched him, she felt him stir, his body moving closer to hers, seeking her warmth even in his sleep. His head nuzzled against her chest, and he unconsciously wrapped his arm tighter around her, as if afraid she would disappear. Abhira’s heart clenched again. Even in his sleep, he sought comfort, clung to her like she was his only anchor in a world that had left him adrift.

And perhaps she was. Perhaps, right now, she was the only one who could bring him peace, who could remind him of his worth, of the love he deserved.

She stroked his hair softly, her fingers threading through the dark strands as her mind whirled with a mix of anger and sorrow. Her lips trembled as she pressed a kiss to the top of his head, holding him closer, her own emotions swirling in the depths of her chest. How had it come to this? How had the world become so cruel to the one man who deserved nothing but love?

He shifted again, burrowing further into her embrace, his breathing still uneven but more peaceful now, his breathing deepened and steadied, Abhira’s resolve hardened. She would be his strength, just as he had always been hers. And together, they would weather this storm, no matter how long it raged.

*..*..*..*..*..*

What do u think, will Armaan take over Dev's Offer.

Do tell me how do you like this part.

Also Readers for this week updates won't be frequent for I have certain professional commitments lined and pulled up. Hope you people would understand.

~TheLostSoul