[tw: trauma, rape]

THAT NIGHT, SHE had the nightmare once again after so many years. The one she broke her soul. She squirmed in her sleep, her breaths shallow but didn't utter a word. The words were clogged in her throat.

By a hand pressed against her mouth.

Virat felt Misha shuffling in her sleep, and opened his eyes, then switched on the lamp to let the light filter into the room, only to witness the pain and anguish on her face. And the silent sobs.

His heart broke when he cradled her head in his hands. "Shh. Mish, it's just a nightmare. Misha," he cooed and coddled until she visibly relaxed in her sleep. Then her eyes fluttered open. Peered at him. Her face turned a shade of scarlet, and she rose herself on the bed to a sitting position.

"I-I didn't have that nightmare in years. I thought-"

Virat interjected disapprovingly. "Misha, it's okay. You had a bad night, that's really it."

Misha's throat tightened painfully. "I had a horrible night, Virat. I don't think I will ever forget it, but all I can hope is that I don't remember it often. That's why I have never talked about it to anyone, not even you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, and a tiny part of him hoped she did not. It was very much his nightmare as much as it was hers. The day he had gotten his letter, where she mentioned about the horrifying night, he had felt a blackness unleash from within him. He had wanted to kill the bastard, but before that he wanted to be there for her.

A part of him also blamed himself-so irrational-because he had not been there for her. He was not in the city at all, and he knew things would have been so different had he been there. Well, not so different considering they were still together, but Virat would go through hell if that would extinguish that night from Misha's life. She did not deserve it-although, nobody really did-but Misha was the most sweet, kind and selfless person he had ever known. He loved everything about her.

"Would you, Vi?" she asked in a low whisper. "I know how you feel about this, and I am not sure if you would want to-"

"Misha," he apprised which followed her hum in response. "Do you remember when we fought when you told me about this after I told you I loved you? I didn't still love you like this incident changed something about you fundamentally. Well, it did. But not in the way you thought." He then threaded his fingers through his hair, and coaxed her head onto his lap.

Misha sighed, burying her face to feel warm. "When we broke up, I saw you were miserable. You spoke less, you dressed like drab. It was like all the light was extinguished from you. An arrogant part of me had the audacity to think you did it because you were miserable over your break up. But after you told me about-about him, I realized you were hiding because you thought it was your fault."

"I know, I was younger then, Virat." Misha rose up from his lap, so that she could look into his eyes. "I didn't get it then. I knew some people were simply monsters, but Rishabh-" There, she said his name. He wanted to rip off his head again like he did when he was seventeen. "-was not a monster. I knew him, he had apologized before for his attitude before that night. I thought something about me made him a monster. And so I thought, if I could hide myself just enough, if I could protect myself inside a shell just enough, I wouldn't make a monster out of someone once again. It was stupid, and now I realized it when I was away in Mumbai, you see? I realized I was condoning his monstrous behavior; I was normalizing victim blaming . . . so what if I was the victim myself? I was making excuses for his transgressions. You have no idea how much I hated myself for having those thoughts."

A soft smile etched on Virat's lips. "I have waited for you to realize it. I know you did now, but I always felt so lost in those days when I couldn't make you realize how precious you were, not in spite of everything. But because of everything, Misha."

"Well, you did say something similar to me when you were younger, and you were right." Then she brought her hand to chastise him. "Oh please, now don't you dare gloat. I will not have any of it, Kohli."

"I was not going to." He said defensively.

Her expression changed to forlorn too quickly. Then words tumbled from her mouth and he realized she was going to describe that night to him. He was not ready. But then he could never be ready to listen. But he enclosed her hands in his to assure her he was there.

Listening.

"That night, I was wearing my prettiest dress. It was deep in the neck, and hugged my curves perfectly, and we were all dancing, and I was flirting with others. I felt . . . pretty." Virat took a deep breath to make steady himself, to listen to the terrible thing that had been done to her. "He came late to the party, and my eyes lit up when I saw him. I thought we were friends. Sort of. He had apologized for his appalling behavior in the past, and acknowledged you as my boyfriend. I thought he was over me, and so we danced. Then he told me it was his friend's house, and that he had this amazing antique which I might like to see. And because I was foolish and reckless, and didn't know any better, I agreed to follow him in the dark."

Stupid girl, she thought in her head. Stupid, stupid girl.

Misha then glanced at Virat. He had crossed his arms over his chest. His face was very patient, but his eyes were narrowed. There was listening, and then there was listening. But Virat was listening.

She bowed her head, and looked away, staring her hands at the edge of the bed. "I should still acknowledge that I understood that he was flirting with me. I laughed at his jokes, brushed his arms and acted coquettishly. I think I even liked his attention."

"You are doing it again, Misha." Virat warned, his brooding eyes sparking with anger.

"What?"

"Blaming yourself." he replied blandly.

"Ah," Misha dragged in a breath forcefully. "I suppose, I am. I am sorry, Virat." A shrug. Then she continued. "He kissed me first, and I struggled, trying to push him away. But he wouldn't budge, so I gave up. What is the harm in a little kissing? I thought to myself, and took his kisses passively. And then his kisses turned sloppy and hard, and that was when I hit him on the chest. Hard. Asked him to let me go. That I had a boyfriend. Every time I tried turning my head, he would follow me. Then he caged me against a wall. Mumbled words in my ear: cloyingly sweet words-that he loved me, how he thought I was an angel, and then words-words which frightened me."

Misha took a deep breath. She had to echo out the words, because she needed to. Keeping this trauma forever inside her, was threatening to their happiness. Their always. "His hands were everywhere. He was touching my body, containing me, preventing me from sliding right or left. And then . . . "

Another deep breath. Misha hesitated for a second before finishing. She'd already said far, far more than she'd wanted to say. The fine detail was entirely unnecessary. She stared at her hands gripping the bed post and rushed to finish. "And then he held me by the neck with one hand and reached down to grab my ankle with the other. He forced my leg up and clawed beneath my skirt and ripped away my undergarment. He unfastened his own pants, and leaned in, told me he loved me, over and over again. He . . . put-that is, he forced himself. And I . . . endured it."

"Three weeks later," she went on. "I realized my periods were late."

Virat looked at her, nonplussed, and shook his head. No.

She shouldn't have told him this. She didn't even have the courage to tell him in those letters, but here he was, gambling his entire life for . . . her. How could she hide such an important part of her life from him?

"Yes, Virat. I realized, I was pregnant."