Aryaman whined as he curled up in bed, his body aching from the fever. No medicine worked on him, nor did any home remedies, leaving him helpless against the relentless illness.

'Mumma...' he cried out in frustration, burying himself deeper into the bed—only to realize that the one he was calling for was the very person he had turned away from just last month.

Tears pricked at his fevered eyes as he clutched the blanket tighter. His body ached, but the ache in his heart was worse. He hadn't meant to push her away. He hadn't meant to walk out on the only person who had ever truly been there for him.

Yet, he had.

He had chosen blood over love. He had left behind the woman who raised him, the one who held his hand when he was scared, who stayed up on nights like these, pressing cool cloths to his burning forehead.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain away, but it only grew stronger. His throat burned, not just from the fever but from the lump of regret lodged deep within. He had made his choice. But why, then, did it feel so terribly wrong?

Would she still care if he called for her now? Would she still come?

Or had he lost her forever? 

He turned onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow as sobs racked his fevered body. His teeth clenched around the fabric, muffling the sounds of his cries, but nothing could quiet the storm raging inside him.

He missed Papa—his hero, his protector, the one who always knew how to make things right. He could still hear his deep, reassuring voice telling him to "stand tall, no matter what." But what if he had made the wrong choice? What if standing tall had only pushed him further from the people who truly loved him?

And his baby sister—the little whirlwind who used to chase after him, her tiny hands wrapping around his fingers, trusting him completely. He used to roll his eyes when she clung to him, but now, he would give anything to hear her laugh, to feel her tiny arms around him, to have her annoy him just one more time.

Jaymmet was his best friend, his brother in every way that mattered—the one who stood by him when the world felt like it was falling apart. He was the person Aryaman confided in, the one who understood him without needing words. But even Jaymmet’s presence couldn’t fill the hollow ache in his chest. 

Because Jaymmet wasn’t Papa. He wasn’t Mumma. He wasn’t the home Aryaman had abandoned. And no matter how much Aryaman loved him, some voids could only be filled by family.

And neither could his grandparents, the ones who had claimed him like a prize, like he was meant to be theirs all along. But their love came with invisible chains—tight expectations, old-fashioned rules that wrapped around his dreams and strangled them before they could take flight.

"Cricket? What good will that do you? You think you can make a living running around on a field?" Their words had slashed through him, leaving wounds deeper than they knew. He hadn't touched a bowl in over a month—not because he didn't want to, but because their disappointment sat heavy on his chest, weighing him down like an anchor.

But his step family? They had never made him feel small. They had never asked him to be anything but himself. They would have been in the stands, cheering him on, clapping the loudest even when he missed a shot.

Now, he was here, in a house that didn't feel like home, with people who spoke about love but never quite showed it. 

He clutched the bedsheets a little tighter when his door creaked open, the soft shuffle of footsteps reaching his ears. He didn't bother to look. He didn't want to talk. Didn't want to face anyone.

Not when every breath felt heavy. Not when every thought screamed at him about everything he had lost.

But then—

"Aryaman."

His body stiffened. That voice—gentle, familiar in a way he hadn't expected. It wasn't the clipped tone of his grandparents, nor Jaymeet's, nor his uncle and aunt's, who had somehow kept him somewhat sane. No, this voice held something else. Something softer.

He looked at one face, so much like his mother's, and the other, bearing a striking resemblance to his father. His lips trembled as he whispered, "Mamu? Bua?"

They walked inside, but Aryaman's attention flickered past them—to Khyati Bua, who was tugging at his grandmother's arm, subtly but firmly holding her back. The old woman, however, wasn't one to be dismissed so easily, her sharp gaze darting toward the room, intent on pushing her way in.

And then, in the most unexpected yet oddly satisfying twist, his Mamu reached for the door and, without a word, shut it right in her face. The click of the lock echoed through the room like a final verdict.

A breathless chuckle bubbled up in Aryaman's throat. If nothing else, at least this moment was worth witnessing.

Both of the elders sat down in front of him, their arms crossed, their gazes sharp. Not like before. Not like the usual warmth that had always softened their eyes when they looked at him.

Something about their silence made his chest tighten. For the first time, he felt small under their stare.

Aryaman swallowed, his fingers twisting into the bedsheet as he forced himself to meet their eyes. The fever burning through him suddenly felt secondary to the weight of their gaze—stern, unreadable, nothing like the quiet affection he was used to from them.

Shahneel was the first to speak, her voice calm but edged with something he couldn't quite place. "Happy now?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "This is what you wanted, right?"

His stomach twisted. Was it?

His Mamu sighed, running a hand down his face before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You look like hell, champ." His words were casual, but there was no mistaking the concern beneath them.

Aryaman swallowed hard. He wanted to say something, anything—but what could he say? That he regretted everything? That he wanted to go back but was too ashamed to admit it?

He opened his mouth, but his voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I—"

But nothing else followed. Because the truth was, he didn't even know where to begin.

Shahneel exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You look miserable." It wasn't mocking, nor was it pitying. It was just the truth—one he couldn't deny.

Aryaman clenched his jaw, gripping the sheets tighter as if they could somehow hold him together. "I'm fine." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and judging by the way his Mamu raised an eyebrow, neither of them bought it.

"Right," Virat drawled, leaning back against the chair. "That's why you're burning up, looking like you haven't slept in weeks." His voice was lighter, teasing almost, but his eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—made Aryaman shift uncomfortably.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then Shahneel  sighed and leaned forward, her tone softer this time. "Arya... you don't have to pretend."

Something in him cracked at that.

Because wasn't that all he had been doing? Pretending to be okay. Pretending this house felt like home. Pretending that the ache in his chest wasn't growing worse every single day.

His throat tightened, and he dropped his gaze to his lap. "I just... I thought I was doing the right thing." The confession slipped out before he could stop it.

Virat hummed, not unkindly. "And now?"

Aryaman bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say it—to blurt out that he had made a mistake, that he wanted to go back, that he missed them so much it hurt. But the words tangled in his throat, heavy with guilt and stubborn pride.

Shahneel studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "Do you think the right thing should feel this awful?"

His breath hitched. Because no, it shouldn't. It shouldn't feel like his chest was caving in, like every day was harder than the last. It shouldn't feel like he was slowly losing himself in a place that was supposed to be his real home.

But it did. And that scared him more than anything.

Aryaman ran a shaky hand through his bangs, his gaze drifting to the window as if the answer lay somewhere beyond the glass. He blinked rapidly, trying—failing—not to cry in front of them. His chest ached, his throat burned, and no matter how hard he tried to hold it in, the words still tumbled out, raw and broken.

"How could I go back to them after everything I did?"

His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of every mistake, every regret, every sleepless night spent wondering if he had ruined everything forever.

Shahneel and Virat exchanged a glance, but neither rushed to fill the silence. They let it settle, let him sit with the weight of his own words. Maybe because they knew—some things couldn't be soothed with empty reassurances.

Shahneel exhaled, leaning forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "And what exactly do you think you did, Arya?"

Aryaman's fingers curled into the sheets, his shoulders tensing. "I left," he said hoarsely. "I walked away. From Mumma. From Papa. From my baby sister. From Daadi and Dadu. I acted like..." His breath shuddered, shame pressing against his ribs. "Like they didn't matter. And now—" His voice cracked. "Now what if I don't matter to them anymore?"

Virat scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "That's the stupidest thing I've heard all day."

Aryaman flinched, startled by the bluntness.

Shahneel didn't sugarcoat it either. "You're being an idiot, Arya."

Aryaman flinched again, this time at her sharp tone. His gaze dropped, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sheets as if they could anchor him. He wasn't used to hearing that from them—wasn't used to the bluntness that cut through his self-pity like a blade.

But maybe... maybe he needed to hear it.

Virat leaned forward, his eyes blazing with the same fire Aryaman had seen when he sledged opponents on the field. "Pashmina fought with me and her family to take care of you, to support Shubman—even though we had just gotten her after almost losing her."

Aryaman froze, his breath hitching. "Losing Mumma?" he whispered, his body tensing as he pushed himself up, shock coursing through him.

Virat exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "That's a story for another day," he said, but the anger in his eyes didn't fade. If anything, it burned hotter, fiercer.

Shahneel's voice cut through Aryaman's shock, sharp and unwavering, matching Virat's intensity. "And for Shubman? He was young, still riding high in his career—scared, but he gave everything to raise you. To protect you from everything, along with Pashmina. Both of them fought the world, the media, everyone—just to keep you safe from all the rumors that came with fame."

Aryaman barely parted his lips before Shahneel's long, manicured fingers cut through the air, silencing him before he could even breathe out a response. Her voice, edged with steel and something far more dangerous—undisguised truth—sent a chill racing down his spine.

"Have you ever stopped to question the people who called you theirs? Why your real parents are gone? And why your real Nanu and Naani spun a web of lies that night?"

Aryaman's breath caught in his throat. His fingers clenched around the bedsheet, his mind racing, scrambling for answers he didn't have.

His real Nanu and Naani... lied?

A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to meet Shahneel's piercing gaze. "What... what are you talking about?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of his unraveling world.

Virat leaned back, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Then, with a pointed look, he asked, "Tell me, Arya—what did you feel living with that toxic woman outside for the past month?"

Aryaman banged his fist against the headboard, frustration boiling over as he spat, "Both of them haven't let me touch a ball in the last month!" His voice cracked, not just with anger but with something rawer—something that had been festering inside him since the day he left.

Virat exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And you still think they love you the way a family should?"

Aryaman swallowed hard, his breath uneven. "They say they do," he muttered, but even to his own ears, the words felt hollow.

Shahneel scoffed. "Love isn't caging someone in, Arya. Love isn't stripping away the things that make you who you are. Tell me—when was the last time you felt happy there? Truly happy?"

Aryaman opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out—only a sharp bang on the door from outside, followed by Gurpreet Randhawa's demanding voice.

"Open the door!" Gurpreet Randhawa's demand rang through the room, her tone laced with impatience and something far more dangerous—authority.

Virat rolled his eyes but didn't bother hiding his annoyance as he swung the door open. Standing on the other side were Gurpreet and Daljeet Randhawa, their expressions thunderous, their presence suffocating.

"Stop filling his head with your filth!" Gurpreet snapped, marching inside, her gaze burning with fury.

Daljeet stepped in right behind her, his face twisted in barely concealed frustration. His sharp eyes swept over the room before landing on Aryaman, who was still sitting on the bed, his fists clenched in the sheets.

"You're poisoning his mind against his own family!" Daljeet's voice was controlled, but there was an underlying edge of anger. "Haven't you done enough damage already?"

Virat let out a dry chuckle, leaning against the doorframe as if completely unaffected by their outburst. "Damage?" he repeated mockingly. "Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Shahneel stood up, crossing her arms as she met Gurpreet's glare head-on. "Tell me something," she said coolly. "Does 'family' mean stripping Aryaman of everything he loves? Controlling him like a trophy instead of a child?"

Gurpreet scoffed. "We are giving him discipline! Structure! Something neither of you or that woman and man ever bothered to do."

"You mean the same woman and man who raised me? Who never once made me feel like I wasn't theirs?" Aryaman voice was quieter than before, but the weight behind his words made the room go still.

Daljeet's jaw tightened. "That's not the point—"

"No," Aryaman cut in, standing up, his fever momentarily forgotten. His hands trembled at his sides, but his voice didn't waver. "That's exactly the point."

For the first time in weeks, he wasn't afraid to say it out loud.

He took a step closer, looking the older man directly in the eye, standing tall despite the fever weighing down his limbs. His voice was steady, unwavering.

"Tell me—what did you actually do to Mum and Dad? With those regressive thoughts of yours?"

A flicker of something—guilt, rage, fear—crossed Daljeet's face, but it was gone just as quickly. Gurpreet's lips thinned, her glare sharpening.

Daljeet scoffed, but there was an edge to it, something forced. "What do you mean? They died in an accident. You're talking as if we killed them."

A voice, sharp as a blade, sliced through the room.

"They did. And you know exactly how."

Poonam Bagga stepped into the light, her presence crackling with the weight of buried truths. Her eyes—steady, unrelenting—pinned Daljeet and Gurpreet in place, daring them to twist the story one more time.

The silence that followed wasn't just heavy; it was damning.

She tilted her head, a bitter smile ghosting her lips. "Go on, then. Tell him the truth. Or shall I?"

Gurpreet Randhawa was about to step forward, fury darkening her features, when a voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"Don't you dare."

Ranjeet Bagga's tone was low, almost a growl, but it carried a weight that made Gurpreet hesitate.

Poonam Bagga turned to Aryaman, her eyes softening, though the pain in them was unmistakable. Her voice trembled, but she forced the words out.

"These two pressured your parents so much with their outdated beliefs—their obsession with a male heir—that your parents decided to run away. But life was cruel to them. They met with an accident."

She sucked in a shaky breath, her hands clenching at her sides. "Your father didn't make it to the hospital. And your mother... she was forced to choose between her own life and yours. She chose you."

Poonam's voice cracked, but she pushed forward, her grief now laced with bitter fury. "And when these people—your so-called grandparents—came to the hospital, they didn't care if their daughter-in-law was alive or not. The first thing they asked?" She let out a hollow, humorless laugh. "Was the child a boy or a girl?"

Ranjeet Bagga stepped forward, his jaw tight, eyes blazing with a fury that had been simmering for years. As Poonam broke down, unable to continue, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder, his voice taking over where hers had faltered.

"And that's why we lied, Aryaman." His voice was rough, thick with emotions too heavy to contain. "We didn't want you to grow up with these people—with their poison, their so-called values. We couldn't let them turn you into another heir, another trophy for them to control."

Aryaman rubbed his face tiredly, exhaustion seeping into his bones, but when he squared his shoulders, there was no hesitation left in him. His tired gaze locked onto his so-called grandparents, who still glared at his Nanu and Naani with unrelenting anger, refusing to acknowledge their own cruelty.

He let out a sharp breath, the weight of everything settling in his chest before he finally spoke. His words were quiet but laced with venom.

"I really pity Khyati Bua for having you two as parents."

Khyati let out a strangled sob, Aryaman's words slicing through the air like a blade, cutting deep into wounds she had spent a lifetime trying to ignore. Because it was the truth—the truth she had felt in every dismissal, in every expectation, in every moment she had been made to feel like she wasn't enough.

Jaymeet rubbed his mother's back, grounding her as silent tears slipped down her face. Across the room, Rajvir Sandhu tightened his arms around his wife, pressing a kiss to her hair, as if shielding her from the weight of a past neither of them could change.

But Aryaman wasn't done. He turned back to the people who had claimed to be his blood, his gaze sharper than it had ever been. The rage burning in his chest no longer felt suffocating—it felt freeing.

"If either of you ever try to come near me or my family again, I swear—" his voice was low, steady, dangerous, "—I'll rattle your egos just like I rattle the stumps."

There was no hesitation, no remorse. He didn't care about their age, their so-called authority. They had stolen too much from him already. He wouldn't let them take anything more.

And with that, Aryaman turned on his heel and walked out. Out of the room. Out of the life he had chosen.

Out of the life he regretted.