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Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

That has been Siya's mantra for years, the one thing she clings to when everything around her seems to unravel. It's a habit she picked up long before she even knew she'd need it so desperately.

Ever since Rudra was born, her life has been a constant balancing act—motherhood, work, and the never-ending parade of things that can, and usually do, go wrong. There's love, sure, and there's chaos—always chaos.

But the real trick is learning how to navigate it all while keeping her feet firmly on the ground and her heart wrapped in a tight shield of protection around her son. Because, at the end of the day, no matter what happens, she can handle anything for him.

But today, her shield feels like it's about to crack. She doesn't need a deep breath this time; she needs to scream.

Rudra, sitting there in the principal's office, his small face covered in blood and dirt, with a defiant gleam in his eyes that—of all things—reminds her so much of Shubman, is doing his best to look unaffected.

But she sees it all. The hurt. The fury. The sheer I-will-not-break attitude. And it's breaking her heart in ways she wasn't prepared for.

The bruised kid—who is practically a walking poster for what not to do on a playground—sits there with his arms crossed over a cast that looks like it might just be the least of his worries.

His parents are standing on the other side of the room, glaring at Siya, as if the whole incident is somehow her fault.

The teacher, Mr. Windsor—who's still managing to look like he's waiting for her to smile at his "charming" attempts at flirting—shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It's not hard to guess why he's uncomfortable.

After all, Siya has a memory like an elephant when it comes to uncomfortable situations, and she remembers every single time Mr. Windsor—obnoxiously polite and a little too eager—tried to "accidentally" bump into her at the staff lounge, asking her out like it was an afterthought.

But today, none of that matters. Today, it's about Rudra. And he's in trouble. Big trouble.

The mother of the bully shoots a look at Siya that could freeze lava. It's the kind of gaze Siya's seen many times before—a look that says, "You should have controlled your child better."

It's one thing to raise a kid in a perfect two-parent family, and quite another to do it on your own, and everybody knows it. It's the unspoken judgment in the room. It makes her stomach churn.

Siya's gaze lands on Rudra, and everything else in the room seems to fade into a blurry background. His face is streaked with dried blood, his tiny shirt stained with a red smudge from where his nose had bled. It's not the blood that knocks the breath out of her, though—it's the look on his face.

It tears her up. The anger. The defiance. The intensity in his eyes. His lip is curled slightly, just enough to show the tension in his small jaw, and it's as though he's daring the world to challenge him.

It's that look. That unmistakable, raw look. She's seen it before. She's seen it so many times, on someone else. His eyes, narrowed and calculating.

The way his chin juts out just a little, the slight furrow between his brows, as if he's already decided what he's going to do, and there's nothing in the world that could make him change his mind.

It's a look that says, "I'm not afraid of you. I never will be." A look that says, "You don't get to push me around."

And Siya feels her heart twist, a slow burn in her chest. Because that look—it's Shubman. That's exactly the look he wore the day he punched that boy in school for harassing her.

The same look that terrified everyone around him, yet made her feel safe, even if she didn't want to admit it back then.

But now, in her son's face, it's a reminder of everything that has slipped through her fingers. Of all the moments she never got to fully share with him, of all the things she couldn't protect him from.

It's a look that, for a split second, makes her forget the pain and the hurt that still lingers between them. It's as though time stands still for a moment, and all she can see is the quiet understanding that he carries so much of his father in him.

The way Rudra stands there, not backing down, his eyes locked on the principal like a little lion waiting to pounce—that is his father. The boldness. The pride. The unwavering belief that he can take on the world.

And for a brief moment, Siya's throat tightens. She tries to push it down, that wave of longing, that ache she doesn't have the luxury of feeling right now.

But it's there, creeping up like an old memory. A lost possibility. The life they might have had, if things had turned out differently.

Her fingers twitch, and she forces herself to focus on Rudra again, watching his small chest rise and fall with deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

He's so small, and yet so strong. So stubborn. So much like his father that it makes her heart skip, in both fear and awe.

The room falls silent for a moment, and she swears she can almost hear the soft hum of a memory, a whisper of a time when Shubman would've been right there beside her, holding her hand, facing this same battle together.

But she shakes her head, clearing away the thought before it takes root. Now isn't the time. Now isn't the place for what-ifs or could-have-beens.

Rudra's gaze shifts, his eyes still fierce but softening as they meet hers. And in that one look, Siya realizes something. He's not afraid. Not of this.

Not of what anyone might say about him. He's stronger than she ever thought. But the weight of it—of being that strong—must be heavy for a five-year-old.

Siya's hands tremble slightly as she reaches out, gently cupping Rudra's face, her thumbs grazing over the dried blood still clinging to his cheek.

His little body stiffens for just a moment, like a switch has flipped, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, his eyes meet hers, still fierce, still full of that stubborn fire.

A tiny flicker of something softer—an apology, maybe—dances behind those dark eyes, but the storm of anger is still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

"Rudra," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. It comes out softer than she meant it to, thick with the weight of everything she's trying to keep inside.

She swallows, fighting the knot in her throat. "Meri jaan," she repeats, her thumb brushing over his skin again. "Tell me what happened. Why did you hit him?"

Her words hang in the air between them, lingering, as she watches him, hoping—praying—that he'll open up, that he'll give her the reason behind all this.

The reason for the blood. The reason for the defiance. The reason for the anger that's barely contained in the way he's holding himself.

Rudra doesn't speak at first. He just stands there, his little fists clenched tight at his sides, as if trying to hold on to something, anything—some thread of normalcy in a world that's gone sideways on him.

His eyes flick down to the floor, and for a second, Siya wonders if he's searching for the right words, or maybe hoping the ground will open up and swallow him whole.

Maybe he wants to escape this moment, to escape the sting of being here, being so small, so exposed, under the weight of all these eyes, all this judgment.

Her heart tightens as she watches him, her chest heavy with something she can't even name. It's a mixture of worry and guilt, the kind that sits in your ribs like an unwelcome guest, refusing to leave.

When he finally looks up at her, it's with a shift in his expression, the defiance softening just enough to make her insides twist.

His green eyes, still fierce, have a softness now, a vulnerability she wasn't expecting. It makes her breath catch, and before she can stop it, a lump rises in her throat.

God, he's only five. And yet, in that look, she sees everything—the fire, the pain, and the remnants of something too heavy for his small shoulders.

"He made me feel dirty, mama."

The words hang in the air, thick and sharp, like shards of glass.

Dirty.

The word stabs at her heart, leaving a mark she can't erase. It feels like something wrong, something foreign that should never have found its way into her son's vocabulary.

Dirty.

Her mind recoils, her body stiffening in reaction to the weight of it. No mother should ever have to hear that word associated with their child, not like this, not from someone who's still learning how to navigate the world.

She watches as Rudra twists the hem of his shirt in his tiny hands, his knuckles white from the pressure. His head hangs low, messy hair falling into his eyes like a curtain hiding the storm behind them.

She sees the tremble in his lips, the rise and fall of his chest too rapid, too heavy for someone so small. She wants to reach for him, to pull him into her arms, to shield him from this pain, but something keeps her rooted in place.

Maybe it's because she's not sure what to say. Maybe it's because she's not sure if there's anything she can say that would fix this.

Her mind spins, tumbling between rage and sorrow, the familiar ache of helplessness squeezing her chest. She wants to scream, but the sound is lodged in her throat, tight and unforgiving.

An overwhelming urge to protect him from this world, from the filth and the cruelty that can seep into the most unexpected corners, floods her chest.

The anger—no, the fury—bubbles up, a fire that's been simmering since she first saw the blood on his shirt, and it only grows stronger as she watches him, this little boy, who didn't ask for any of this.

She wants to grab him by the shoulders, shake the hurt out of him, force him to understand that he's better than whatever was said to him, that he doesn't have to carry this weight. But she knows better. He won't listen. Not now. Not when the words have already sunk in deep.

What did they say to him? What kind of filthy, sick words had come out of that ten-year-old's mouth to make her five-year-old feel this way?

The question beats in her head like a drum, a constant thud that she can't ignore, no matter how hard she tries. But when she pictures the words, her mind recoils, each possibility more horrifying than the last.

Her breath catches in her throat, choking on the sheer force of it. She's not ready. She can't be ready to hear what was said, not when the weight of it might crush her.

"Meri jaan," Siya whispers, the words coming out before she can stop them. It's like a breath she didn't mean to take, but once it's out, it feels as though it's been waiting for an eternity to escape.

She tries to steady herself, forcing her voice to stay even, to keep it from breaking, but there's a tremor in it that betrays her.

The silence hangs heavy between them, thick with the weight of the moment. She's afraid of what he's going to say. Terrified, even. She doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want the poison of it to sink any deeper into the air, into her child.

But she knows it's coming, and it will hurt. It will tear at the fabric of everything she's tried to protect him from, everything she's worked so hard to shield him from.

Her heart races as she watches him, his tiny face still tucked into his chest, his little hands clenching and unclenching like he's trying to hold onto something that's slipping through his fingers. And then, he speaks, his voice so small, so quiet, but the words hit her like a slap to the face.

"He said I am a bastard. That Daddy left us because you were a bad word. He said a bad word, mama. I told him—I told him to stop, but he wouldn't stop. He kept hurting me."

Each word is like a blade, cutting through the calm she's been trying to hold onto. Bastard. The word isn't just a word—it's an accusation, a smear, a thing that no child should ever have to hear.

And yet, here it is, staining the air between them, coming out of the mouth of a ten-year-old who, in all his immaturity, has no idea just how deep those words can cut.

And the worst part is that Rudra doesn't even know what it means, not really. He knows it's bad. He knows it made him feel ugly and small, and that's all he can understand for now.

That's the part that makes Siya want to fall to her knees and scream, to pull him into her arms and tell him that none of it's true, that he's perfect in every way, that he's not a mistake, not a burden.

But she knows better. She knows that no matter how many times she says it, those words are already lodged inside him, festering, taking root.

Her chest tightens, and she closes her eyes, not wanting him to see how much it hurts her, how much it feels like someone is squeezing her heart.

She's been here before—broken, helpless, wishing she could shield him from every cruel word, every nasty look, every unfair thing this world throws at him.

But she can't. Not always. Not when the damage is already done, when the poison has already seeped in. She's not strong enough to protect him from everything, and the weight of that realization crashes over her, heavy and suffocating.

But even as the ache in her chest grows, there's something else too—a longing. A desperate, aching need for him to be here.

For Shubman to be here. He would know what to do. He always knew. He always had this calm way about him, this ability to make everything seem right, to make the world feel safe again.

If he were here, he'd know how to handle this, how to make it better, how to help Rudra understand that none of those things the bully said were true. He'd have a way of turning this into something that wouldn't sting so badly.

He would've known the right words, the right actions. But instead, Siya is left with this hollow feeling, this absence that stretches between them, like something's missing in the air, and she doesn't know how to fill it.

She swallows hard, pushing down the lump in her throat. She can't cry right now, can't break down in front of Rudra, not when he needs her to be strong.

He needs her to be his anchor, to remind him that he's not what those kids said, that he's not any of the hurtful things they've put on him.

She looks at him, her heart aching, and tries to find a way to piece together the words that will undo the damage.

"Baby," she says, her voice soft and thick with emotion, "you are not... that. You're not a mistake. You are my everything. Your papa—he never left because of you, meri jaan. He's would love you. He—" Her voice falters for a moment, and she bites her lip, blinking back tears.

She wants to say more, wants to reassure him completely, but there's something about these words, something about the absence of Shubman that makes it feel... incomplete. If he were here, maybe the words wouldn't feel so hollow.

Maybe it wouldn't feel so hard to explain everything to him, to Rudra, to make him understand. But he's not. And she's the one who has to find a way to fill the void, to make it okay for him.

But the silence between them stretches long, and she knows that Rudra's still holding onto something, still struggling with the weight of the words that have been lodged in his mind.

She wants to wrap him up in a cocoon, protect him from all of it, from the cruel reality of the world outside.

But all she can do is be here, with him, trying to piece together the broken fragments, hoping somehow it'll be enough.

But she can't. She has to keep going, has to hold Rudra together even when she feels like she's falling apart. "You hear me, baby? None of it's true. You're not what he said. You're not a bad word. You're my son, and that means you're more than enough. Don't ever let anyone make you feel any different."

She feels him nod against her chest, but he still doesn't speak. There's a long, moment between them, a kind of stillness that's broken only by the soft sound of Rudra's sniffling breaths.

Siya holds him tighter, her own emotions swirling inside her, not just for him but for herself, too.

Because this... this pain, this hurt, it isn't something she can fix alone. Not without him. Not without Shubman. And the absence of him right now cuts deeper than she expected.

But all she can do is hold him, keep whispering the words she hopes he'll believe. You're not what they said. You're my son. You're more than enough.

Dhruv watches the scene unfold, his jaw clenched so tight he feels the pressure in his teeth. He doesn't know if it's the heat rising in his chest or the slow, deliberate way everything is happening that makes his blood boil.

There's something about the whole thing—about the way the principal's words are falling, one after the other, like weighted stones—something that rubs him the wrong way, something that he can't put his finger on but feels deep in his gut.

The look on the principal's face makes Dhruv's stomach churn. He's got that tight-lipped, authoritative expression, the one that suggests he's already made up his mind, as if the judgment has already been passed before he even got the full story.

It doesn't help that Mr. Windsor, sitting there with his arms folded, his stupid, too-casual expression like he's still thinking about his next lunch break, makes Dhruv want to throw something—anything—across the room.

The teacher's the kind of man who acts like he's doing everyone a favor just by existing, like his little flirtations and fake smiles at Siya maa are somehow supposed to be charming. But Dhruv sees right through it. He's seen the way Mr. Windsor looks at her when he thinks no one's watching.

Then, there are the bully's parents. They stand on the other side of the room, their faces tight with an anger they don't even bother to mask.

Their eyes flick back and forth between the principal and Siya, the judgment clear as day. And as if it's not enough that they're watching, Dhruv knows they're thinking exactly what everyone else is thinking—this is her fault.

They're prejudiced. He knows that look—they see Siya as a single mother, and for some reason, they think that's enough to blame her for everything that goes wrong. It doesn't matter that Rudra is five, or that the bully probably provoked him.

It doesn't matter that the whole thing is a sad, twisted misunderstanding. What matters is that Siya is alone. That's all it takes for the world to turn on her, for them to turn on Rudra.

But the truth of it is, Dhruv's ready to stand up and scream. He wants to shout, to say how it's not fair, how they've got it all wrong.

He's watched over Rudra his whole life, seen him grow, seen the small moments where his little brother was anything but violent. He's seen Rudra's heart, how big and soft it is, even when he's angry.

He's the kind of kid who gets upset about the smallest things—a dog stuck in a fence, a bird with a hurt wing—and it tears Dhruv up inside to see him treated this way, as if he were the villain.

And then there's the bully. The boy who started it all, the one with the bruised face and the parents who are too proud to admit their son isn't as innocent as they'd like everyone to believe.

Dhruv can almost see through him, can hear the taunts and insults that led to all this. He knows how kids like that work—the ones who think they can hurt others without consequence, the ones who push and prod until someone finally snaps.

He doesn't even know the details of what happened between Rudra and this kid, but he's got a gut feeling that tells him all he needs to know.

There's a rage bubbling inside him now, the kind of anger that makes it hard to sit still, hard to stay quiet. But he knows better.

He knows that if he makes a move, if he does anything to challenge the grown-ups in the room, it'll only make things worse.

And the worst part of it all? The realization that he's helpless to fix it. He can't undo the damage, can't take away the pain in Rudra's eyes. He knows what it's like to have people make assumptions about you, to be judged without knowing the full story.

And in this moment, he feels every bit of that weight, every bit of that injustice. The whole room, the whole world, feels so stacked against them.

Siya's trying, though. He can see that. He can see how she's holding it together, how she's doing everything she can to make Rudra feel safe, to make him believe that none of this—none of what the world is saying—is true.

He can hear her voice, soft and steady, as she comforts him, as she tells him that none of this will define him.

But it's a battle, and Dhruv knows it. The hurt is already there, already in Rudra's heart, and it's not something they can fix with just words.

Dhruv shifts in his seat, his fists tightening on the edge of the table. The slow realization hits him like a weight on his chest. He's not just angry about what happened at school.

He's angry because it feels like no matter how hard they try—no matter how much they push back—people will always find a reason to treat them differently.

He can't help but feel the injustice. And deep down, he knows it's not just about the bully, or the principal, or Mr. Windsor, or even the hurtful words from the other parents.

It's about something bigger. It's about the way society looks at his family. It's about the way people see Siya as less because she's doing it alone.

Dhruv sighs, the weight of it all sinking in. He looks at Rudra again, his little brother so small and yet carrying this heavy burden.

He knows Rudra doesn't fully understand yet, but that moment—when he's standing there with those defiant, hurt eyes—will stay with him. And it will shape him.

The world has already thrown its worst at them, and he wonders how many more moments like this they'll have to endure before they can get out from under it all.

Siya can feel the eyes of the others—those who don't understand, who've never had to fight the battles she fights. The principal's gaze lingers on her like he's waiting for her to crack, to break, to show any sign that she's less than perfect.

He's never liked her, never trusted her. Maybe it's because she's a single mother, or maybe it's because she doesn't fit into the mold he's comfortable with.

Whatever it is, she's never been able to shake the feeling that, to him, she'll always be a little less than what a mother should be. And now, with Rudra's future hanging in the balance, it's only more obvious than ever.

"Mrs. Tripathi," the principal says, his voice flat and impersonal. "We've gone over the details of the incident, and I'm afraid we have no choice but to expel Rudra."

His words hit her like a slap. Expelled. For defending himself. For fighting back when someone made him feel... dirty.

Made him feel less than. Her blood runs cold as she looks at the principal, his eyes darting away from hers as though he's ashamed to make eye contact. He knows what he's doing.

He knows the kind of judgment he's passing down on a five-year-old. But he's too comfortable in his role to care, too certain that this is the easiest way to deal with an inconvenient problem.

She opens her mouth to speak, but the words feel thick, heavy on her tongue. The weight of everything she's ever feared, everything she's ever struggled against, seems to crash down on her all at once. She's not just fighting for Rudra now; she's fighting for herself too.

Fighting to prove that she can do this alone, that she's not the problem, that being a single mother doesn't make her any less capable of raising a good, kind child.

But her voice comes out quieter than she expects, as though the words are slipping through her fingers. "Expelled?" she repeats, her eyes locked on the principal, trying to gauge any trace of humanity behind that cold, emotionless gaze. "You're expelling him for this?"

The principal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk, as though he's trying to appear calm. But Siya can see the way his shoulders are tense, the way his lips press into a thin line.

She knows what he's thinking—he's just trying to get rid of the problem, hoping it will all go away if he makes the tough call. Rudra's presence, his outburst, it's inconvenient, and he's simply trying to wash his hands of it.

"Mrs. Tripathi," he begins again, his voice stiff, "we have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to violence. Rudra's actions were... unacceptable."

"Unacceptable?" Dhruv snaps before Siya can speak again. His fists are clenched on the table, and for a moment, she's worried he might leap up, might do something they'll all regret.

But the anger in his eyes is only more visible now, a mix of frustration, confusion, and protective fury. "You're telling me that a five-year-old should just... take it? Should let some bully push him around, call him names, make him feel like he doesn't belong, and do nothing? Is that what you're saying?"

The principal's eyes flick to Dhruv for a moment, his gaze hardening, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he folds his hands in front of him, looking over at Rudra, who's still clinging to Siya's side, his small form stiff, his face pale.

Siya's heart breaks at the sight of him, and for a moment, she wishes she could take him in her arms and make this all go away.

But there's no escaping the reality of it. She's alone in this room with these people, and they're judging her—judging Rudra.

Siya inhales deeply, forcing herself to remain steady. "My son doesn't deserve to be treated this way. He's five years old. Five. And yet you're treating him as if he's a criminal." Her voice cracks just slightly, but she quickly catches it, steadying herself.

"If there's anyone here who should be ashamed, it's you, for standing there and making a decision based on assumptions and prejudice. You don't know my son, and you certainly don't know me."

The principal's expression doesn't change, but she can feel the room shift. Dhruv leans forward, his voice lower now but no less firm.

"You know what's unacceptable? The fact that we're sitting here, wasting time while Rudra's being punished for something that's not even his fault. The fact that you're too caught up in your policies to see the truth. This isn't about a 'zero-tolerance' policy. It's about you not wanting to deal with a problem that doesn't fit your picture of a perfect student. And you're using Rudra as your scapegoat."

There's a silence that stretches out for a long, drawn-out moment, a heavy pause where everyone in the room seems to hold their breath, waiting for someone to say the next thing, to offer a solution, to make the tension break.

But no one does.

The principal's eyes flick to the bully's parents, who are still standing there, their expressions smug, their arms crossed as if they've already won this battle.

Siya's heart sinks even further. It's so painfully obvious now. This isn't about what happened in that playground. It's about her—about them.

The way they don't fit in, the way they're always seen as outsiders, always under suspicion because of who they are.

She knows the whispers that follow her wherever she goes, the judgment, the quiet, cutting stares from people who think they have the right to question her every move. And now it's in this room, too.

"You know what," she starts, her gaze sweeping over the principal, the bully's parents, and everyone who's complicit in this decision, "I don't want my son to be in a school like this. I don't want him to grow up in an environment where people like us are treated like we don't belong. Where our worth is determined by who we are, not who we try to raise our children to be."

Her chest tightens, the anger and hurt still raw, but she keeps going. "Rudra deserves better than this. He deserves to go to a school where he's seen for who he is—a bright, kind, thoughtful little boy who has a right to stand up for himself.

Not a place where he's just another problem, another 'issue' to sweep under the rug because he doesn't fit your idea of what a good student should look like." Her voice falters slightly, but she catches it, steadying herself. "I'm not going to let you break him. I won't."

The principal opens his mouth to respond, but Siya doesn't give him the chance. Her eyes lock on Rudra again, and the sight of him, standing there with his small shoulders hunched in uncertainty, pushes her to keep going.

"I'll be collecting his things. We're leaving. I'm done here. If you can't see the injustice in all of this, then there's no point in me wasting any more time with people who would rather play politics than actually care about a child's well-being."

Dhruv stands up a little straighter beside her, his jaw set in quiet resolve. He doesn't say anything, but his presence is solid, a reminder that they're in this together.

Siya can feel the weight of his silent support, and it makes her feel just a little less alone in this moment. She takes a deep breath, then looks back at the principal, her expression unyielding.

"We'll find a place for Rudra where he's not made to feel like an outsider. Somewhere he can grow and thrive without the fear of being judged for the things he can't control." She glances over at the bully's parents, their smug faces still hovering like a cloud of judgment.

"Maybe it's time you took a hard look at your own policies and reconsider what it means to teach children compassion, not just discipline."

There's no immediate response. The principal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but he doesn't argue. He knows this is no longer a discussion about rules or policies.

It's about the human cost of those rules, about the harm they've already caused. But he doesn't seem ready to admit it, and Siya knows it's not her job to make him.

Turning back to Rudra, Siya opens her arms, and the moment their eyes meet, something unspoken passes between them—an understanding that doesn't need words, just the silent strength of a mother who's made her decision.

He doesn't hesitate this time.

His small hands reach out to her, his fingers trembling just slightly, as if unsure whether it's safe to trust again. But she's there, strong and steady, and he knows that in her embrace, there's no more fear, no more uncertainty.

With a muffled sob, he lets himself be lifted into her arms, his head finding the familiar comfort of her shoulder, his tiny body still tense with the weight of what's just happened, yet clinging to her like a lifeline.

She holds him close, her hand smoothing down his back, feeling his heartbeat, feeling the rawness of his pain, and wishing with all her might that she could take it away.

"It's okay, baby," she whispers, her voice a soft thread that winds through the stillness of the room. "It's okay now."

And then, without a word, Dhruv moves closer. He places a hand gently on Rudra's shoulder, a small gesture, but one that says more than any words ever could.

With a soft smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, he speaks in a tone that's somehow both light and steady, a comfort for both of them. "Aaja champ, tujhe main Gelupo leke jata hoon. Dono ice cream khayenge." [Come champ, I will talk you to Gelupo. We both will eat Ice cream.]

His words, simple but kind, are like a quiet breath of fresh air after the suffocating tension in the room.

Rudra's head lifts slightly from Siya's shoulder, his eyes still red from crying but now filled with the faintest glimmer of something else. Hope, maybe. Or trust.

The idea of something sweet, something safe, draws a soft, tentative smile from him. He nods, just once, and Siya feels a knot loosen in her chest as she watches him, the relief slowly spreading through her.

Dhruv leans down, grabbing Rudra's backpack from the floor and settling it over his own shoulder, before he gives a quick, reassuring look to Siya. It's not much, but it's enough—a silent promise that they'll get through this together.

The door clicks shut behind them, the finality of the action somehow heavier than the sound itself. Siya doesn't look back. She doesn't need to.

The school, the principal, all of it fades as they step out into the world beyond. The sunlight feels different now—softer, warmer—and as it spills over them, it's like the weight they've been carrying for so long lifts, just for a moment.

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Rudra's breathing is soft and even, the rise and fall of his chest a quiet reminder that he's finally, finally free from whatever turmoil was brewing in his head all day. Siya watches him as he sleeps, his small body curled up on the bed like a little knot, peaceful for once.

His face, still a bit flushed from the excitement of the ice cream and cricket, now looks so tender, so unaware of the weight of the world that's been pressing down on him.

The sound of his soft breaths is almost like a lullaby, and for a brief moment, Siya allows herself to simply be—no worries, no battles to fight. Just the comfort of this small, quiet moment.

Ice cream had been the magic cure, followed by cartoons, a few rounds of cricket in the living room where Rudra had insisted on being the "best batsman ever," and, of course, the promised lap time with Siya.

She'd let him lie across her, his tiny head nestled against her stomach as they both watched the end of some ridiculous animated show.

Siya can't help but smile a little at the memory. The way he'd insisted on batting first, even though he could barely hold the bat properly. The way Dhruv had humored him, even though his 'bowling' was more about the effort than actual technique.

Rudra had even given a very serious, very professional commentary on his own "perfect shots," which had Dhruv in stitches. It was pure, ridiculous fun, and in that moment, it was like everything had melted away.

Now, though, as she watches her son sleep so peacefully, Siya feels the weight of her exhaustion settling over her. It's like her body has been holding its breath all day, but now that Rudra's okay, now that he's at peace, she can finally exhale.

The soft, rhythmic hum of the A/C is the only sound in the room now, the air cool and quiet around them.

She reaches over and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind Rudra's ear, her fingers brushing against his warm skin. She's careful not to wake him.

He's been through enough for one day. He deserves this rest, the kind where he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to feel the sting of everything that's happened.

For a moment, Siya lets her mind drift. She wonders if Rudra remembers any of this—whether he'll remember today or just the sweetness of the ice cream and the laughter of the cartoons.

She hopes, in some strange way, that these small joys will be enough to drown out the hurt, that the fun moments will overpower the ones that have been too heavy.

As she watches Rudra, a soft smile curves at her lips, her gaze still tracing the gentle rise and fall of his chest. But then, just as her thoughts settle into the quiet comfort of the night, a voice, low and teasing, cuts through her reflections, pulling her back into the past.

"Bata na, Heeriye," [Tell me, sweetheart] Shubman's voice whispers close to her ear, the playful lilt in his tone unmistakable.

He leans in slightly, the warmth of his presence wrapping around her like a blanket, though his eyes hold something deeper than mischief. "Shaadi ke baad tujhe kitne bacche chahiye?" [how many kids do you want after we get married?]

She is sitting between his legs on the floor of the library, her back resting against his chest, and his arms loosely wrapped around her, as if holding her steady even when she hasn't asked for it.

Her hands clutch a book she's barely pretending to read, the words blurring into meaninglessness under the weight of his question.

Shubman is leaning back against the wooden bookshelf behind him, his legs stretched out on either side of hers.

His tone is teasing, but there's a tenderness in the way his words brush against the air between them, like he's asking a question he's imagined the answer to a thousand times before.

"Kaisi baat karte ho aap, Shub?" [What is this, Shub?] Siya whispers, her voice catching slightly as her heart betrays her.

She turns her face away, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. "Bilkul bhi sharam nahi hai aapko." [Don't you have any shame?]

Her words come out in a hurried rush, her nervousness making them sound sharper than she means them to, but she doesn't have the courage to meet his gaze, afraid of the way he's always looked at her like she's his entire world.

Shubman chuckles softly behind her, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her back, as though he's laughing at her shyness but also savoring it.

His head tilts slightly, and she can feel his breath near her ear as he speaks, his tone playful yet filled with a warmth that makes her stomach flutter.

"Arre, tum toh sharma rahi ho," [You're getting shy,] he murmurs, brushing a loose strand of her hair behind her ear with a touch so gentle it makes her freeze in place.

"Par mujhe toh yeh sab sochna padta hai, hai na?" [but isn't it my job to think about these things?]

Siya's fingers nervously drum against the book in her hands, her grip tightening as she tries to distract herself. But it's impossible to ignore the weight of his words or the way his voice dips into something more serious beneath the teasing edge.

She tries to think of a reply, something to deflect the conversation or steer it away from the unspoken promises weaving themselves into his words.

But before she can summon the courage to speak, he leans closer, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder, his presence overwhelming in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

"Tu toh bas mujhe yeh bata, Heeriye," [You just tell me this, sweetheart,] Shubman says, his voice dropping lower, softer, as though the words he speaks are meant to be a secret shared only between them.

His tone carries a quiet intensity, the kind that makes her feel as though the rest of the world has melted away, leaving just the two of them sitting here, wrapped in this fragile yet unshakable moment.

"Tujhe kaisa ghar chahiye? Ek din, jab humara ho, toh kaisa ho?" [What kind of home do you want? One day, when it's ours, what should it be like?]

The weight of his question hangs in the stillness, weaving itself into the quiet air of the library. Siya's breath hitches slightly, her fingers tightening around the book in her lap as she tries to process the simplicity of his words and the enormity of what they mean.

He speaks so casually, as if the future he's describing is not just a possibility but an inevitability, as if the picture he's painting is one he's already framed in his mind.

Her heart skips a beat, caught between the steady rhythm of his breathing and the chaotic flutter of her own. She wonders how he can speak of forever with such ease when she's still struggling to steady her thoughts in the present.

"Hume nahi pata," [I don't know.] she murmurs finally, her voice barely more than a whisper, as though she's afraid to give life to the thoughts swirling in her head.

Her tone wavers, uncertain, but as the silence stretches between them, she feels the urge to keep going, to let the picture in her mind take shape, even if it terrifies her to admit what she wants.

She draws in a shaky breath, her words tentative at first, then growing surer with each passing second. "Par shayad... chahe chhota hi ghar ho, Shubhi, lekin apna ho." [Maybe... even if it's small, Shubhi, it should be ours.]

Her voice softens as she continues, her gaze unfocused, as though she's looking at a scene only she can see. The corners of her lips lift in a faint smile as her dreams spill out, quiet yet filled with an unexpected clarity.

"Ek chhota sa ghar ho, lekin pyara ho. Jahan bahut saari khidkiyan ho, aur har subah dhoop andar aaye." [A small house, but a lovely one. One with many windows, so the sunlight streams in every morning.] Her fingers loosen their grip on the book as she loses herself in the vision, her words becoming softer, more vulnerable, like she's speaking her heart aloud for the first time.

"Ek aangan ho, jahan aapke saath hum chai pi sake. Aur shaam ko, jab bachche khel rahe ho, hum dono unhe dekhte hue baatein karein." [A courtyard where I can drink tea with you. And in the evenings, while the kids are playing, we'd sit together and talk, watching them.] She pauses for a moment, her cheeks flushing as she realizes how easily the words are flowing, but she doesn't stop.

Her voice dips, quieter now, almost a whisper, as though she's afraid to shatter the fragile beauty of the dream she's sharing.

"Chat ho, jahan raat ko, aap aur main ek dusre ki baahon mein khat pe let ke taare dekh sake." [A rooftop where, at night, you and I can lie in each other's arms on a cot and watch the stars.]

She stops, finally, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she glances down at her hands, suddenly feeling exposed. "Aapko kaisa ghar chahiye?" [What kind of home do you want?]

Shubman doesn't answer immediately. For a moment, the only sound is the faint rustle of a page turning somewhere in the library and the distant hum of the ceiling fan. She feels his gaze on her, unwavering and steady, but she doesn't look up, too nervous to see the expression on his face.

Slowly, he leans forward, resting his chin gently against the top of her head, the gesture so tender that her breath catches once again. His arms tighten around her slightly, pulling her closer, and when he speaks, his voice is so soft it feels like it's meant to cradle her heart.

"Mujhe?" [Me?] he begins, the single word hanging in the still air like a quiet promise, carrying a weight that lingers between them.

His tone is thoughtful, deliberate, as though he's carefully choosing how to bare his heart, yet there's an unmistakable warmth beneath it—a soft smile woven into his voice that wraps itself around her like a tender embrace.

He shifts slightly, leaning closer until she can feel the faint warmth of his breath near her temple, and when he speaks again, it's with a simplicity that makes her chest ache in the best way. "Mujhe aisa ghar chahiye jahan meri Heeriye ki hasi ho, jahan teri soni ji smile hove." [I want a home where my sweetheart's laughter fills every corner, where your beautiful smile brightens every room.]

He stops for a moment, as if giving her a chance to absorb his words, his arms tightening ever so slightly around her waist. The silence that follows isn't heavy or awkward—it feels full, charged with unspoken emotions that neither of them dares to put into words yet.

When he finally continues, his voice dips lower, softer, as though the next words are meant only for her ears. "Ek ghar jahan tu khush ho, jahan main aur tu ho, aur jahan humare chhote-chhote sapne sach ho sakein." [A home where you're happy, where it's just you and me, and where all our little dreams can come true.]

Her breath catches, her heart racing as she listens to him speak. His words feel so effortless, so sure, as if the life he's describing isn't just a distant hope but something he's already imagined down to the smallest detail.

She wonders how he can sound so certain, so ready to dream of forever, when she's still trying to wrap her mind around the present.

And yet, even as doubts flicker at the edges of her mind, there's a warmth blooming in her chest—a tentative kind of hope that she doesn't quite know what to do with.

"Aur jahan humare bache bhi ho," [And where our children can live too.] he says, his tone light but the words deliberate, as if he's been waiting for the right moment to drop this unexpected addition to their imagined future.

Her brows knit together in confusion, and for a moment, she wonders if she heard him correctly.

She tilts her head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he's already looking at her with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes, his smile widening as he waits for her reaction.

"Shubhi, apko kya chahiye? Ladka ya fir ladki?" [Shubhi, what do you want? A boy or a girl?] she asks, her voice soft but filled with a trace of amusement.

She leans forward slightly, her lips curving into a smile, but it's a smile that holds a little uncertainty, as if she's not sure whether she should be laughing or wondering if he's truly serious.

Shubman's smile widens at her question, and for a moment, he looks almost as though he's savoring the moment, like he's been waiting for her to ask.

His eyes flicker with something deep, something almost protective, as though he's already imagining this future that they're talking about, a future that's so vivid in his mind that it feels like it's already real.

He leans back slightly, folding his arms over his chest, his expression thoughtful, and then he looks at her with a gaze that's almost too sincere for their playful conversation.

"Pehle toh, main ladka chahunga," [First of all, I'd want a son.] he begins, his voice steady, the teasing edge now gone, replaced by something far more earnest.

He pauses for a moment, as though letting the weight of his words settle between them.

His eyes soften as he looks at her, and when he continues, his voice holds an almost protective tone, as if the very thought of this son fills him with a deep, innate sense of responsibility.

"Taaki jab tumhe zarurat ho, jab tumhe meri madad ki zarurat ho, toh wo ladka tumhare saath ho." [So that when you need help, when you need my protection, he'll be there for you.]

She feels a tightness in her chest as his words settle in her heart. She doesn't know if it's the weight of his sincerity or the depth of his devotion to her, but it makes something inside of her stir—a quiet, deep emotion that she can't quite name but knows is real.

She meets his gaze, her breath a little unsteady, and for a moment, the world feels smaller, just the two of them in this shared dream of the future.

But before she can respond, Shubman leans closer, his fingers brushing gently against hers, his gaze never leaving hers. His voice, soft and sincere, breaks the silence between them.

"Tu jaanti hai na, Heeriye, mujhse zyada kisi ko yeh sab nahi chahiye. Tere saath ek zindagi jeene ka, ek ghar basane ka, apne bache paalne ka..." [You know, sweetheart, no one else wants this more than I do. To live a life with you, to build a home together, to raise our children...]

Her heart skips a beat at his words, her chest tight with the raw intensity of them.

The way he looks at her, the way he speaks to her—it's like they're the only two people in the world, like nothing else matters but this connection they share.

She can't help but be drawn in by him, her gaze softening as she reaches out, gently placing her hand on his cheek, her fingers tracing the familiar lines of his face.

"Shubhi..." [Shubhi...] she whispers, her voice barely audible as she leans in, her forehead resting against his.

The world around them fades away, leaving just the two of them, their hearts beating in perfect synchrony.

"Hume apko kabhi chodke nahi jana hai," [I never want to leave you.] she confesses, her voice thick with emotion. Her eyes close as she feels the weight of her words, the truth of them sinking deep into her soul.

He smiles, his thumb brushing against her hand in a slow, reassuring motion as he whispers back, his voice a soft promise.

"Main bhi tumhe kabhi chhodkar nahi jaane dunga, Heeriye." [I'll never let you go either, Heeriye.]

The memory of those words haunts her as she lies awake in the quiet darkness of her room, the only sound the steady rise and fall of Rudra's breathing.

She blinks rapidly, trying to push back the sudden wave of emotions that threaten to overwhelm her. She's no longer sitting in that quiet, intimate space with Shubman.

The room around her is cold, distant. The absence of his presence feels like an echo that reverberates painfully in her chest. The laughter, the warmth, the certainty of that moment—gone.

Her hand instinctively reaches for the space next to her, where his presence used to be, but there's nothing. No warmth. No comforting touch. Just empty space.

A part of her wishes she could reach through time, back to that moment, back to when things felt simple and full of promise. But reality—her reality—doesn't allow her that luxury. Things have changed. Life has changed.

The days since they were last together have blurred into one long ache that never seems to ease. The mornings are filled with longing, the nights with restlessness.

She hasn't been able to shake the feeling of emptiness that clings to her, a hole in her chest that no one else can fill. Not even her work, not even the busy days and the noise of the world around her, can drown out the quiet ache of missing him.

Siya exhales slowly, closing her eyes, trying to push away the thoughts that threaten to consume her. She wants to be strong, wants to convince herself that this distance, this separation, is for the best.

But every time she closes her eyes, she sees his face—the one he wore when he promised her a future, when he talked about their children, their home, and the life they'd build together.

And it hurts. It hurts because she can't help but wonder—what would have happened if things had been different? What if they hadn't been torn apart by circumstances that were beyond their control?

Her fingers tighten into a fist, her nails digging into the palms of her hands as she fights against the emotions rising in her chest. She can't do this. She can't keep pretending like it doesn't matter.

Because it does. It matters more than anything else in her life right now. And every day, she feels the weight of it, dragging her deeper into the abyss of longing that never seems to end.

She misses him. More than she ever thought possible. And the worst part is—she doesn't know when or if she'll see him again.

The silence between them stretches out, and with each passing day, it feels like the distance between them grows.

And in the silence, the memory of that warmth, of that promise, becomes the only thing that keeps her going, even if it's the only thing that also breaks her heart.

Siya's eyes linger on Rudra, her hand still gently caressing his hair, every movement deliberate and full of tenderness. The soft curls feel like a connection to the past, to Shubman, and the more she touches them, the deeper the ache settles in her heart.

Rudra's face, peaceful and serene as he sleeps, is so strikingly similar to Shubman's that Siya can't help but feel a pang of longing. Every detail, from the curve of his lips to the angle of his jaw, is a reflection of the man she loves so deeply.

She watches him for a moment longer, her heart full of a mix of love and sorrow, before her gaze shifts back down to her hand, still resting on Rudra's head.

She takes a shaky breath, trying to hold back the wave of emotion that threatens to consume her. This—this peaceful moment—feels like the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her mind wanders to the absence of Shubman, the space between them that has become more unbearable with every passing day. The silence that hangs between them is deafening.

Every day that she wakes up without him, it feels like something inside her breaks just a little bit more. And yet, she doesn't know when she'll see him again, or if she ever will.

The hope, the hope that one day they might find their way back to each other, is the only thing that keeps her from completely losing herself to the sadness that threatens to swallow her whole.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing, cutting through the stillness of the room like a sharp, sudden jolt.

The vibration of the phone against the wooden nightstand breaks her out of her trance, and for a moment, she just stares at it, unsure of who could be calling her at this hour. Her heart gives a quick, nervous thud in her chest as she reaches for the phone, her fingers brushing the screen to answer it.

The caller ID flashes, and she feels a sudden tightening in her chest when she sees the name. It's her father. The man who has always been a steady, constant presence in her life, but lately, their conversations have been more strained, more distant.

She hesitates for a second, looking at the phone in her hand before slowly lifting it to her ear.

"Hello, Papa?" [Hello, Papa?] she answers, her voice soft and steady, though there's an undercurrent of uncertainty in her tone.

She isn't sure what this call will bring—her father hasn't called her in days, and his absence only adds to the heaviness in her heart.

She tries to shake the worry creeping into her thoughts, focusing instead on the sound of his voice, hoping that he can bring some comfort, some clarity.

On the other end of the line, there's a brief silence, followed by the familiar sound of her father's voice, steady and measured. "Siya, beta, aap kaise hai?" [Siya, darling, how are you?] he asks, the concern in his voice palpable, though his words remain casual, as if he's just checking in on her.

She takes a deep breath, momentarily unsure how to respond. "Hum... hum thik hai, Papa," [I... I'm fine, Papa.] she replies quietly, her words coming out almost automatically, as if saying the words will somehow make them true.

Her father doesn't press her further. There's an understanding in the silence between them, a mutual respect for the boundaries she's setting.

But then, just as the quiet stretches on, he gently shifts the topic, a familiar warmth returning to his tone. "Siya, aapke birthday ke liye kuch plan kiya hai? Aap ghar aa rahe ho na iss baar?" [Siya, have you made any plans for your birthday? Will you be coming home this year?]

The question catches her off guard, and she pauses, the words weighing heavily on her mind.

Siya's eyes squeeze shut as she listens to him, fighting the surge of emotions that threaten to overwhelm her.

Her fingers instinctively wrap around the hem of her shirt, her grip tightening as though holding on to the fabric will somehow hold her together.

She's not ready to tell him everything—how could she be? How could she explain the truth when she hasn't even fully come to terms with it herself?

Siya's heart beats a little faster as her father's question lingers in the air, his gentle voice pulling at something deep inside her. She wasn't expecting this, wasn't prepared for it.

The thought of going back home, of facing her family again after everything that has happened, is a whirlwind of emotions she's not sure how to handle. She stays silent for a moment, her thoughts racing.

The very idea of returning to India, of stepping back into a place filled with memories—some happy, some painful—feels like a heavy burden she doesn't know if she's ready to carry.

Her father, though, seems to sense her hesitation. There's a softness in his voice now, a patience that only he could offer. "Siya," he continues, "aapko ghar ki yaad toh aati hogi, na?" [you must be missing home, right?]

His question is casual, but there's an undercurrent of concern that makes Siya pause. Her father has always been able to see through her, to understand when something isn't quite right.

And though he doesn't press her further, she knows he's waiting for her to say something, anything, that will give him a glimpse into what's going on in her heart.

She exhales slowly, letting his words sink in. The weight of everything—her distance from Shubman, the secret she's been holding, and the way her life has shifted so drastically in the past few months—makes her chest tighten.

Going home isn't just about the birthday, it's about confronting the life she left behind, the family she hasn't fully shared herself with in years.

She hasn't been to India in what feels like an eternity, and the idea of returning, especially with everything that has changed, is both terrifying and comforting at the same time.

"Papa," she says softly, her voice trembling just a little, "hum... hum thoda soch kar bataenge." [I... I'll think about it and let you know.] She hopes that her words sound more certain than she feels.

She doesn't want to disappoint him, doesn't want to seem distant, but the reality is that she's not sure if she's ready to go back to a place that holds so many unspoken memories, especially now when her life feels like it's in such a fragile state.

Her father doesn't rush her, doesn't push for an immediate answer. Instead, there's a quiet understanding in his tone. "Thik hai, beta. Aap jo sochoge, wohi sahi hai. Par yaad rakhna, hum sab aapko bahut miss karte hain." [It's okay, darling. Whatever you decide, that's what's best. But remember, we all miss you a lot.]

She closes her eyes briefly, letting his words wash over her. She's missed them too. She's missed the comfort of being surrounded by family, the sense of belonging that comes with being home.

But she also knows that the moment she steps back into their world, she'll have to face everything she's been avoiding. She'll have to tell them about Rudra, about the life she's built without their knowledge.

The thought of revealing her son, of telling her family about the little boy who has quietly become the center of her universe, fills her with both anticipation and dread.

Her fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of her phone, the cool surface grounding her as her mind spins with possibilities.

What if they don't understand? What if they ask too many questions? What if they judge her for keeping such an important part of her life a secret?

But then, just as quickly, a wave of resolve washes over her. She can't keep avoiding it forever. The truth will come out one way or another.

And maybe it's time for her to stop hiding. Maybe it's time to go home, to face her family, to face the past she's been running from for so long.

"I'll... I'll come home, Papa," she says finally, the words coming out more naturally this time, though a knot tightens in her stomach. "Aapke liye, aur apne liye bhi." [For you, and for myself too.]

Her father's response is immediate, filled with relief and warmth. "Accha beta, bahut accha. Aapke ghar waapas aane se sab kuch theek ho jayega. Hum sab aapka intezaar kar rahe hain." [Good, darling, that's great. Everything will be alright once you come home. We've all been waiting for you.]

His words, though comforting, also remind her of the distance she's created between herself and them, of the walls she's built around her heart. But maybe, just maybe, this return will help her break through those walls.

Siya takes another deep breath, her gaze shifting to Rudra, who's now starting to stir in his sleep, his small hands reaching out as though seeking the comfort of his mother's touch.

Her heart swells at the sight, a mixture of love and longing that is difficult to put into words.

She knows that her life is forever intertwined with Rudra's, and though she's never spoken of him to her family, she wonders if now is the time to change that.

As she watches him, she feels a surge of determination. She can't keep hiding forever. It's time for her to face the music, to confront the reality of her life, even if it's one that she's not fully ready to share yet.

The path ahead may be uncertain, but she knows that she'll have to take it, for both herself and for Rudra.

"Hum aapko lekar wapas jayenge, Rudra," [I'll take you back with me, Rudra.] she whispers softly to him, her voice full of tenderness. "Aapke liye sab kuch theek ho jayega." [Everything will be alright for you.]

The promise feels real, solid, like something she can hold onto. And maybe, just maybe, this is the first step towards healing, towards bringing her life out of the shadows and into the light.

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I hope you guys enjoyed it. Tell me how is it? I know it is a bit long.

dagabaazreee, bowledover18, Esma_Hiranur_Sultan, ogcuphid

Pasand aaya, toh vote and comment kar dena. Story mein kuch chahiye, toh bata dena.

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻