▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

She can feel his touch like an old wound splitting open, the kind that never truly heals, the kind that aches even on the quietest of days, lingering beneath the surface like a shadow waiting for the right moment to resurface.

It is not the kind of touch that is meant to hurt—not in the way pain is supposed to be sharp and fleeting, not in the way an injury stings before fading into something distant, almost forgettable.

No, this is something worse, something that sinks into the marrow of her bones, something that carries the weight of too many unsaid words, too many unspoken apologies, too many years that should have been theirs but never were. This is the kind of touch that does not belong in the present, yet here it is.

He is here.

His fingers wrap around her wrist, firm yet trembling, as if even now, after all these years, he is still afraid of losing her. As if he has the right to feel that way.

Siya does not move. She should. She should wrench herself free, should turn on her heel without a word, should walk away and leave him standing there like the ghost of a life that no longer belongs to her.

But she doesn't. Because no matter how fiercely the fire of her anger burns, no matter how many scars he has carved into her soul, there is one devastating, unshakable truth she cannot outrun—she is not ready for this.

She is not ready to see him like this. Not ready to hear his voice.

Not ready to let the past collide with the present, to let it unravel her carefully built walls, to let it remind her of everything she lost, everything she loved, everything she once believed would be hers forever.

She is not ready to face the man who once held her heart in his hands and crushed it without a second thought.

And yet—here he is.

Her breath is shallow, unsteady, caught somewhere between rage and something dangerously close to grief.

Around them, the grand ballroom hums with life, a blur of shimmering gold and silk, of laughter and quiet negotiations, of people who have no idea that the world is crumbling right in the middle of their perfect evening.

For them, this is just another night, another party, another chapter in their glittering lives.

But for Siya, for Shubman—this moment is something else entirely. This moment is a battlefield. And neither of them knows how to emerge from it unscathed.

His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, not enough to restrain, but enough to say what his lips do not. Enough to plead. Enough to beg.

Enough to whisper a single, unspoken word into the space between them.

Don't go.

She swallows against the ache in her throat, against the memory of a different time, a different version of them, when his hands were not a prison but a promise, when his touch did not feel like shackles but like home.

And then, finally, finally—she turns.

It is slow, reluctant, as if even her body is unsure whether it can survive looking at him, whether it can endure the weight of the storm waiting in his gaze. But when she does—when she finally meets his eyes—something inside her fractures.

Because it is still there. That same expression. That same helplessness. That same quiet desperation. That same unbearable depth of emotion that once made her feel like she was the only thing in his world.

He looks at her the way he always has. Like she is everything. And she hates him for it.

Hates that he can still look at her like this, as if time has not carved a canyon between them, as if six years and a thousand broken promises have not burned them beyond recognition.

Hates that her heart, despite everything, does not know how to stop aching for him. Hates that a part of her still remembers what it felt like to be loved by him, even when it destroyed her.

His lips part slightly, as if he wants to speak, as if he wants to fix something that cannot be fixed. But no words come. His throat bobs as he swallows, his body tense, his hands still trembling around her wrist.

What could he possibly say? What words could repair what has already turned to dust?

There is nothing. So he just stares.

Siya clenches her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms, grounding her in the present, reminding her that she is not the girl she once was.

She is not nineteen.

She is not some lovestruck fool waiting for him to choose her. She is Siya Tripathi. She is stronger than this. She will not let him unravel her. Not again.

So she inhales, slow and steady, lets the mask of indifference settle over her features, forces herself to become the woman she has spent years becoming—the woman who does not flinch, who does not break, who does not give second chances to men who never deserved them.

And then, with a voice that is sharp and unforgiving, she speaks. She hates it—the way her body betrays her, the way it still holds the memory of his touch like an old scar that refuses to fade.

Even after everything, even after years of trying to forget, trying to bury what once was, her skin remembers the way he used to hold her.

How once, a lifetime ago, his touch was something she reached for, something she craved, something that felt like home.

But that was then. And now? Now, all she wants is to leave. To run.

To put as much distance between them as she possibly can before the past, the one she has fought so hard to keep buried, comes crashing down around her like a storm she cannot outrun.

So she tries again. This time her voice is steadier, colder, sharpened into something that cannot be mistaken for hesitation.

She forces herself to look at him, to see the man he has become rather than the boy she once loved, and when she speaks, she does so with all the finality she can muster. "Let me go, Mr. Gill."

She sees it the moment the words hit him, the exact second the formality sinks in—the deliberate wall she has placed between them with nothing but a name.

His entire body tenses, his grip falters, and for the briefest of moments, she catches it: the flicker of hurt in his eyes, raw and unguarded, like a wound he hadn't expected to feel. Like a cut too deep to ignore. And for just a moment, she thinks it will be enough.

That he will loosen his grip, that he will let her go, that he will finally give her the freedom he should have given her six years ago.

But then—

"Siya, please."

Two words. Soft. Fragile. Almost broken.

Yet they strike with the force of a wrecking ball, knocking the breath from her lungs, unraveling her in a way she has spent years building walls against. She closes her eyes for just a second.

Just long enough to steady herself. Just long enough to keep the ground from shifting beneath her feet. But it is too late. Because it is not just the words—it is the way he says them.

It is the way they sound like something wrecked and desperate, the way they carry a weight that feels heavier than the years between them.

It is the way he says her name like a prayer he has forgotten how to believe in. It is the way he sounds like the boy she once loved.

The boy who used to whisper her name like it was something sacred. The boy who used to hold her like she was the most fragile thing in the world, like she was something to be cherished, something to be protected. The boy who swore, again and again, that he would never hurt her.

Lies.

Siya exhales, slow and deliberate, forcing herself to stay upright, forcing herself not to let the past pull her under, not to let it reach for her with its cruel, grasping hands.

She lifts her gaze back to his, and when she speaks, her voice is quiet but unwavering, a warning, a plea, a final attempt to put an end to whatever this is before it spirals beyond her control.

"Mr. Gill, humara beta khada hai yahan, aap please unke saamne tamasha mat kijiye." [Mr. Gill, my son is standing right here. Please don't create a scene.]

Something shifts. Something sharp and dangerous and irreversible.

"Ours," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rudra mera bhi beta hai." [Ours. Rudra is my son too.]

Everything inside her goes still. Her heartbeat, steady and resolute just moments ago, slams against her ribs with such force that she feels the tremor in her fingertips.

Her ears ring, drowning out the hum of distant conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft melody of the live orchestra playing somewhere behind them.

Everything narrows. Everything tightens. Everything stops. Because he knows. He knows. Her son's name—their son's name—has just fallen from his lips like it belongs there.

Like it is something claimed.

Something his.

"Aapko... humare beta ka naam kaise pata?!" [How do you know our son's name?!] Her voice stumbles over the words, trembling at the edges, laced with disbelief, with fury, with something dangerously close to fear.

She doesn't mean for it to shake, doesn't mean for it to crack the way it does. But her control, the control she has spent years perfecting, is slipping through her fingers like sand in a storm.

His grip on her wrist tightens, not forceful, not cruel, but firm. Just enough for her to feel the heat of his palm against her skin, the subtle tremor in his fingers. His face—God, his face—is unreadable.

His jaw clenches, his throat bobs as he swallows, and his green eyes—wide, searching, desperate—hold hers like they are holding onto the last fraying thread of something long lost.

"Kaise pata, Siya?" [How do I know, Siya?] His voice is quiet. Too quiet. "Kaise pata hona chahiye?" [How do you think I should know?]

The air between them thickens, heavy, suffocating. Siya's pulse roars in her ears, drowning out everything else. No. No, this is not happening. This was not how it was supposed to go.

He was never supposed to know.

He was never supposed to say his name—not like this, not in the middle of a crowded ballroom, not with Rudra standing just a few feet away.

The little man's small hands still curled around the fabric of her saree, his innocent eyes flickering between his mother and the man holding onto her like she is something he still has the right to claim.

Shubman takes a step closer. Siya's entire body tenses on instinct, every part of her screaming at her to move, to run, to stop this before it can go any further.

But she can't.

She is frozen, trapped in this moment, in the impossible weight of it, in the horrifying, gut-wrenching realization that the past is no longer the past. Because he knows. And now—now, there is no undoing it.

"Siya..." His voice is almost a whisper, raw and shaking, full of something she cannot afford to hear. "Batao mujhe." [Tell me.]

Siya's entire body locks up, her breath uneven, her mind scrambling for something—anything—to fix this, to make this moment disappear, to rewrite it before it destroys everything.

But she has nothing. Nothing but the unbearable truth pressing against her ribs, stealing the air from her lungs.

Because this is the moment she has been running from for six years. And she is out of places to hide.

"Mama?" The voice is soft, uncertain, but it might as well be a thunderclap in the charged silence that has wrapped itself around her like a vice, suffocating, inescapable.

Siya's breath catches in her throat, her entire body going still as the single word echoes between them, slicing through the unbearable weight of the moment.

Her head snaps down, her pulse roaring so loudly in her ears that, for a second, she can hear nothing else, feel nothing else—only the sudden, crushing awareness of her son standing there, looking up at her with those wide, questioning eyes that see too much.

Rudra. Her baby. Her heart. Her entire world.

And yet, in this moment, she feels as though the ground beneath her is splintering apart, breaking at the seams, threatening to swallow her whole.

Because he is here—here, between them, between the past she has spent six long years running from and the man she has tried so desperately to forget, the man who now stands just inches away, still holding on to her as if he has any right, as if she is something he can still claim.

Rudra blinks up at her, his small face creased in innocent confusion, his tiny hand tightening around the pleats of her saree, pulling at her, grounding her, anchoring her to this moment that she cannot escape from no matter how much she wants to.

His green eyes—her green eyes—are wide, bright, shimmering with curiosity, the same color as hers but shaped so achingly like his, so undeniably his, that for a breathless second, Siya wonders how she ever thought she could keep this truth buried forever.

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She can't speak. She can't breathe.

And then, before she can even think of what to do, what to say, he tilts his little head to the side, his tiny fingers finding their way to his mouth in that small, absentminded habit of his, and in a voice so sweet, so heartbreakingly innocent.

"Shubman Uncle, what aap doing yahan?" [Shubman Uncle, what are you doing here?] Rudra questions, his eyes travelling from his mother to the nice uncle from the airport.

Her chest constricts, something sharp and unbearable lodging itself deep within her, because she does not understand, because this is not possible, because she does not know how Rudra knows him.

She does not know how Shubman knows him, does not know how, in a world where she has done everything, everything to keep them apart.

To ensure their paths would never cross, to guard the one truth she could never afford to let slip, the one secret she has spent years protecting.

Despite it all, despite the distance, despite the time, despite the walls she built so carefully, they have somehow, somehow already found each other.

And then, as if to drive the knife in deeper, as if to shatter the last remaining fragments of the fragile illusion she has spent so long upholding, Rudra shifts closer, his small hands reaching out, his fingers tugging at the sleeve of Shubman's shirt, his bright, trusting eyes looking up at him with a familiarity that tears through her like a blade made of fire.

And when he speaks again, it is with that same innocent curiosity, that same oblivious, heartbreaking warmth that makes her want to scream, to run, to undo what cannot be undone. "Aap ro rahe ho, Shubman Uncle?" [Are you crying, Shubman Uncle?]

And she watches, helpless, as the man before her—the man she once loved, the man she once left behind, the man she swore she would never see again—squeezes his eyes shut, his entire body trembling, his breath shuddering, his lips pressing together as if he is physically holding himself back from breaking apart right in front of them.

But it is too late. Because he is already breaking. And so is she. And there is nothing, nothing she can do to stop it.

Siya swallows, hard, forcing down the rising tide of emotions clawing their way up her throat, pushing down the panic, the desperation, the sheer, overwhelming terror that threatens to consume her whole, because this moment is slipping from her grasp, spiraling into something she cannot control, something she cannot contain, something she cannot fix.

She cannot afford to let Rudra see this, cannot let him witness the silent war raging between the two people who brought him into this world, cannot allow him to feel even a fraction of the unbearable weight pressing down on her chest, on their chests.

He is too young, too innocent, too untouched by the cruelty of the world to be burdened with the truth of what he does not know, of what he was never meant to know.

So she does the only thing she can—she pulls herself together, pastes a smile onto her trembling lips, forces her voice into something soft and steady and unshaken, something that does not betray the fact that she is shattering from the inside out.

She drops to her knees, cupping Rudra's tiny face in her hands, brushing her thumbs over the warmth of his soft cheeks, letting herself linger, letting herself breathe him in, because the moment she sends him away, the moment she lets him walk out of this room, she will have to face the storm she has spent the last six years outrunning.

And she knows, with bone-deep certainty, that it will destroy her.

"Meri Jaan," [My love,] she murmurs, voice gentle, soothing, desperate to keep him from sensing the tremor beneath her words, "Dhruv kaha hai? Hume toh lagta hai woh apke bina sari ice-cream kha rahe hai." [Where is Dhruv? I think he is eating all the ice-cream without you.]

Rudra's brows furrow, his tiny lips pursing in thought, the innocence in his eyes flickering with the slightest hint of contemplation.

For a moment, just a brief, fleeting second, Siya fears he will refuse, that he will sense something amiss in her voice, in the way her hands tremble against his soft, warm cheeks, in the way she is holding him just a little too tightly, a little too long, as if she is afraid to let go.

But then, just as quickly as the thought appears, it vanishes, chased away by the excitement that sparks in his gaze, by the way his little hands curl into fists at his sides, determined, ready.

His entire face lights up, a childlike pouty anger flooding in, wiping away whatever confusion had begun to settle there.

"Kya? Dhruv bhaiya ice-cream kha raha hai bina mere?" [What? Dhruv bhaiya is eating ice-cream without me?] he exclaims, eyes widening in outrage, his small body already turning, already preparing to storm off in the righteous fury.

Siya forces a laugh, soft and breathless and aching, her fingers brushing through his unruly curls one last time, memorizing the feeling, the warmth, the comfort, because the moment he walks out of this room, everything will change.

"Jao beta, usse pakdo aur hume bhi batana ki kaunsi flavour kha raha hai," [Go, sweetheart, catch him and tell me which flavor he's eating,] she says, her voice steady, betraying none of the terror clawing at her insides.

Rudra nods eagerly, his tiny feet already pattering across the floor, already making his way to the door, already slipping away from the storm brewing behind him.

But just as he reaches the threshold, just as his small hand curls around the handle, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder, his wide, trusting eyes locking onto Shubman once more.

"Bye, Shubman Uncle! Aap too try ice-crea, karna." [Bye, Shubman Uncle! You too try the ice-cream.]

And then he is gone.

The door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing like a death knell in the silence that follows, and Siya stands there, frozen, hands curled into fists at her sides, breathing uneven, pulse hammering.

Because she knows, knows, that she can no longer avoid what is coming, can no longer run, can no longer pretend that she has any semblance of control over this moment, over this confrontation, over him.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of what she might find, she lifts her gaze.

And the instant her eyes meet Shubman's, her breath stutters, her entire body locking into place, because what she sees there—what she feels there—is unlike anything she has ever known.

He looks wrecked, broken, shattered, as if the very ground beneath his feet has been ripped away, as if everything he has ever known, ever believed, ever understood, has just been torn apart at the seams.

His breathing is uneven, his shoulders trembling, his fists clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles have turned white, and when he finally speaks, when he finally forces the words past his throat, past the grief, past the betrayal burning in his chest, his voice is unsteady, raw, laced with something so sharp, so gut-wrenching, that it nearly brings her to her knees.

"He's mine."

It is not a question. It is not a whisper of hope. It is a statement, cold and unforgiving and filled with an ache so unbearable that Siya feels it sink into her very bones. And there is nothing, nothing she can say to deny it.

Siya's breath stutters, her entire body locking up, her fingers curling into fists at her sides as if holding on to something—anything—will stop the inevitable from unraveling right in front of her.

The air feels heavier now, thick and suffocating, pressing against her chest, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to move, impossible to think.

Because this moment, this exact moment, is one she has dreaded for years, one she has spent every waking second trying to avoid, and yet, it has arrived anyway, merciless and unstoppable, crashing over her like a tidal wave with no shore in sight.

Shubman takes a step forward, slow and deliberate, his entire frame taut with something that borders on devastation, with something that crackles in the space between them, in the silence that stretches too long, too thick, too unbearable.

His jaw clenches, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to reach for something, as if he wants to hold on, but doesn't know how, doesn't know if he even has the right to.

And his eyes—God, his eyes—they burn into hers, not with anger, not with rage, not even with betrayal, but with something deeper, something raw and broken and aching.

"Bata na, Heeriye," [Tell me, sweetheart,] his voice trembles, just slightly, just enough for her to hear the way it cracks under the crushing weight of the truth, just enough for her to feel the anguish bleeding through every syllable. "Bata na, mujhe kyu nahi bataya ki mera beta hai, Siya... kyu mujhse sab kuch chhupa liya?" [Tell me, why didn't you tell me that he's my son, Siya... why did you hide everything from me?]

He takes a sharp breath, his head shaking slowly, his throat tightening as if the words themselves are too heavy to bear, as if they're suffocating him with every passing second. "Kya maine itni badi galti ki thi, Siya, jo tune apne aur humare beech ka sabse bada sach mujhse chhupa liya?" [Had I made such a big mistake, Siya, that you had to hide the biggest truth between us, about our son?]

She wants to speak. She wants to say something, anything, but the words—God, the words—are trapped somewhere deep in her throat, tangled with years of guilt and pain and fear.

Her lips part, but nothing comes out, nothing except the sharp, uneven hitch of her breath as she looks at him, as she watches the way his expression fractures, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides, the way his entire body trembles with the sheer force of the storm raging inside him.

She doesn't know what to say.

Because what can she say?

That she was scared?

That she was young and foolish and heartbroken and didn't know how to face the possibility of raising a child while carrying the unbearable weight of a love that had already been shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces?

That she convinced herself she was doing the right thing, the only thing, by leaving?

That she thought she was protecting him? That she thought she was protecting Rudra? That she never meant for this to happen, that she never wanted this, that she never wanted him to find out this way?

But none of that matters now. None of it will change the way his heart is breaking right in front of her. None of it will change the fact that the truth, the one she has spent six years burying, has finally clawed its way to the surface.

Her voice trembles, thick with a pain she has carried for far too long, and yet, there is something so sharp, so unyielding in her words that it cuts through him, leaves him gasping for air. "Kaise bata te?" [How could I have told you?]

The question is not just a question—it is a wound, a gaping, festering wound that she finally exposes to him, forces him to look at, to acknowledge, to understand.

"Jab aapke paas toh humare liye waqt hi nahi tha, jab hum aapki life mein kuch bhi nahi the, toh kaise bata te?" [When you never even had time for me, when I meant nothing in your life, then how could I have told you?]

And God—God, it hurts.

Because he knows she's not lying. He knows she's not saying it to hurt him, to punish him. She is saying it because it is the truth, because at one point, he had made her feel that way.

And now, standing here, looking into the eyes of the woman he once thought he would spend forever with, he realizes that maybe... maybe he never truly knew just how deeply he had broken her.

She exhales sharply, her breath uneven, her hands curling into tight fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms so hard that he almost wants to reach out, to uncurl her fingers, to tell her to stop hurting herself like this.

But he knows it's not the physical pain that keeps her grounded—it's the years of holding it all in, of forcing herself to be strong, to survive without him, to carry a truth so heavy, so unbearable, that even now, with it standing in the space between them, she still looks like she is afraid to let it go.

She shakes her head, and a hollow, bitter laugh slips past her lips—one that is so empty, so filled with devastation, that it makes his stomach twist.

It should feel satisfying for her, shouldn't it?

Watching him crumble like this? Watching him drown in the very pain he had left her in? It should feel like justice, like some cruel, poetic balance to the universe, after everything he put her through.

But there is no satisfaction in her face, no relief in the depths of her gaze. There is only sorrow—the kind that lingers in the air, thick and suffocating, refusing to dissipate even as time stretches on.

It is not the sharp sting of fresh wounds, but the aching, unbearable weight of old ones that never truly healed, only festered beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to tear open again.

Shubman closes his eyes for just a second, but it does nothing to stop the storm raging inside him. His chest rises and falls with deep, uneven breaths, his mind clawing desperately for something, anything, that might ease the crushing weight pressing down on him.

But there is nothing—only regret, raw and unrelenting, seeping into every crevice of his being, poisoning every thought that crosses his mind.

God. God, does he regret it.

He regrets the moments he let his pride dictate his actions, the times he allowed his ego to speak louder than his love for her.

He regrets every careless word, every fleeting moment of anger, every time he assumed she would always be there, waiting for him, no matter how much he pushed her away.

He had been so damn sure, so arrogantly confident that she would never leave him—because she had loved him that much, hadn't she? She had loved him enough to forgive, enough to endure, enough to wait.

But she didn't. And he had no one to blame but himself.

Now, as he stands before her, his body rigid, his fingers twitching at his sides as if aching to reach for something he has no right to claim, he realizes the truth in its most brutal form.

Siya is no longer his at all.

And the worst part? It is entirely his fault.

He swallows hard, the words sticking to the roof of his mouth, heavy and suffocating, barely making it past his lips. "Heeriye..." [Sweetheart...] His voice is hoarse, frayed at the edges, barely more than a whisper.

He watches her closely, hoping—praying—that she will hear the plea in his tone, that she will recognize the raw, unspoken desperation clawing its way out of his chest. "Aisa mat bol... please." [Don't say that... please.]

For the briefest of moments, her expression shifts, a flicker of something almost imperceptible crossing her face. And then, just as quickly, she flinches.

It is so subtle that if he hadn't spent years memorizing every single detail about her, he might have missed it entirely. But he sees it. He feels it in his bones. And it destroys him.

Because he knows what that flinch means. Knows that once upon a time, just the sound of his voice, the way he said her name, the way he whispered, pleaded, would have been enough to make her stay. But not anymore. Not now. Not after everything.

When she speaks again, her voice is soft, void of any anger, any resentment. It is quiet, exhausted, like the weight of the past is finally catching up to her. "Aisa hi tha," [That's exactly how it was,] she murmurs, her tone devoid of accusation, devoid of fire. There is nothing but the quiet, unwavering weight of truth.

"Aap kabhi sunte hi nahi the. Hamesha sirf apna sunaaya, apni tension, apni problems. Aur hum? Hum toh bas ek... ek distraction the na?" [You never really listened. You only spoke about yourself—your stress, your problems. And me? I was just... just a distraction, wasn't I?]

His head snaps up so fast it makes him dizzy, his heart hammering against his ribs in protest, his body tense with the sheer force of his emotions. The words lodge themselves in his throat, sharp and unforgiving, cutting into the very fabric of his being.

How dare she think that? How dare she believe that she was anything less than the very center of his world? That she was anything less than everything to him?

Before he can stop himself, before he can think about what he is doing, he is moving, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat.

His hands reach for her arms—not tightly, never to hurt, but just enough to make her hear him, to stop her from walking away, to force her to look at him and understand just how deeply, how completely, she has always mattered.

"KHABARDAAR!" [Don't you dare!] His voice is raw, unsteady, shaking with the sheer desperation he can no longer contain.

"KHABARDAAR jo tu ne apne baare mein aisa socha! Tu meri zindagi hai, Heeriye! Tujhse bada kuch nahi hai!" [Don't you dare think of yourself that way! You are my life, sweetheart! There is nothing greater than you!]

She gasps at his words, at the intensity of them, at the way they crash over her like a tidal wave, pulling her under, suffocating her with the weight of emotions too powerful to ignore.

And for a moment—just a moment—he lets himself hope.

Hope that she believes him. Hope that she can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hands tremble as they hold onto her.

Hope that she understands, even now, after everything, that she was never just a distraction. That she was, and will always be, the only thing that ever truly mattered.

But then, just as quickly, her face changes. Not with anger. Not with pain. But with something so much worse. Disbelief. And when she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper, but it slices through him like a blade.

"Toh phir uss raat ko woh sab kyu bola?" [Then why did you say those things that night?] She says it so quietly, so brokenly, that for a second, he almost wonders if he imagined it.

But he didn't.

The words have already settled in the space between them, thick and inescapable, wrapping around him like an iron chain, dragging him down into the depths of everything he has spent years trying to forget.

A cold, suffocating silence follows, stretching endlessly, pressing into his ribs, making it difficult to breathe. The weight of it is unbearable, crushing in a way that words cannot describe.

He knows. He knows exactly what she is talking about, exactly which night she means. There is no room for denial, no space for excuses, no way to twist the truth into something easier to bear.

Because that night had been the end of everything.

The night he lost her. The night she walked away, not in anger, not in frustration, but in something far worse—finality. It was the night she gave up, the night she decided that whatever love had once bound them together was no longer enough to keep her from breaking.

And suddenly, all the things he wants to say, all the words that have been burning on the tip of his tongue for years, feel useless. They hold no meaning in the face of what has already been done, what has already been broken beyond repair.

He wants to tell her that he didn't mean it, that he was angry, that he was scared, that he never stopped loving her, not for a second, not for a breath.

But none of it will change the fact that he had said those words, had let them spill from his lips like venom, had watched them seep into her skin and carve wounds so deep that even now, after all this time, they still bleed.

She watches, unmoving, as the weight of the moment crashes down on him, as the realization of all that has been lost, all that has been broken, settles deep within his chest.

And then, just as if his own body can no longer bear the torment, as if the weight of regret and sorrow has finally stolen the strength from his legs, he falls.

His knees hit the ground with a force that seems to shake him to his very core, but he barely notices. His hands, which had been gripping her arms, slide down with the motion, his fingers wrapping around her wrists in a hold that is no longer firm, no longer demanding, but pleading—desperate and aching, trembling with the force of all the words he does not know how to say.

His touch is light, hesitant, as though he is terrified that she will pull away, terrified that the moment he lets go, she will vanish from his life once more, slipping through his grasp like sand through open fingers.

His head bows, his forehead nearly touching the ground between them, as a ragged breath escapes his lips, his entire frame shaking with the sheer force of emotions that threaten to consume him whole.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, hoarse, a broken whisper that cracks under the weight of his grief. "Siya, main... main jaanta hoon... ki maine tujhe itni takleef di hai... ki shayad main kabhi bhi is dard ko mita nahi sakta... par main phir bhi... phir bhi maafi maangna chahta hoon. Har ek shabd ke liye. Har ek pal ke liye jisme maine tujhe akele mehsoos karwaya. Main jaanta hoon ki main is sab ka koi bhi bahaana nahi bana sakta. Par main... main sirf itna jaanna chahta hoon, ek baar... ek baar tu mujhe maaf kar sakegi?" [Siya, I... I know... that I have hurt you so much... that maybe I can never erase this pain... but still... still, I want to apologize. For every word. For every moment I made you feel alone. I know I have no excuse for any of it. But I... I just need to know, once... just once... can you ever forgive me?]

His grip on her wrists tightens slightly, not in force, but in supplication, as if he is begging her to hear him, to understand the depth of what he is saying, to see that this is not just remorse—it is devastation, it is the undoing of every ounce of pride he once carried, the complete surrender of a man who had once thought himself incapable of falling apart.

She stares down at him, her breath unsteady, her body rigid with the tension of years spent holding herself together, of years spent building walls so high that even the sound of his voice, even the touch of his hands, cannot break them down.

And yet, as she looks at him now, sees him kneeling before her, his body curled in on itself as if the pain is too much to bear, something in her chest twists, something inside her shatters just a little.

Because she had imagined this moment. Had dreamed of it in the solitude of sleepless nights, in the echoes of memories that refused to fade.

She had thought that if it ever came, she would feel some semblance of vindication, some flicker of satisfaction in seeing him brought to his knees by the very agony he had once inflicted upon her.

But there is no victory in this. No relief. No triumph.

Only the unbearable sight of a man who was once everything to her, breaking apart before her very eyes.

Her throat tightens, and for a long moment, she cannot speak, cannot move, cannot breathe past the tidal wave of emotions crashing over her.

But then, slowly, carefully, she exhales, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet steady, unyielding. "Shubman... yeh sab kehne mein aapko chhe saal lag gaye." [Shubman... it took you six years to say this.]

And the words, soft though they are, strike him harder than any blow ever could. The weight of them crashes over him like an unforgiving tide, relentless and unyielding, dragging him deeper into the chasm of his own regret.

His breath hitches, his body tensing, and then, as if the sheer force of his desperation has robbed him of his strength, he collapses further, his hands slipping from her wrists only to catch them again, clinging, grasping, as though letting go would mean losing her all over again.

"Siya, please," his voice trembles, thick with emotion, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic, breathless rush, as though he is afraid that if he does not say them now, he will never get the chance. "Mujhe maaf kar do... bas ek baar. Main jaanta hoon, jaanta hoon ki maine tujhe bohot dukh diya hai, jaanta hoon ki maine jo kaha uss raat... woh maaf karne laayak nahi hai. Par main badal gaya hoon, Siya. Har din, har pal, maine is pal ka intezaar kiya hai, sirf yeh umeed lekar ki shayad... shayad ek din tu meri baat sunegi." [Forgive me... just once. I know, I know I have hurt you beyond repair, I know that what I said that night... is unforgivable. But I have changed, Siya. Every day, every moment, I have waited for this moment, only holding on to the hope that maybe... maybe one day, you will listen to me.]

His fingers tremble as they press into her skin, not in force, not in demand, but in sheer, unrestrained fear—the kind of fear that comes from knowing that what is broken may never be whole again.

His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, his entire body trembling under the weight of emotions too heavy to carry alone. "Heeriye, main haar gaya hoon... tujhse, tere pyaar se, apne hi gunahon se. Mujhse aur mat door jaa. Main saansein nahi le sakta tere bina. Main nahi jee sakta tere bina." [Sweetheart, I have lost. To you, to your love, to my own mistakes. Don't go further away from me. I can't breathe without you. I can't live without you.]

His words pour out like a confession, raw and unfiltered, as though he is finally laying himself bare, exposing every wound, every regret, every ounce of pain he has carried for the last six years.

And still, she stands unmoving, her expression unreadable, her lips pressed together in a firm line, her dark eyes burning with an intensity that he can no longer decipher.

But she does not pull away. She does not push him aside. And for him, that is enough to keep holding on.

"Main jaanta hoon, Siya," [I know, Siya,] his voice breaks now, cracking beneath the weight of the truth he has carried for far too long. "Jaanta hoon ki jo dukh maine tujhe diya, uska koi ilaaj nahi hai. Jaanta hoon ki tujhse maafi maangne ka haq shayad maine kab ka khona diya. Par main haara nahi hoon, haara nahi hoon tere pyaar ke liye ladne se, haara nahi hoon tujhe wapas jeetne ki koshish karne se. Siya... tujhse ek baar, sirf ek baar kehne ka mauka de de." [I know that the pain I caused you... there is no cure for it. I know that maybe I lost the right to ask for your forgiveness long ago. But I haven't given up. I haven't given up on fighting for your love. I haven't given up on trying to win you back. Siya... just once, just once, give me the chance to say everything I should have said back then.]

His grip falters for a moment, his fingers loosening, his forehead dropping to touch the back of her hands as his body shudders with the force of his own grief.

He is not just asking for forgiveness. He is begging for a chance, a single moment of grace, a single thread of hope to hold on to.

And yet, as he kneels before her, shattered and pleading, he knows that this moment, this decision, does not belong to him.

It belongs to her.

Siya stares down at him, her heart hammering against her ribs, her breath shallow and uneven, her hands trembling in his grasp. Every fiber of her being screams at her to pull away, to step back, to shield herself from the devastating storm of emotions that he has unleashed.

And yet, she cannot. She cannot bring herself to sever the fragile connection between them, cannot deny the depth of the love that still lingers, despite the years, despite the pain, despite everything.

Her voice, when it comes, is quiet but firm, steady despite the way her insides tremble. "Aap sochte hai ki maafi maangne se sab kuch theek ho jayega?" [Do you think everything will be fixed just because you apologized?] Her words, though spoken softly, cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

"Aapko lagta hai ki hum aapke shabdon par vishwas kar lenge? Ki hum un chhe saalon ka dukh, woh har ek raat jo humne tanha bitaayi, bas ek pal mein bhool jayenge?" [Do you think I will just believe your words? That I will forget six years of pain, every lonely night I spent, just in a single moment?]

Shubman lifts his head then, his eyes wild, desperate, burning with something raw and unbearable. He tightens his grip on her wrists, his fingers trembling, as though he is afraid she will slip through his hands like water, like she did once before.

"Haan, Siya! Haan! Main jaanta hoon ki maafi maangne se dukh mit nahi jaata! Jaanta hoon ki jo kiya woh sudhar nahi sakta! Par main haar nahi maan sakta! Main tujhe haar nahi sakta!" [Yes, Siya! Yes! I know that an apology won't erase the pain! I know that what I did cannot be undone! But I can't give up! I can't lose you!]

His voice is hoarse, cracking under the weight of his emotions, his entire being shaking with the sheer force of his desperation. "Mujhse mat chheen Siya, jo sirf mera hai... jo sirf humara hai!" [Don't take away from me what is mine... what is ours!]

Siya's breath catches in her throat, her entire body locking up at his words, at the sheer intensity of them, at the undeniable truth that they hold.

Her heart aches, twists painfully in her chest, because she knows, knows that despite everything, despite all the hurt and betrayal, she has never stopped loving him. And that knowledge is the most terrifying thing of all.

She pulls her hands from his grasp, but he does not let go easily. His fingers slide down her arms, as though unwilling to lose even an inch of contact, as though afraid that if he lets go, she will vanish like a cruel dream.

But still, she steps back, needing space, needing air, needing to think past the whirlwind of emotions suffocating her.

"Aapko pata hai," [You know,] she whispers, her voice laced with a grief so profound it feels like it might crush her. "Humne kitni baar yeh socha hai... ki agar aap ek baar humein rok lete, ek baar humse kehte ki ruk jao, ek baar apni ego chhod kar humse keh dete ki hum zaroori hai... toh shayad aaj sab alag hota." [I have thought about it so many times... that if you had stopped me just once, if you had told me to stay, if you had set aside your ego and told me that I mattered... maybe everyt\\\\\\\\\\

ching would have been different today.]

Her lips tremble, and she clenches her fists, willing herself to stay strong, to not crumble under the weight of everything she has carried alone for so long. "Lekin aapne aisa nahi kiya. Aur ab jab hum khud ko sametna seekh gaye hai, jab humne apni duniya khud bana li hai, tab aap laut aaye ho? Kyun, Shubman? Kyun?" [But you didn't. And now, when I have learned to hold myself together, when I have built my own world... now you have come back? Why, Shubman? Why?]

Her words send a fresh wave of agony crashing over him, his breath shuddering, his head shaking as if trying to reject the very idea of her moving on without him. "Main pagal ho jaunga, Siya..." [I will go insane, Siya...] His voice is barely more than a broken whisper, his hands clenching into fists as he fights the overwhelming fear clawing at his insides.

"Main jee nahi sakta tere bina. Main khud se nafrat karta hoon ki maine tujhe woh dukh diye jo tu deserve nahi karti thi. Par ab mujhe ek aur moka de de, Siya. Bas ek baar." [I can't live without you. I hate myself for hurting you the way I did. But please... just give me one more chance, Siya. Just once.]

He moves forward, his hands reaching for her again, but she steps back once more, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The space between them feels impossibly wide, an unbridgeable chasm created by years of separation, by words spoken in anger, by wounds that may never heal.

And yet, the love remains—burning, unyielding, as undeniable as the air they breathe.

Shubman sees it in her eyes, feels it in the way she shudders when he says her name, in the way her lips tremble as she fights against the pull that has always existed between them. But will it be enough? Will love alone be enough to undo the damage that has already been done?

He does not know.

And Siya does not answer.

"Please, Heeriye, mujhse meri duniya mat chheen," [Please, Heeriye, don't take my world away from me,] he speaks, the desperation in his tone clawing at the silence between them, breaking it apart piece by piece.

His breath is unsteady, uneven, trembling with the weight of words he has held back for too long, words he should have spoken years ago, words that had been buried beneath pride, beneath foolishness, beneath the arrogance of believing that love alone could withstand anything. "Tu samajhti kyun nahi, Siya? Main saans leta hoon, par jeeta nahi hoon... jeena toh tab shuru hua tha jab tu meri zindagi mein aayi thi. Aur jab tune mujhe chhod diya, tab sab kuch ruk gaya. Sab kuch." [Why don't you understand, Siya? I breathe, but I don't live... living only began when you came into my life. And when you left me, everything stopped. Everything.]

His fingers tremble as he reaches for her again, but he stops himself, his hands hovering in the empty space between them, as though even the slightest touch would shatter whatever fragile restraint remains.

His eyes search hers, pleading, begging, aching for her to understand, for her to see beyond the hurt, beyond the years that have carved wounds too deep to ignore. "Siya, main duniya ka sabse ameer insaan ban sakta hoon, main duniya ke sabse ucche maqam tak pahunch sakta hoon, par agar tu saath nahi hai, toh sab bekaar hai. Toh sab khatam hai. Kyunki sach toh yeh hai ki main kabhi bhi sirf Shubman nahi tha... main humesha tera Shub tha. Tera. Sirf tera." [Siya, I could become the richest man in the world, I could reach the highest peaks of success, but if you're not with me, it's all meaningless. It's all over. Because the truth is, I was never just Shubman... I was always your Shub. Yours. Only yours.]

His voice breaks, and he lets out a breath so unsteady, so filled with pain, that it feels as if it might break him entirely. He shakes his head, eyes glistening, his lips pressing together as he struggles to hold himself together, to not let the sheer force of everything he feels consume him completely.

"Mujhe nahi pata tha ki ek insaan ka dil ek hi baar toot ke khatam nahi hota, Siya. Main sochta tha ki dukh ek pal ka hota hai, phir aadmi samajhota kar leta hai, aage badh jaata hai. Lekin pichle chhe saal, maine har din, har raat sirf ek hi cheez mehsoos ki hai—tere bina jeene ki saza. Har saans ek yaad ki tarah lagti hai, jo tere bina adhuri hai. Har subah sirf ek naya bojh lekar aati hai, ki ek aur din tere bina beet gaya." [I never knew that a heart doesn't just break once and end, Siya. I used to think pain was fleeting, that people learn to cope, move on. But for the past six years, every single day, every single night, I have felt just one thing—the punishment of living without you. Every breath feels like a memory, incomplete without you. Every morning brings only the weight of another day passed without you.]

His shoulders shake as he exhales a breath so heavy, so burdened with sorrow, that it feels as though he has been carrying the weight of the entire universe on his back.

"Tu mere liye sirf pyaar nahi hai, Siya... tu meri har khushi hai, tu mera sukoon hai, tu meri duniya hai. Jab main haar jata hoon, toh sirf teri awaaz chahiye hoti hai jo mujhe uthne ki wajah de. Jab main jeet jata hoon, toh sirf tera chehra dekhna chahta hoon jo mujhe yeh yaad dilaye ki yeh jeet kaafi hai. Jab sab kuch bikharne lagta hai, toh sirf tera saath chahiye jo mujhe yeh yaad dilaye ki main akela nahi hoon. Lekin tu gayi... aur sab kuch bikhar gaya. Sab kuch." [You're not just love to me, Siya... you are my every happiness, my peace, my entire world. When I fall, it's only your voice that gives me a reason to rise. When I win, it's only your face I want to see, to remind me that this victory is enough. When everything starts to fall apart, it's only your presence that reassures me I am not alone. But you left... and everything fell apart. Everything.]

His breathing is ragged now, his entire frame trembling, as if even standing here, bearing his soul like this, is taking everything out of him. But he doesn't stop. He can't. He won't. Not until she understands.

Not until she sees. Not until she knows that no matter how much time has passed, no matter how much pain stands between them, no matter how much she tries to push him away—he will always be hers.

"Main nahi chahta ki tu mujhe maaf kare bas iss liye kyunki maine maafi maangi," [I don't want you to forgive me just because I asked for forgiveness,] he whispers, his voice barely audible now, but still carrying the weight of every unsaid word, every unspoken apology.

"Main chahta hoon ki tu mujhe maaf kare kyunki tujhe vishwas hai ki main ab waise galti dobara nahi karunga. Main chahta hoon ki tu mujhe maaf kare kyunki tu jaanti hai ki chahe kuch bhi ho, chahe duniya idhar ki udhar ho jaye... tu kabhi bhi akeli nahi hogi. Main chahta hoon ki tu mujhe maaf kare kyunki... kyunki tu bhi mujhse utna hi pyaar karti hai jitna main tujhse. Kyunki yeh sach hum dono se chhup nahi sakta, Siya. Hum dono jaanate hain." [I want you to forgive me because you believe that I will never make the same mistake again. I want you to forgive me because you know, no matter what happens, no matter how much the world changes... you will never be alone. I want you to forgive me because... because you love me just as much as I love you. Because that truth, Siya... that truth is something neither of us can deny. And we both know it.]

His voice breaks on the last words, his lips parting as if he wants to say more, as if there is still so much left unsaid, so much left unexplained, but he stops himself, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.

His hands fall to his sides, defeated, exhausted, drained from the weight of his own emotions, and yet, his eyes remain fixed on hers, unwavering, waiting.

Waiting for her to say something. Waiting for her to end this unbearable silence. Waiting for her to either break him completely... or bring him back to life.

Siya stands there, frozen, her heart pounding so violently against her ribs that she wonders if he can hear it, if the entire room can feel the tremors of her turmoil. Her breath comes in short, uneven gasps, as if the weight of his words, of everything he has just confessed, has sucked the air from her lungs.

She wants to speak, wants to reach out, wants to let him pull her into the arms that once felt like home, wants to drown in the warmth of the only love she has ever known. But she can't. She can't move. She can't breathe. She can't give in.

Because beneath all that love, beneath the madness of her longing, there is pain. A pain so deep, so raw, so unrelenting, that even now, even as she stands before the man she has spent years aching for, she cannot forget it.

It is not just the memory of the night he broke her; it is the memory of every silent moment that followed, of every tear that fell with no one to wipe it away, of every morning she woke up alone, of every time she told herself she had to be strong, had to move on, had to pretend that she did not crave the very thing that had destroyed her.

She clenches her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms, grounding her, anchoring her to the present, to the reality of all that has transpired between them.

Her lips part as if to say something, but the words falter before they can form, caught somewhere between the overwhelming love she still harbors and the bitterness of a wound that refuses to close.

She stares at him, at the man who once made her feel like the most cherished thing in the world, the man who now kneels before her, broken, desperate, pleading for a second chance.

And yet, all she can see is the ghost of the girl she used to be, the girl who trusted him, who believed in forever, who had once thought that his love was strong enough to shield her from any pain.

Her voice, when it finally comes, is barely more than a whisper, but it is steady, unyielding, laced with the quiet agony of a woman who has spent too many nights teaching herself how to survive without the very thing she once thought she couldn't live without.

"Aap sochte hai ki sirf pyaar kaafi hota hai, Shubman? Ki sirf pyaar ki wajah se hum sab kuch bhool jayenge? Jo dukh aapne diye, jo saal humne akele guzare, woh sab mit jayega sirf is wajah se ki aap ab maafi maang rahe hai?" [Do you think love alone is enough, Shubman? That just because you love me, I will forget everything? That the pain you caused, the years I spent alone, will simply disappear just because you are asking for forgiveness now?] Her voice wavers slightly, betraying the storm raging within her, but she does not look away, does not let herself falter.

He shakes his head violently, as if the very idea of losing her again is too much to bear, as if he cannot accept that love alone might not be enough to fix what has been broken.

"Heeriye, main jaanta hoon ki maine jo kiya uska koi bhi bahaana nahi hai, main jaanta hoon ki sirf maafi maangna kaafi nahi hoga. Par tu jaanti hai na, jaanti hai ki main tujhse kitna pyaar karta hoon. Yeh tu bhi mehsoos karti hai, hai na?" [Sweetheart, I know... I know there is no excuse for what I did. I know that just apologizing won't be enough. But you know, don't you? You know how much I love you. You feel it too, don't you] His voice cracks, his hands shaking as he dares to reach for her once more, as if trying to close the distance between them not just physically, but in every way that matters.

Siya inhales sharply at his touch, her body betraying her, responding to him as though the years between them never existed, as though the hurt is nothing more than a distant dream.

But then, just as quickly, the memory of her pain slams into her like a tidal wave, pulling her back, forcing her to remember the nights she cried into her pillow, the loneliness that settled into her bones, the way he had once let her walk away without fighting for her.

And so, with a trembling breath, she steps back, breaking the contact, severing the thread of hope that he so desperately clings to.

Her throat tightens, her vision blurring as she forces herself to look at him, at the man she has never stopped loving, at the man she is still not sure she can forgive.

"Hum aapse nafrat nahi kar sakte, Shubman," [I cannot hate you, Shubman,] she admits, her voice cracking under the weight of the truth she has tried so hard to bury.

"Lekin hum aapko maaf bhi nahi kar sakte. Abhi nahi. Kya aap samajh sakte hai woh dukh jo humne saha hai? Woh akelapan jo humne mahsoos kiya hai? Kya aap samajh sakte hai ki sirf pyaar kaafi nahi hota, Shubman? Sirf pyaar ek rishte ko zinda nahi rakh sakta. Vishwas chahiye hota hai. Izzat chahiye hoti hai. Aur jab woh toot jaaye, toh sirf maafi usse jod nahi sakti." [But I cannot forgive you either. Not yet. Can you understand the pain I have endured? The loneliness I have felt? Can you understand that love alone is not enough, Shubman? Love alone cannot keep a relationship alive. Trust is needed. Respect is needed. And when that breaks, mere forgiveness cannot mend it]

Her words land like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping, struggling to hold onto the last shreds of hope slipping through his fingers. He looks at her as if she is the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, as if without her, there is nothing left. And maybe, for him, there isn't.

But for Siya, there is more. There has to be. Because she has learned, through the ache, through the heartbreak, through the unbearable silence of the last six years, that love is not always enough.

The air between them remains thick, heavy with unspoken words, with wounds too deep to be mended by mere apologies, with the weight of time that neither of them can turn back.

Siya inhales slowly, her hands curling into fists at her sides, willing herself to stay strong, to not waver, to not let the raw agony in Shubman's eyes break the walls she has spent years building.

But then, just as she is about to take a step back, just as she is about to force herself to walk away before her resolve crumbles entirely, a sudden sound—light, cheerful, entirely out of place in the suffocating stillness—cuts through the tension like a blade.

"Oi, Mama! Aap here ho?" [Oi, Mama! You are here?] Rudra's small, curious voice carries through the space, laced with the simple, innocent joy of a child who has yet to understand the complexities of pain, of heartbreak, of love that both heals and destroys.

Siya turns sharply at the sound, her breath catching in her throat as she sees them—Dhruv and Rudra, standing just a few feet away, both holding half-melted cones of ice cream.

Their faces smeared with traces of the sweet treat, their eyes bright and unaware of the emotional battlefield they have just walked into.

Dhruv, her ever-reliable Dhruv, looks at her with an expression of quiet understanding. He doesn't need to ask what has happened here. He doesn't need words to see the way Siya's entire body is coiled tight, as if bracing for impact, or the way Shubman still kneels on the floor, looking like a man who has just watched his entire world slip through his fingers.

He knows. He always knows.

And then there's Rudra. Sweet, bright-eyed, joyful Rudra, who bounces on the balls of his feet as he grins up at her, oblivious to the undercurrent of emotions that swirl around them.

He takes another messy bite of his ice cream before looking at her again, tilting his head in that way he always does when he is curious about something.

"Mama, aap cry ho?" [Mama, you are crying?] His small voice is laced with genuine concern, his free hand already reaching out to touch her wrist, as if the simple gesture will be enough to soothe whatever has made her sad.

Siya blinks rapidly, forcing herself to steady her breathing, to swallow down the lump in her throat before she kneels in front of him, cupping his tiny face with hands that still tremble from the weight of everything that has just transpired.

She manages a soft, wavering smile, brushing her thumb over the sticky remnants of ice cream on his cheek. "Nahi, jaan," [No, my love] she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "Bas thodi hawa lag gayi aankhon mein." [Just got a little dust in my eyes.]

Rudra frowns, not entirely convinced, but before he can push further, Dhruv steps forward, ever the protective figure he has grown into, ever the quiet guardian of the fragile pieces of Siya's heart.

He looks down at her, at the silent war waging behind her eyes, before shifting his gaze toward Shubman, who has finally risen to his feet but still looks utterly wrecked, utterly lost.

There is something unreadable in Dhruv's expression as he watches the older man, as if assessing him, as if trying to decide whether this is someone who deserves to stand in Siya's world.

Shubman, for his part, does not move, does not speak. He simply watches, his entire body taut, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides, as if he is trying to hold himself together through sheer willpower alone.

His gaze flickers between Siya and Rudra, lingering on the boy with something dangerously close to longing, before finally settling on Siya once more.

He looks as if he wants to say something, as if there is still more he needs to beg for, but before he can, Siya stands, her hands still holding Rudra close, as if drawing strength from the warmth of her child.

She does not speak. She does not offer him any final words, no reassurances, no parting sentiments that might soften the ache lodged deep within his chest.

She simply tightens her hold on Rudra, shifting him slightly in her arms as if he is the only thing grounding her in this moment, and then, without another glance in Shubman's direction, she turns and begins to walk away.

Each step she takes feels heavier than the last, the weight of unspoken words pressing against her ribs, threatening to steal the breath from her lungs.

The echoes of the past claw at her resolve, whispering cruelly of love lost, of promises shattered, of a time when leaving him would have been unthinkable.

But that time is gone. And she cannot afford to let herself look back.

Rudra, nestled securely in her arms, does not understand the depth of the moment, does not see the way his mother's fingers tremble slightly as they stroke his back, does not hear the way her breath hitches as she swallows down emotions too overwhelming to name.

He only knows that the man from the airport, the man who had been so kind to him, is standing there, watching them leave with an expression he cannot quite understand.

So, with the untainted innocence of a child who has not yet learned the weight of heartbreak, he lifts his small hand and waves. "Bye, Shubman Uncle!"

His voice is light, cheerful, as if this moment is no different from any other casual goodbye, as if he believes they will see each other again, as if this is not the kind of farewell that carries the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

Shubman flinches. Just barely, just enough for someone watching closely to notice. His lips part as if to respond, as if to say something, anything, but no words come.

His throat feels tight, his chest constricted, his body frozen in place as he watches the child—his child—their child—disappear into the distance.

Dhruv, walking beside Siya, glances back, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion. He does not fully understand the depth of what has just happened.

He does not comprehend the storm that lingers between Siya and Shubman, but he knows enough to sense that something about this moment is irreversible.

Still, despite the uncertainty gnawing at him, despite the questions lingering on the tip of his tongue, he lifts his hand and offers a small, hesitant wave of his own.

And then, they are gone.

Shubman remains rooted to the spot, staring after them long after they have disappeared from view, his entire body wracked with a feeling so intense, so unbearable, that he does not know how to contain it.

His hands, still clenched into fists, loosen at his sides, his shoulders sagging as if the fight has been drained from him entirely.

The world around him feels distant, blurred at the edges, nothing more than background noise to the deafening silence that now fills the space Siya and Rudra have left behind.

He should move. He should leave. He should do something, anything. But he does nothing. Because for the first time in his life, he does not know how to fix this.

And for the first time in his life, he is truly afraid that he never will.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Kaise hai? This is my first time writing an angsty chapter. I usually only write fluffy content. I hope I was able to meet expectations?

I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT!

bowledover18, Gillinmydil, Esma_Hiranur_Sultan, dagabaazreee, ogcuphid

Pasand aaya, toh vote and COMMENT kar dena.

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻