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There's blood on Ishan's hands.

Dried, darkened at the edges, flaking off in places where it settled into the lines of his palms. It's not fresh anymore, but it's still there, and it makes his stomach churn every time he looks at it.

He should've washed it off by now. Should've scrubbed his hands raw under the cold stream of the hospital sink until every last trace of it was gone.

But he hasn't moved in hours, hasn't dared to, not when every time he blinks, he sees Shubman's face—twisted in anguish, wild with desperation, drained of color until his body finally gave out, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut.

His fingers twitch against the fabric of his jeans, but he doesn't unclench his hands, doesn't even attempt to brush the dried blood away. It feels like penance.

A reminder. A weight that settles heavy in his chest, right alongside the fear that hasn't loosened its grip since last night.

The hospital room is too quiet. Too sterile. It smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic, and Ishan hates it, hates the way it makes everything feel colder, heavier.

He shifts in his seat, his muscles stiff, his body aching from sitting in the same position for so long, but he still doesn't move, not really.

Not when his eyes keep flickering toward the hospital bed, where Shubman lies unnaturally still, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he's even alive.

"Tu haath dho le, Ishu," [Go wash your hands, Ishu] Shahneel says, her voice soft but firm, and he jerks slightly, startled.

She's been quiet for the last hour, arms crossed, gaze locked onto her brother like she's afraid he might disappear if she looks away for even a second.

But now, she's looking at Ishan instead, her expression tired, drained, the weight of the last twenty-four hours visible in the way her shoulders curve inward, in the slight tremble of her fingers when she reaches out, brushing against his arm.

"I—I will," Ishan mutters, but he doesn't move. Can't move. His throat feels too tight, his heart hammering too hard against his ribs.

The last time he let go, the last time he loosened his grip, Shubman went limp in his arms, and he—

Ishan squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to shake off the memory, but it's burned into his brain. The way Shubman's body sagged against him, the way his breath shuddered, the way his eyes fluttered shut, and for a terrifying moment, Ishan thought—

Familiar and warm arms wrap around him, steady and grounding, and for a second, Ishan forgets how to breathe.

The embrace is firm but careful, a quiet reassurance, a silent promise that he's not alone in this, that he won't have to carry the weight of last night on his own.

The scent of cologne, something faintly citrusy and sharp, mixed with the lingering traces of hospital antiseptic, fills his senses, and he knows, without even opening his eyes, who it is.

Abhishek.

Ishan exhales shakily, his whole body going rigid at first, his muscles coiling tight, but Abhishek doesn't pull away, doesn't let go.

Instead, he holds on just a little tighter, like he knows Ishan needs this, like he knows that if he lets go too soon, Ishan might just fall apart all over again.

And maybe that's true.

Maybe Ishan is barely holding himself together, maybe he's still stuck in the moment from last night, watching Shubman break apart, watching him collapse, watching him slip right through his fingers before he could do anything to stop it.

"Tu theek hai?" [Are you okay?] Abhishek asks, voice quiet, low, just for him. There's something raw about it, something that makes Ishan's throat tighten all over again.

Ishu wants to lie.

Wants to nod and say yes, wants to pretend that he's fine, that he's not unraveling at the seams, that the blood on his hands—the one that isn't even his—doesn't feel like it's seeping into his skin, marking him, staining him in a way that won't ever wash off.

But the words don't come. Nothing comes.

Just the sharp hitch of his breath, the sting behind his eyelids, the way his fingers dig into the fabric of Abhishek's hoodie like he needs something to hold on to, like if he lets go, he'll lose himself completely.

And Abhishek—he lets him.

He doesn't say anything more, doesn't ask him to move, doesn't tell him to wash his hands, doesn't tell him to stop holding on so tight.

He just stays there, arms wrapped around Ishan, unwavering and steady, like he's trying to anchor him back to reality, like he's silently telling him it's okay to fall apart, that he doesn't have to do it alone.

A slow, lingering moment passes before Abhishek shifts slightly, just enough that Ishan feels the warmth of his breath against his temple.

And then—soft, barely there, almost hesitant—Abhishek presses a kiss to the side of Ishan's head.

Ishan stills.

It's not dramatic. It's not some earth-shattering, mind-numbing, heart-stopping moment. It's quiet. It's gentle.

It's just Abhishek, steady and warm, the weight of his lips resting against Ishan's skin for a fraction of a second, but it's enough to make something shift inside him.

It's enough to make his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something deeper, something unnamed, something he doesn't have the strength to face just yet.

Abhishek doesn't say anything when he pulls back, doesn't look at him like he's expecting a reaction, doesn't try to explain himself.

He just stays close, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against Ishan's back, the touch light, soothing, like he's letting Ishan take his time, letting him process, letting him breathe.

And maybe, for the first time since last night, Ishan actually does.

The world outside is still moving. The faint hum of the hospital, the distant beeping of machines, the murmurs of nurses and doctors passing by the corridor—it all exists beyond the small, fragile bubble that Ishan and Abhishek have created.

But inside this space, in the quiet warmth of Abhishek's arms, everything else feels muted, distant, like an echo of a life Ishan isn't ready to return to just yet.

For a while, neither of them speaks. Ishan doesn't move, doesn't loosen his grip, and Abhishek doesn't force him to. He just stays—solid and unwavering, as if he's willing to bear the weight of Ishan's silence, his grief, his exhaustion, without question.

Minutes slip by, measured only by the unsteady rise and fall of Ishan's breath. And then, slowly, his fingers unfurl from where they've twisted into Abhishek's hoodie, his shoulders slumping just a little. It's not much. It's not enough to say he's okay. But it's something.

Abhishek feels it—the shift, the slight easing of tension. His fingers still against Ishan's back before he pulls away just enough to meet his eyes.

When Ishan finally looks up, Abhishek is already watching him, his gaze soft, patient.

He doesn't push, doesn't ask questions Ishan isn't ready to answer. He just lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles against Ishan's cheek, a fleeting, wordless gesture.

"Chal," [Come on] Abhishek murmurs, tilting his head toward the corridor. "Kuch khayega?" [Will you eat something?]

Ishan swallows. He isn't hungry. He doubts he could stomach anything right now. But there's something in Abhishek's voice, something quiet and insistent, that makes it impossible to say no.

He nods, just barely.

Abhishek's lips twitch—not quite a smile, not really—but there's something in his expression that makes Ishan feel lighter, even if only by a fraction.

He lets Abhishek guide him out of the waiting area, their arms brushing as they walk, neither of them acknowledging the way Ishan stays close, almost unconsciously, like he's still afraid of standing on his own.

They don't go far. Just down the hall, past the sterile smell of antiseptic and into the small hospital café tucked in the corner. The place is nearly empty, save for a tired-looking doctor sipping coffee in the corner, his head bowed over patient files.

Abhishek leads them to a table near the window, gestures for Ishan to sit, and disappears toward the counter. Ishan watches him go, eyes trailing the familiar lines of his back, the easy confidence in his stance, the way he runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it absently as he waits for their order.

It's strange. How something as simple as this—Abhishek standing in line, ordering food, acting like everything is normal—can make Ishan feel like the ground beneath him is a little steadier.

When Abhishek returns, he sets a plate down in front of Ishan—a sandwich, nothing fancy, just enough to keep him from running on empty. He doesn't comment on the way Ishan only stares at it, doesn't push him to eat.

Instead, he slides into the seat across from him, opens his own sandwich, and takes a bite, like he's leading by example.

For a long moment, Ishan just watches him. Then, hesitantly, he picks up the sandwich and takes a small, careful bite.

Abhishek doesn't say anything, but when Ishan glances up, he finds him watching, his eyes warm, approval hidden in the quiet curve of his lips.

And maybe it's stupid, maybe it doesn't make sense, but something about it makes Ishan's chest ache all over again. Not with grief this time, but with something gentler, something softer.

Something terrifyingly close to hope.

"Di ko aise chodke nahi aana chahiye tha," [We shouldn't have left Di like that] Ishan breaks the silence, his voice quieter than he intends, barely above a murmur.

His fingers tighten around the sandwich, but he doesn't take another bite.

Instead, he just stares down at it like the words have taken something out of him, like saying them aloud makes them more real.

Abhishek doesn't answer immediately. He chews slowly, swallows, then rests his elbows on the table, watching Ishan carefully. "Tu kya karta wahan ruk ke?" [What would you have done by staying there?]

His tone isn't dismissive, but gentle, even. "Shahneel di hai na. Woh sambhal lengi." [Shahneel Di is there, right? She will handle it.]

Ishan exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Par mujhe wahaan hona chahiye tha," [But I should have been there.] he insists, voice rougher now, frustration curling at the edges. "Shubman ko waisa chhodke nahi aana chahiye tha. Uska haath pakadna chahiye tha, usko—" [I shouldn't have left Shubman like that. I should have held his hand, I should have—]

His voice cuts off abruptly, jaw clenching. He swallows, blinking hard, like the memory is clawing at him, threatening to pull him back to last night, to the sight of Shubman breaking apart, to the way his hands had trembled, how his breathing had shattered into something shallow and uneven, how nothing Ishan had said had been enough to reach him.

Abhishek lets him sit in the silence, lets him take his time. He doesn't rush to fill the space, doesn't offer empty reassurances. Just waits, steady and patient, as Ishan fights his way through his own thoughts.

When Ishan finally speaks again, his voice is lower, unsteady. "Uska haath barabar se pakda bhi nahi maine." [I didn't even hold his hand properly.]

He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Mujhe lagta hai, agar zor se pakadta, toh shaayad—" [I feel like... if I had held on tighter, then maybe—]

He stops, words choking before they can form. He presses his lips together, shaking his head again, looking away like he's ashamed of even thinking it.

Abhishek sighs, leans back slightly, his fingers tapping absently against the table. "Ishan," he says finally, quiet but firm. "Yeh sab tujhe lag raha hai because tu usse bohot pyaar karta hai." [You're feeling this way because you love him a lot.]

He doesn't phrase it as a question. He just says it, like it's a simple fact. Ishan flinches, his gaze snapping up.

For a moment, he looks like he wants to deny it, like he wants to argue, but then his shoulders drop, and he just exhales, long and exhausted. "Sabse zyada," [More than anything.] he admits, voice barely a whisper.

Abhishek nods, as if he already knew, as if he's always known.

A long beat of silence stretches between them, and then Abhishek leans forward again, his expression softer now. "Par tu samajh raha hai na ki tu kuch aur nahi kar sakta tha?" [But you do understand that there was nothing more you could have done, right?]

His voice is careful, measured. "Shubman ko bachaane ka zimmedaari sirf teri nahi hai, Ishan. Woh teri responsibility nahi hai." [Saving Shubman isn't only your responsibility, Ishan. He is not just your responsibility.]

Ishan's fingers curl into fists against the tabletop. "Par agar main uska dost hoon—" [But if I'm his friend—]

"Toh tu uske saath rahega. Toh tu uske liye khada rahega," [Then you will stay with him. Then you will stand by him] a voice interrupts, firm yet gentle.

Ishan startles slightly, turning to find Shahneel standing a few steps away, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. She looks tired—more than tired, drained in a way that makes something twist in Ishan's gut.

She steps forward, pulling out a chair, and sinks into it with a sigh, "Par iska matlab yeh nahi ki tu uski galti ka pura bojh apne sir pe le le." [But that doesn't mean you should take the entire burden of his mistakes on your shoulders.] she says quietly, looking straight at him.

Ishan stares at her, his throat tight, his mind racing with arguments, with guilt, with things he wants to say but can't. He glances at Abhishek, who simply watches him, silent, letting him decide what to do with her words.

Shahneel exhales, rubbing a hand over her face before continuing, her voice softer now. "Mujhe pata hai tu kya mehsoos kar raha hai. Kyunki main bhi yahi mehsoos kar rahi hoon. Tu usko support kar sakta hai, par tu usko uske dard se bacha nahi sakta." [I know how you're feeling. Because I'm feeling the same way. You can support him, but you can't save him from his pain.]

She meets his eyes, and there's something raw there, something that makes Ishan's chest ache. Her words settle in the air between them, lingering, heavy with something unspoken.

Ishan shifts, the ache in his chest deepening, his mind racing with thoughts he doesn't know how to put into words. He stares at her, searching for something—answers, understanding, a way to make sense of the storm that seems to have swallowed his brother whole.

But all he finds is the same grief reflected back at him, the same helplessness.

He swallows, forcing past the lump forming in his throat, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "Di... please. Mujhe batao na, Siya bhabhi kaun hai? Hua kya tha un dono ke beech?" [Di... please. Tell me, who is Siya bhabhi? What happened between them?]

His fingers clench slightly against his knees, frustration creeping into his voice, but it's laced with something else—pleading. He just wants to understand.

Shahneel looks at him then, really looks at him, and for a long moment, she says nothing. Silence stretches between them, thick and weighty, charged with the kind of tension that only comes when words are too difficult to say.

Her face is unreadable, but her eyes—there's something in them that makes Ishan's stomach twist, something unspoken yet deeply felt, as if she's balancing on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether to pull him down with her.

She inhales sharply, her lips parting slightly before pressing together again, hesitation flickering across her face like a shadow.

Then, finally, she speaks, her voice softer than before, but steady, carrying the weight of something she has held onto for far too long.

"Siya... meri soniye," [Siya... my dear] she murmurs, and the tenderness in her voice is unexpected, almost startling.

Her fingers curl into a fist in her lap, knuckles white, as if the act of saying her name out loud costs her something. "Siya, Shubman ka pehla aur akhri pyaar hai, Ishu. Woh sirf ek mohabbat nahi thi uske liye... woh uski duniya thi." [Siya is Shubman's first and last love, Ishu. She wasn't just love for him... she was his entire world.]

She pauses, her gaze lowering for a brief moment before she meets his eyes again, and Ishan feels the shift in the air around them, as if they are no longer sitting in that dimly lit room but somewhere else entirely, somewhere tied to the past, to memories too raw to be spoken of without consequence.

He doesn't interrupt, doesn't dare to. He just watches her, waiting, as something in the way she speaks, in the way she looks at him, begins to pull him into a story he isn't sure he's ready to hear.

Shahneel exhales slowly, her fingers loosening as she leans back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders settling, but the weight in her expression growing heavier.

"Siya..." she starts again, but this time, her voice is different.

Softer. Distant. As if she's no longer speaking to him, but to a memory, a moment in time that still lingers, refusing to fade.

And just like that, the past begins to unfold.

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OK, so this is a chapter before we go into the flashback. And yes I did hint at Abhiman... sue me 🤷🏻‍♀️I love them rn in SRH (I know we are not performing well but still...)

Anyways....I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please vote and please please please comment to let me know what you liked in the chapter.

bowledover18, dagabaazreee, Gillinmydil, Esma_Hiranur_Sultan, ogcuphid

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻