Jaisingh Mansion

The sun had barely touched the skyline when a frantic voice pierced through the silence.

“Avu...Avu....she' burning in fever and is unconcious.!”

For a heartbeat, everything inside Jaisingh Mansion froze — the ticking clock, the birds outside, even the faint hum of life seemed to still. Then chaos erupted.

Maan stumbled out of his room, hair tousled, heartbeat thundering in his ears. Anvi’s feet slapped against the marble floor, breath catching in panic. And down the corridor, Arnav’s door burst open, his eyes wild with alarm.

The heavy wooden door to Avyuktha’s room stood half-open — and from inside came the sound of sobbing.

When they entered, the scene seared itself into their hearts. Aarush knelt beside Avyuktha’s bed, clutching her limp hand, his little frame shaking as he cried. The morning light fell across her pale face — beads of sweat glistening on her temple, lips dry, breath shallow.

“Jiji… utho na…” Aarush’s voice broke like glass, each word splintering with helplessness.

Arnav froze. For a fraction of a second, his mind went blank — and then instinct overpowered everything. He rushed forward, scooped her up in his arms. Her body felt frighteningly light, burning with fever, the warmth seeping through his shirt like fire.

“Maan! Keys!” he shouted, his voice cracking under pressure.

Maan was already moving, hands trembling as he grabbed the car keys. Anvi, tears streaming down her face, lifted Aarush into her arms.

“Shhh, Aaruu… kuch nahi hoga Avu ko… please ro mat…”

But the boy’s cries only grew louder, echoing through the mansion — raw, desperate, and full of terror.

The four of them rushed down the grand staircase — Arnav cradling Avyuktha, her hair falling loosely over his arm; Anvi whispering soothing words to a wailing Aarush; Maan fumbling with the locks, his breath ragged.

Outside, the early morning air hit them — sharp, cold, filled with dew. The sky was washed in faint grey, a bird cried somewhere in the distance. And amidst it all, the only sound that mattered was the trembling breath of the girl in Arnav’s arms.

The car engine roared to life. Maan gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The mansion gates swung open, and in the still dawn, the Jaisingh car sped out like a streak of urgency — slicing through the sleepy streets, carrying the weight of fear with it.

Hospital

The hospital loomed quiet, the corridors lit in sterile white. The faint scent of antiseptic and coffee hung in the air.

As soon as they entered, Arnav’s voice broke through the hush — raw, desperate:
“Doctor! Doctor!”

A figure turned sharply — a young woman in a white coat, stethoscope around her neck, brown-hazel eyes widening in shock.

“Bhai?!” she gasped, rushing forward.

“She… she’s unconscious,” Arnav stammered, his words tumbling over each other. “Bukhaar tha… bahut tez… mujhe samajh nahi aa raha—”

“Shhh,” Pari interrupted gently, already signalling to the nurses. “Emergency room ready karo. Jaldi.”

Her tone was calm, but her eyes — those steady doctor’s eyes — flickered with fear seeing the girl in Arnav’s arms.

“Bhai, aap chinta mat kijiye,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on his arm.

But Arnav’s voice quivered, eyes brimming. “Pari… please… meri bacchi ko dekh na kya hua…”

The words cracked her composure. For a moment, the doctor faded, and only the sister remained — watching her usually composed brother fall apart. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and nodded quickly.

“Main hoon na, bhai. Sab theek ho jayega.”

With that, she disappeared inside, her white coat fluttering behind her.

Outside, time slowed.

The corridor lights hummed faintly. Aarush’s sobs echoed off the tiled walls, sharp and small.
“Mujhe jiji ke paas jaana hai! Mujhe jiji ke paas jaana hai!”

Anvi rocked him gently, her eyes red. “Aaru… please, Avu ko kuch nahi hoga… doctor didi unke paas hain…”

But he shook his head violently, tears spilling faster.

Arnav stood there, chest tight, throat burning. Then, quietly, he walked over and knelt before Aarush. His hands were still trembling when he gathered the little boy into his arms.

“Shhh… champ… sab theek ho jayega,” he whispered, his own voice barely holding steady. “Main hoon na…”

The rhythmic sway of Arnav’s arms and the warmth of his chest slowly lulled the boy’s cries. His sobs turned to hiccups.

Maan, silent until now, disappeared for a moment and came back with a glass of water. He crouched beside Aarush.

“Champ,” he said softly, brushing a tear from the boy’s cheek, “Avu ko thoda bukhaar hai… doctor didi unhe dekh rahi hain. Tu toh bahadur baccha hai na? Aise rote nahi.”

Aarush blinked up at him — eyes wide, lashes wet. His little face was flushed, lips trembling, breath shuddering.

“Avu theek ho jayegi,” Maan continued gently. “Aur jab theek hogi, main usse bataunga… ki mera champ kitna strong hai.”

The words sank in. Aarush sniffled one last time, then slowly leaned forward — resting his tiny head against Maan’s chest.

Maan froze, heart thudding, before wrapping his arms around the boy, holding him close. The scent of hospital antiseptic mixed with the warmth of a child’s trust — fragile, but real.

Across the corridor, Arnav sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the door that hid Avyuktha. His mind replayed every image — her burning forehead, her stillness. His heartbeat filled his ears, louder than the ticking clock on the wall.

Anvi came and sat beside him. Her hand, small and trembling, slipped into his.

“Bhaiya…” she whispered. “Sab theek ho jayega. Pari didi hai na… kuch nahi hone dengi hamari Avu ko.”

He didn’t speak — just nodded slowly. Her words were soft, but they anchored him, like a whisper of faith in the middle of chaos.

In the stillness of the hospital corridor, they didn’t speak — just leaned into one another, breath by breath. Grief had taught them the shape of each other’s strength, and even in silence, their hearts knew where to rest.

After what felt like hours — though only minutes had passed — the door opened.

Pari stepped out, her face flushed but calm. Before she could take a breath, all three of them jumped to their feet.

“Avu thik hai na?”
“Kya hua tha usse?”
“Bukhaar kam hua?”
“Hum mil sakte hain usse?”

Their voices overlapped, tumbling over one another — a storm of panic and love.

Pari blinked, overwhelmed, then raised both hands with a sigh.

“Areeee… ek second! Ek second!”

Her tone held that gentle firmness of a mother scolding her children — tired, loving, and slightly amused despite the chaos.

“Mujhe bolne ka mauka toh dijiye!”

“Fever allergic reaction se hua hai,” Pari said gently, scanning their tense faces. “Aur behoshi… thakan aur malnutrition ke kaaran. Usne kai dinon se sahi se khaya piya nhi hai...Severe nutrition deficiency ke signs hai.”

A soft gasp escaped Anvi’s lips. Her hand instinctively went to her mouth, eyes flooding. Maan’s fists clenched at his sides; his throat bobbed with a hard swallow. Arnav didn’t move — just stood there, eyes fixed on the small, fragile form lying under the pale hospital sheet.

They had known her past was bruised. They had known pain had once lived in her shadow. But seeing it now — written so brutally across her trembling body — it no longer felt like a story she’d survived. It felt present.

Pari’s voice softened further. “Bhai… uske sharir par kuch purane nishaan hain. There are signs of severe physical abuse. They’re healing, but deep. She must have endured it for a long time.”

The words weren’t new. Yet they struck differently now — heavier, crueler. Because this time, those scars were right before their eyes.

Avyuktha’s arm slipped slightly from the blanket — skin pale, wrist too thin, veins stark. A bandage circled her elbow, a faint bruise peeked just above it. Her breath came in shallow, uneven waves, lips dry, forehead glistening with fever-sweat. She looked almost weightless — as if a strong breeze could lift her away.

The sterile scent of disinfectant filled the room, sharp and cold. Arnav felt his chest tighten as guilt pressed down on him. He’d seen her tired smiles, her deflections, the quietness that clung to her. He’d noticed, and yet… not enough.

Maan turned away, running a hand through his hair, his eyes burning. Anvi reached for the bedrail, steadying herself, whispering a silent prayer under her breath.

And little Aarush — sitting small on the bench, legs dangling — just stared. His brows furrowed, his lips quivered, but no sound came. He didn’t understand the words — only that everyone’s eyes were on his 'Jiji' … and they all looked broken.

The room felt heavy, air thick with helplessness.

The silence was broken by a soft pleading voice,

“ Mujhe jiji se milna hai…” his voice cracked, half-sobbing. “Please…”

Pari knelt before him, cupping his damp cheeks. “Abhi vo so rahi hai baccha,” she said softly. “Thodi der mein uth jayengi. Tab mil lena, hmm?”

Aarush blinked up, searching her eyes. “Vo theek hai na?” — a child’s plea trembling in his throat.

“Haan,” Pari whispered, brushing away a tear. “Tumhari jiji ko abhi halka sa bukhaar hai. Maine dawai de di hai. Vo bilkul theek ho jayengi.”

Her assurance wrapped around them like a blanket. For Arnav, it was the same steady tone that had once pulled him through darker nights.

She rose, glancing at him. “Bhai, aap mere sath aaiye.”

Arnav turned to the others. “Suno, tum teeno ghar jao. Aur freshen up hoke breakfast kr lo jaake....Main yahan hoon.”

Maan and Anvi shook their heads in unison. “Nahi, hum kahin nahi jayenge.”

Arnav’s voice softened, though his throat felt tight. “Chutki… Maan… Aaru ko le jao. Avu ka khayal rakhne ke liye humein bhi strong hona padega, na? Kuch khaoge toh energy aayegi. Aur Aaru…” — he bent down to the boy’s level, forcing a small, steady smile — “Jiji ka khayal rakhna hai na? Toh pehle good boy banke fresh ho aao, kuch khaa lo phir humlog milke jiji ka dhyaan rakhenge....Jab vo uthegi na, toh bahut khush hogi.”

Aarush blinked up at him, eyes swimming. His lower lip trembled as he whispered, “ Jiji thik ho jayengi na?...Pakka? ” His voice teary and eyes red from crying so long.

Arnav’s heart clenched. He reached out, cupping the boy’s cheek, brushing away the tear that refused to fall. “Pakka, Aaru,” he said softly, voice trembling despite his calm smile. “Jiji bahut strong hai. Bas thoda rest kar rahi hai. ”

Arnav further softened his voice and spoke, "Aaru... Baccha... Maan aur chutki ke sath ghar jaake fresh ho jao....Aur jaldi se good boy banke aa jao phir jiji bhi tujhe dekh ke khush ho jayegi... Ki humara Aaru kitna samjdaar baccha hai. " He said with a smile on his face. His voice soft like a lullaby.

Arnav further said while kissing his forehead lovingly, "Mera Aaru toh good boy hai na... Bhaiya ki baat manega na baccha?. "

Aarush sniffled hard, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He bobbed his head slowly, as if gathering every ounce of courage his little heart could hold. “Ha…”

He whispered, voice quivering but resolute, “Mai jaldi se good boy banke aata hoon.”

Arnav’s eyes glistened at that — pride and pain warring inside him. He watched as the little boy turned, holding Maan’s hand tightly, glancing back one last time at the motionless figure on the bed. There was fear in his eyes still, but beneath it… a spark of fierce determination.

For the first time in hours, Arnav felt a flicker of warmth in his chest — fragile, but real. Because even in the smallest heart in the room, love was still fighting back.

Inside the ward

The room was dimly lit — curtains half drawn, sunlight slipping through in frail, trembling streaks. The faint hum of machines filled the silence, a soft rhythm that felt like life clinging by a thread. The sharp tang of antiseptic hung heavy in the air — clean, sterile, almost cruelly indifferent to the chaos that throbbed inside Arnav’s chest.

Avyuktha lay still on the white bed, her small hand limp beside her, a bandage wrapping her wrist. Her skin — pale, translucent — looked too fragile, too breakable. Every rise and fall of her chest was a prayer, every beep from the monitor a heartbeat in Arnav’s ears.

Pari adjusted the IV line, her brows furrowed in focus. She glanced at him once — the man who stood frozen at the doorway, fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.

“Bhai,” she said softly, turning toward him, “Vo thik ho jayegi... Bas kuch din rest aur proper care chahiye.”

Arnav didn’t move. His gaze was glued to Avyuktha — to the faint bruise near her elbow, to the hollow beneath her eyes, to the trembling of her lower lip even in sleep.

He finally stepped closer, his shoes echoing softly on the tile. For a moment, his hand hovered over her forehead — trembling, unsure — then gently, he brushed back a strand of hair sticking to her damp skin.

“Ye... sab mere saamne hua...Mujhe puchna chahiye tha...Are they allergic to anything before feeding them,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I am sorry avu.”

Pari looked up, startled by the rawness in his voice.

He didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on the girl before him. “Tujhe kuch puchna nahi hai, Pari?”

She blinked slowly. “Abhi ne sb bata diya tha kal.”

Arnav gave a faint nod — silent, almost absent-minded. His gaze never left Avyuktha.

A long silence. Then a hoarse, broken whisper —
“Ye pakka thik ho jayegi na?”

The words trembled in the air, fragile and heavy. He wasn’t just asking about the fever or the wounds — it was everything. The pain she’d carried, the cracks no medicine could touch.

Pari walked closer and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Haan, bhai. Thik ho jayegi....”

But before she could finish, he pulled her into a fierce hug. The weight of it all — the sleepless night, the fear, the helplessness — burst like a dam.

For a moment, Pari froze — then she felt the tremors in his body, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps against her shoulder. His voice was muffled, shattered.

“Bahot pyaari bacchi hai vo, Pari... bahot pyaari.” His words broke midway, trembling. “Tujhe pata hai, hamesha apne se pehle doosron ko rakhti hai... khud ka khayal hi nahi rehta iss gadhi ko.”

There was an ache beneath his voice — the ache of someone who couldn’t bear to see his own broken sibling lying there, lifeless and bruised.

Breaking the hug, Arnav turned toward Avyuktha, his eyes glistening. “Tujhe pata hai, Pari…” he whispered, shaking his head faintly, “kabhi apne baare mein nahi sochti hai ye. Itni chot lagi thi isse… lekin pehle Aaru ka bandage karwaya. Aur toh aur, apni chotein chhupa rahi thi taaki kisi ko pata na chale. Dard ho raha tha lakin gaana gaake Aaru ko distract kr rhi thi taaki vo na roye...”

His tone was heavy — concern, anger, helplessness all tangled together. “Subah se kuch nahi khaaya tha isne… phir bhi pehle Aaru ko khilaya." His voice annoyed and angry now but more concerned than anger, "Dono saath mein bhi kha sakte the na? Lekin nahi… pehle usse khilaya, aur tab jaake khud khaya, woh bhi Anvi ke bolne par.”

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, frustration spilling into his voice. “Ye itni selfless kyun hai yaar, Pari? Haan? Kyun sabka dhyaan rakhti hai bas apna chhod ke?....What's wrong with her yaar”

Pari, watching his face — the storm of love and anger — couldn’t help a soft chuckle escape.

Arnav turned sharply, frowning. “Tujhe hasi aa rahi hai?” he said, half-annoyed, half-bewildered.

Pari bit her lip, still smiling through her moist eyes. “Aapko ek baat pata hai?”

Arnav arched a brow, voice gruff. “Kya?”

She let out a small laugh. “Ye ekdam aapki tarah hai.”

Arnav blinked, taken aback.

Pari smiled wider, shaking her head fondly. “Ab aapko samajh aa raha hoga na ki Abhi aapko leke kyu itna pareshan rehta hai? Kyunki aap dono… ekdam same ho. Ekdum same to same.”

Arnav’s brows furrowed instantly, a flash of irritation crossing his face. “Mera itna bhi bura haal nahi hai, samjhi? Mannu bas overreact karta hai — aur kuch nahi.”

Pari bit back a grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Achha? Toh mai Abhi se keh dungi  — 'Bhai keh rahe the aap overreact karte ho'.”

Arnav’s face paled in an instant. “Kya bol rahi hai tu?!” he sputtered, eyes widening. “Tujhe main zinda accha nahi lagta kya, Pari?....Kyu mere hath pair tudwane pe lagi hai meri maa”

That did it — Pari burst out laughing, the sound light and heartfelt after the storm that had just passed. Arnav could only stare for a second before a reluctant chuckle slipped out of him too, soft but real. For a fleeting moment, the heaviness in the room eased — replaced by a shared, quiet warmth.

Just then, the door swung open. A nurse stepped in briskly, her tone urgent. “Dr. Pari, ICU se emergency call aaya hai.”

Pari straightened immediately, the laughter fading but leaving behind a gentle smile. “Main aati hoon,” she said quickly, giving Arnav’s arm a reassuring squeeze before hurrying out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And in the sudden stillness that followed, only the soft hum of the machines filled the room. Arnav turned slowly, his gaze settling once more on Avyuktha — her small, frail frame lying motionless under the sterile white sheet. The laughter that had just touched his lips faded into silence, replaced by that familiar ache tightening his chest.

Two hours had passed.

The rhythmic beeping of the monitor had settled into a steady lull, the sterile smell of antiseptic clinging faintly to the air. Arnav sat slumped beside the bed, head resting back against the cold hospital wall. Fatigue was written across every inch of his face — the dark circles under his eyes, the slackness of his shoulders — yet his hand never moved.

Even in sleep-deprived stillness, he held Avyuktha’s hand as if it were something made of glass — fragile, precious, irreplaceable. His thumb rested lightly against her knuckles, tracing absent circles now and then, as though to remind himself she was still there.

A faint rustle broke the quiet.

Avyuktha’s lashes fluttered, brows creasing. For a few seconds, her gaze wandered in confusion, struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar whiteness, the hum of machines, the steady cool air brushing against her skin. Her lips parted — a small, uncertain breath.

Then instinctively, she tried to sit up.

The sudden pull on the IV line made it tug against her wrist, the plastic needle scratching just enough to sting. She gasped softly, a sharp wince crossing her face.

That sound — small, pained — was enough.

Arnav’s eyes snapped open instantly, head jerking upright.

“Baccha… aaram se,” Arnav’s voice came, soft — softer than she had ever heard in her life. It was firm, steady, but laced with a warmth that almost startled her. “Chot lag jaayegi.”

Avyuktha blinked weakly, trying to say something — but the moment she opened her mouth, a rough cough tore through her dry throat. Panic flickered across Arnav’s face.

“Arre, sambhal… ek minute,” he murmured, reaching for the glass on the side table. Supporting her gently, he held it to her lips, one hand steadying the glass while the other moved in slow, comforting circles over her back. “Dheere… dheere,” he coaxed softly.

She took small sips, the coolness easing her parched throat. Arnav watched closely, his eyes never leaving her face.

When her coughing finally subsided, he spoke quietly, “Hum log hospital mein hain. Tujhe bukhaar ho gaya tha… bahut tez.”

Avyuktha blinked a few times, trying to gather the fragments of memory. Then, hoarsely, she whispered the first thing that came to her mind —
“Aarush… kaha hai?”

Arnav exhaled slowly, a mix of affection and frustration tugging at his chest. Even now. This girl could be burning with fever, yet the first name on her lips was never her own.

He sighed softly. “Aaru ghar pe hai. Maan aur Chutki le gaye usse fresh karwane, aur breakfast karwane.” His tone gentled further. “Tu chinta mat kar.”

Avyuktha’s eyes lowered, her voice barely a breath. “Bahut ro raha hoga vo…”

A faint smile curved Arnav’s tired lips. “Haan, ro toh raha tha,” he admitted, a soft chuckle escaping him, “lekin abhi vo good boy banne gaya hai.”

Her brows furrowed weakly. “Matlab?” she whispered.

Arnav leaned forward slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. “Matlab… ek minute ruk. Main doctor ko bula ke laata hoon.”

With that, he rose swiftly from his chair and stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him — leaving the room once again in quiet hums and pale sunlight.

Within a minute, Dr. Pari walked in, her coat fluttering slightly behind her. It almost seemed like she’d been waiting nearby, anticipating Avyuktha’s awakening.

“Good morning, beta,” she greeted warmly, approaching the bedside. Her tone was calm yet firm, her hands gentle as she checked the vitals. The readings were still a bit off, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

“Kahin pain ho raha hai?” she asked.

Avyuktha hesitated before shaking her head.

But Pari wasn’t convinced. “Shi batao, beta. Kahan dard hai?” she asked again — this time with that soft sternness only doctors who care deeply carry.

Avyuktha blinked in surprise — how did she know? Finally, she whispered, “Thoda sa… pet mein dard hai.”

Pari nodded, her expression calm, but when Arnav’s gaze flickered towards Avyuktha — disappointed, quietly hurt — she noticed.

“Avyuktha…” Pari continued, “tumhe kabse bukhaar tha? Allergy toh bahut minimal thi, lekin negligence ki wajah se badh gaya.”

Avyuktha looked between Pari and Arnav, guilt welling in her chest. In a low, trembling voice, she said, “Kal raat mein hua tha…”

Arnav’s voice was sharp now, though not angry — just heavy. “Avu… tune mujhe ya kisi aur ko bataya kyun nahi?”

She lowered her gaze, lips pressed together. Silence answered him.

Pari exhaled, understanding the quiet guilt between them. “Bhai, maine medicines de di hai...Kuch injections lagwane honge...aur shaam tak observation mai rakhna hoga...If everything is good then she can get discharged by today's evening.” She smiled faintly. “Pet dard ke liye thandi cheezein pilaiyega — jaise nimbu paani, nariyal paani. Aur main nutritionist se ek diet chart banwa deti hoon...Aur kuch blood tests hai usko krwana hoga...pehle kuch khila dijiye isse phir ward boy blood sample le jayega.”

“Thank you, Pari,” Arnav murmured, sincerity soft in his tone.

Pari smiled gently and turned back to Avyuktha, her expression softening from doctor to didi. She reached forward, ruffling Avyuktha’s hair affectionately.

“Avu, tabiyat kharab lage toh bhai ko batana, baccha. Kuch chupana mat, okay?”

Her voice was so warm — so gently motherly — that Avyuktha could only nod, feeling something tighten in her throat. The affection was strange… but comforting.

After Pari left, the room felt calmer. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint drip of the IV filled the silence.

After a few quiet moments, both of them spoke at once —

“Sorry.”

They blinked, surprised, and then Arnav tilted his head, a tired smile breaking through. “Tu kyu sorry bol rahi hai?”

“Pehle aap batao…” she murmured.

“Tu bata pehle,” he chuckled softly.

Avyuktha sighed. “Meri wajah se aapko pareshani hui… mujhe dhyaan dena chahiye tha—”

Before she could finish, Arnav flicked her forehead lightly. She gasped, rubbing the spot with a small pout.

“Bas kar,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Har baat mein apni galti dhoondh leti hai.....Tune jaan boojh ke thodi fever karwaya ki 'aao fever mujhe ho jao'.”

His eyes softened, voice dropping quieter — almost a whisper. “Tujhse pareshan kaise ho sakta hoon main…”

He looked away then, as if the words had slipped out too easily. Silence hung between them — unsure, fragile, but warm in its own way

Then Avyuktha looked up and asked softly, “Aapne kyu sorry bola?”

Arnav’s voice came low, rough with guilt. “Mujhe ek baar raat mein check karna chahiye tha… agar maine dekha hota, toh tu puri raat akele tadapti nahi.”

Her chest tightened. “Aapki galti nahi hai… mujhe batana chahiye tha. I’m really sorry, Sir.”

The word sliced clean through him.
Sir.

It landed like a reminder — of boundaries, of bloodlines that were not quite shared. He knew what the world called them: step-siblings. And maybe that word should’ve been enough to cage whatever storm had been building inside him. But every time he looked at her — this fragile, foolishly selfless girl — he found himself slipping past reason.

How do you not love someone like her? Someone who bleeds kindness even when the world has only ever handed her pain? She was too gentle for her own good — always tending to everyone else’s wounds while hiding her own. Every bruise on her skin, every tremor in her breath, every self-blaming word she whispered felt like it was etched straight into him.

He wanted to shake her sometimes — to make her see she didn’t have to bear it all alone.
He wanted to gather her in his arms, build a wall between her and every shadow that dared to touch her.
He wanted to undo the world that had hurt her — take the pain meant for her and burn it out of existence.

But all he could do was sit here, holding back everything that clawed at his chest — because the moment she said Sir, every unspoken thing between them turned into sin.

He knew she needed time — time to trust, to heal, to see him not as a stranger, not as someone she owed respect to… but as someone she could simply belong to.
Yet watching her build walls so high, refusing to let him in, made something in him twist painfully.

His throat burned. He blinked once, a faint nod escaping him. “Hmm,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Silence followed — heavy, intimate, laced with everything neither of them dared to touch.

Then Avyuktha’s gaze dropped. Her voice came out small. “Sorry…”

He frowned. “Ab kyu?”

She hesitated, eyes flickering upward. “Kal aapne itne pyaar se halwa banaya tha… aur maine usse fek diya. Sorry…”

A tired, disbelieving chuckle escaped him — not out of mockery, but out of the sheer ache of it all. He reached forward, flicked her forehead gently.

“Tujhe peanuts se allergy thi, Avu,” he said softly. “Aur mujhe bura nahi laga…”

Then quieter, almost breaking — “I understand, you need some time… par baccha, tujhe batana chahiye tha na.”

He paused, gaze steady on her. “Aur meri bhi galti thi — mujhe poochhna chahiye tha.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed — fragile, trembling, carrying the weight of two hearts too scared to reach for each other.
Outside, the light had softened — a faint golden warmth brushing against their faces, as if trying to whisper what neither could say.

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