(ALIGANJ, LUCKNOW)

THAT NIGHT

Aligarh at night lived in its hush—soft, breathing, almost sentient. Every archway seemed to guard a secret, every balcony held the echo of a stolen glance, every flickering lamp carried the weight of a whispered promise once made and never fulfilled.

 The city did not sleep; it waited. It waited with its centuries of history pressed into the air, with elegance woven into silence, with hearts aching quietly for a love that had not yet found its way.

Vikram stepped out of the house, closing the door with practiced care, each movement measured so the night would not betray him.

 His eyes scanned the street instinctively, but there was only darkness stretching endlessly, empty and obedient. No footsteps. No shadows. No witnesses. He exhaled slowly—not out of fear, but necessity.

He could not afford to be caught.
Not tonight.
Not when everything he was doing was for her.

The thought of Zoya hit him like a blow to the chest, sharp and unforgiving. Her tear-streaked face, her trembling voice, the way she had tried so hard to look strong while breaking apart all day—it replayed mercilessly in his mind. All because of that fucking bastard.

Rohan.

The name alone darkened his expression, something vicious flashing in his eyes—an anger he had never known, barely restrained, simmering just beneath his skin. At this very moment, all Vikram wanted was to kill him, to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze until the world went quiet for that man forever.

But he couldn't.
Not yet.

Because Rohan had the photos.
Because Rohan had leverage.
Because Rohan knew exactly how to hurt Zoya.

Of course he did.

Vikram clenched his jaw, teeth grinding as frustration coiled tight inside him, sharper than anything he had ever felt before. Every instinct screamed at him to storm into that bastard's house, to punch him until his body stopped responding, to drag him by the collar and throw him at Zoya's feet—make him beg, make him bleed, make him rub his nose into the dirt until she forgave him.

But rage alone wouldn't save her.

He forced himself to breathe, to wait, to trust the plan—Zaid's plan. Tomorrow. If everything went right, tomorrow he would finally be free to beat the living shit out of that man without consequences.

Vikram shut the back door quietly behind him and pulled out his phone, fingers moving fast as he typed a message.

"I am waiting outside. Jaldi aaja."

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stood there in the dark, the city watching silently, his heart heavy with love, anger, and the kind of patience that only comes when you're willing to destroy the world for someone—but choose to wait one more night.

A few minutes later, Vikram finally heard footsteps. He turned, only to see Akshay standing there—but he wasn't alone. Behind him stood Akshara, wrapped tightly in a shawl, her face hidden so no one could see it.

Vikram froze. Out of all the people in the universe, all the possible wrong choices Akshay could have made... this had to be the worst one.

His mouth fell open, shock quickly giving way to pure fury. He had given that idiot one job. Just one. And somehow, Akshay had managed to turn it into a full-blown disaster by bringing Akshara—Zoya's best friend—along with him.

Fantastic. Just brilliant.

"Yaar, meri baat sun," Akshay whispered, already regretting every life decision that had led him here. One look at Vikram's face told him he had approximately three seconds to live.

Vikram lifted his hand. 

Without thinking, Akshay yanked Akshara in front of him like a human shield.

Akshara's eyes widened in horror before she squeezed them shut, mentally preparing herself for a slap she was fairly sure she did not sign up for today.

Nothing happened.

She opened one eye cautiously.

Then the other.

Vikram was still furious—but his glare had locked onto Akshay, who was now peeking out from behind her like a scared child hiding behind a curtain.

"Kutte," Vikram whispered dangerously, rolling up his sleeves. "Saamne aa. Sharam nahi aati? Khud ka kaand hai aur iss bechari ko bali ka bakra bana raha hai."

"Abe bhai, baat toh sun le," Akshay pleaded, his grip on Akshara tightening as he continued to retreat. "Bas thodi si—"

With every step Akshay took back, Akshara was dragged along, until she realized—yes, this was happening, and yes, she had officially become collateral damage.

"Arre bhai, usko chhod de," Vikram snapped. "Hero mat ban."

Akshay leaned closer to Akshara, whispering desperately, "Tum kuch bolo na. Tumhare bolne pe shayad zinda bach jaaun."

Akshara swallowed. Took a breath. Clearly, this was not how she had imagined her night ending.

"Bhaiya," she began carefully, glancing between the two men, "pehli baat toh—Akshay ki galti nahi hai."

Akshay nodded so aggressively it was almost dangerous.

"And doosri baat," she continued softly, "mujhe pata hai ki aap Zoya se pyaar karte hain."

That did it.

Vikram froze mid-step, mid-anger, mid–possible murder.

The silence that followed was so sudden it almost felt awkward.

"...You know?" he whispered as if utterly shocked.

"Yes, bhaiya," Akshara said quickly. "Aur honestly, thoda obvious bhi tha." She winced immediately. "I mean—respectfully obvious."

Akshay mouthed thank you at her like she had just saved his life.

"I swear," Akshara added hurriedly, "main Zoya ko kabhi nahi bataungi. Woh meri best friend hai, haan, par meri zindagi bhi mujhe pyaari hai."

Vikram exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead like a man who had aged ten years in thirty seconds.

"You won't tell her?" he asked again, quieter now.

Akshara shook her head instantly. "Bilkul nahi."

There was a beat.

Then Vikram pointed at Akshay without looking at him. "Tu."

Akshay straightened immediately. "Haan?"

"Next time agar tune kisi ko laana ho," Vikram said coldly, "toh pehle bata diya kar. Warna main tujhe hi shawl pehnake bhaga dunga."

Akshay nodded solemnly. "Understood. Full trauma registered."

Akshara bit her lip. Despite everything, she almost laughed.. "Okay, bhaiya, I think it's already midnight—we should focus on that butter chicken," 

Akshara whispered, holding her hands together, visibly excited about whatever they were about to do.

She had never done something like this. Ever.

Always surrounded by guards in her penthouse and, of course, her ever-present bodyguard, this—this—was completely new.

This was the first time in her life she had sneaked out. All thanks to Akshay. Otherwise, none of this would have happened.

She froze.

Eww. Did she just mentally thank him?

What the hell?

Well... maybe she did—but she would never let him know. He'd probably start planning their kids next. God, he was dramatic like that.

"Haan, chalo," Vikram whispered, already starting to walk. "Aksh bhaiya hain na, hamare neighbour—unse baat kar li hai."

He tiptoed toward Akshay's house as if his life depended on silence, while Akshay and Akshara followed behind him, trying—very badly—not to make any noise.

Just then, they heard it.

The creak of a door opening.

All three of them froze—rigid, like someone had hit the pause button on their lives.

Before either Akshay or Akshara could even process what was happening, Vikram suddenly yanked both of them and took off, dragging them toward the back of his own house.

Akshay stumbled, Akshara nearly tripped, and both of them shot Vikram identical glares that clearly said this was not part of the plan.

Vikram pulled them both close in the shadows, one arm on each, and raised a finger to his lips in a sharp shush.

Akshara held her breath, eyes wide.

Akshay leaned in, whispering dramatically, "Agar aaj zinda bach gaye na, main kasam se kabhi tere ese plan mein saath nahi doonga."

Vikram didn't even look at him. He just pressed his finger harder against his lips.

One more sound and you're dead—the message was loud and clear.

Akshara, for reasons she couldn't explain, found herself thinking only one thing.

This butter chicken better be worth it. And Zoya better love it.....

Vikram peeked through the wall—and immediately stiffened. A drunk man stumbled out of the house.

What the fuck?

The man was clearly not in his senses, his shirt messy and half-tucked out of his pants, buttons undone, hair ruined, walking like gravity had suddenly turned personal. Whatever he'd been doing inside that house, it definitely wasn't innocent.

"Eww... what is this?" Akshara whispered, genuinely confused as she stared at him. She tilted her head slightly, trying to make sense of why a man would look like... that.

She really didn't understand it.

From behind her, Akshay smacked the back of her head lightly.

"Tumhe samajh nahi aaya?" he whispered. "Yaar tum kitni bholi ho."

He leaned against the wall casually, smirking at her—the exact smirk she hated. More than anything in this world.

"Maar kyun rahe ho?" Akshara rubbed her head, letting out a small oww, glaring at him so hard it should've worked as a warning. It only made Akshay's smile stretch wider.

"Yaar tumhe dikh nahi raha," he whispered bluntly, not even trying to behave. "That man just had the best time of his life."

Vikram pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting bringing either of them.

Akshay wasn't done. "Tum sach mein dumb ho kya?" he added helpfully. "Yaar—best sex of his life."

He pointed toward the man, who was now wobbling down the street with an empty liquor bottle in his hand, almost tripping over air.

Akshara gasped. Then came the sound—soft but deeply offended. "Eww."

She whipped around to glare at Akshay. "Tumhe sharam nahi aati kya?"

Akshay's smirk slowed, deliberate now, enjoying her reaction far too much. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully. "Aisa nahi hai ki sharam nahi aati. Aati hai."

He paused, tapping his chest lightly. "Bas main thodi der feel kar leta hoon."

Then snapped his fingers. "Aur phir—gayab."

Vikram finally spoke, exhausted. "Abe bas kar, kutte. Apni tarah usse ganda kyun bana raha hai?"

Akshay looked at him innocently, like he'd just been misunderstood. "Kya? Main toh sach bata raha tha."

"Chup kar," Vikram said flatly, turning back toward the road. "Dekho—woh aadmi chala gaya."

The street was empty now.

"This is our chance," he whispered. "Abhi."

Vikram moved first, already expecting them to follow.

Akshara stepped forward—

And suddenly—

She was yanked back.

Hard.

Akshay pulled her straight into his chest, the sudden impact knocking the breath out of her. Her body froze instantly, heart racing so loudly she was sure he could feel it.

And damn it—he probably could.

She hated this. Hated how easily he affected her. Hated how her body reacted before she could stop it.

She swallowed hard, whispering angrily—though the anger didn't quite reach her voice. "Kya kar rahe ho, Akshay. Chhodo."

She tried to move, but his arms were already locked around her waist, his warmth sinking in, unavoidable.

He leaned in, the hard planes of his chest pressing closer against her back, too close, too familiar. "Hm," he murmured softly.

Then, near her ear—slow, deliberate—
"Toh kya bol rahi thi tum... sharam nahi aati?"

She felt the shiver before she could stop it.

"Well," he continued quietly, voice lower now, "baaki ka toh pata nahi, par tumhare saamne mujhe bilkul sharam nahi aati."

A beat.

"Aur na kabhi aayegi."

That did it.

Akshara shoved him back hard and ran, not daring to look behind her—though a small, traitorous smile betrayed her anyway.

Akshay watched her go, his smirk widening at her flushed face, the way she fled like a startled kitten.

But this time, the smirk softened.

Because he knew.

And he wasn't stopping—not until she admitted it herself.

Slowly, he followed the path Vikram had already taken.

They stood at the door as Vikram knocked lightly. Akshara stood a little away from Akshay, carefully avoiding his gaze, staying close to Vikram instead, while Akshay only smiled to himself, stifling a laugh—until one sharp glare from Vikram shut him up instantly.

The door finally opened.

Aksh stood in front of them with a warm smile on his face, a spatula still in his hand, and he ushered all three of them inside without a second thought.

The door closed behind them.

They all looked around. The living room was cozy—soft lights, simple furniture, the kind of place that immediately felt lived in. Vikram was the first to speak.

"Bhaiya, aapka ghar bohot sundar hai."

Aksh smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he ruffled Vikram's hair affectionately. "Thank you. Come on now, andar chalo. Sab kuch ready hai. Aur haan—maine tum logon ke liye khana bhi banaya hai."

At the mention of food, Akshara unconsciously licked her lips. "Aapne humare liye khana banaya hai, bhaiya?" she asked, already looking around as if she could spot it from here.

Akshay immediately smacked the side of her mouth. "Oye, muh band kar. Makhi ghus jaayegi."

He stifled another laugh, watching her reaction, because this wasn't exaggeration—it was pure truth. Akshara loved food more than anything in this world.

She glared at him, yanking his hand away, but obediently shut her mouth anyway.

Aksh chuckled softly at their banter as he guided them toward the dining table.

Dal makhni. Naan. Rasmalai.

Akshara's eyes practically lit up.

All three of them sat down, and Akshara immediately loaded her plate as if this were the last meal on earth, completely forgetting all manners.

And that said a lot—because every single day, thanks to her father, she ate the best food prepared by chefs hired just to match her cravings. Still, nothing could beat food eaten like this.

Vikram glanced up at Aksh, hesitation clear in his eyes. "Bhaiya... are you sure? Hum butter chicken bana paayenge na? Zoya ko pasand aayega?"

Aksh smiled gently, patting Vikram's head. "Haan haan, bilkul. Don't worry. Tumhari girlfriend ko bohot pasand aayega."

Vikram froze. His hand stilled on the naan, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red at the word girlfriend. If only it could ever be true.

Akshay noticed instantly and burst out laughing mid-bite.

Vikram shot him a glare, his blush deepening. "Uh... bhaiya, woh meri girlfriend nahi hai."

Aksh paused, genuinely surprised. "Girlfriend nahi hai?" He looked between them. "Aur phir bhi tum raat ke beech ghar se nikal ke uske liye khana banane aaye ho?"

Vikram nodded slowly. "Haan, bhaiya. Woh meri girlfriend nahi hai... par woh koi hai jisse main khush dekhna chahta hoon."

Aksh placed a hand on Vikram's shoulder, his expression softening. "Toh phir, mere ladke, agar tum kisi ke liye itna kar rahe ho—raat ke beech ghar se chhupke nikalna, khud uska favourite banana, apni aadaton aur beliefs ke khilaaf jaakar—aur phir bhi woh tumhari nahi hai... toh kahin na kahin kuch toh galat hai."

Vikram went quiet. The words hit too close, describing exactly how much he cared for Zoya—and how helpless he felt not being able to say it out loud.

Seeing the conflict on the boy's face, Aksh gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "Abhi chhodo yeh sab. Pehle khana khatam karo. Phir hum butter chicken banayenge."

Vikram nodded, lowering his gaze back to his plate, and continued eating.

Once the plates were finally cleared—mostly because Akshara leaned back, patting her stomach dramatically and declaring she was emotionally full—Aksh clapped his hands together.

"Chalo," he said, standing up. "Ab asli kaam."

The kitchen lights were switched on, instantly flooding the space with a warm yellow glow. It wasn't a big kitchen, but it was functional, lived-in—open shelves, neatly stacked spices, a faint smell of garlic and butter already lingering in the air.

Vikram rolled up his sleeves immediately, instinctively stepping closer to the counter like this was something sacred.

He stared out of the window, eyes fixed on the sky, as if silently apologising to Mahadev for touching chicken—an act that went completely against his beliefs.

He could almost imagine the divine disapproval.

But he also knew this much: he'd still do it. Probably without hesitation.

All for Zoya.

Even Mahadev would have to understand.

And if his father ever found out, that would be the end of him—no excuses, no salvation in sight.

He accepted that too, almost calmly.

After all, some punishments were worth it.

All for her.

Akshara followed, perching herself on the stool near the counter, legs swinging slightly, eyes already scanning everything with interest.

Akshay leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, looking like he had come purely for moral support—and commentary.

"Okay," Aksh said, handing Vikram an apron. "Butter chicken is simple, but you need patience. Sabse pehle—marination."

Vikram nodded, grave and attentive, as though every word were a lesson he could not afford to forget. Failure was not an option—not after the risks he had taken, not after the lines he had crossed, all for Zoya.

If this was the price, he would pay it.

Just so she could smile—if only once—and carry a little more happiness than the world had allowed her.

Akshara leaned forward. "Main help kar sakti hoon?" Her gaze lifted to Aksh—open, hopeful, almost fragile. There was a quiet plea in her eyes, the kind that didn't beg aloud but still asked to be trusted.

Akshay immediately snorted. "Haan, tu help karegi—chakhne mein."

She shot him a glare. "Main bhi kaam karti hoon, samjhe?"

"Last time you helped, remember—at Zoya's house for Eid," Akshay drawled lazily, a hint of amusement curling at his lips. "Aadha masala tumne chakh liya tha."

"That was quality control," she shot back—though even as the words left her mouth, she knew how senseless they sounded. And worse, she knew he was right.

God, she hated that. She hated it even more when he knew he was right. Ugh.

Aksh laughed, handing Akshara a bowl. "Yeh lo, dahi aur masale mix kar do. Dhyaan se."

She took it very seriously—too seriously—tongue slightly sticking out as she mixed, stopping every two seconds to smell it.

Vikram was focused on cutting the chicken, brows furrowed, knife moving carefully.

Akshay watched for a bit, then wandered closer. "Bhai, itna tension kyun le raha hai? Zoya MasterChef thodi hai."

Vikram didn't look up. "Mujhe bas perfect chahiye." No one here would understand how badly he needed it to be right—for Zoya. How much it mattered to him that she liked it.

After everything that had happened, this was her favourite dish. And sometimes, only something this simple had the power to lift her mood.

The kitchen was already a mess by the time the butter chicken reached its final stage—spice jars half-open, one spoon mysteriously missing, and Akshay somehow managing to stand exactly where he wasn't needed.

Vikram stayed focused near the stove, stirring carefully, while Aksh supervised like a proud uncle who trusted no one fully.

Akshara hovered nearby, pretending she wasn't waiting for a chance to taste something.

Akshay noticed immediately. "Tumhara muh bol raha hai," he said lazily.

She frowned. "Mera muh kuch nahi bol raha." Even though she already knew he was right. That she was already craving for Butter Chicken too now.

"Bol raha hai," he insisted. "Clear message hai—feed me or I'll die."

She rolled her eyes. "Tum apni bakwaas band karo." God, what the hell was wrong with him?Why couldn't he ever stop annoying her—especially when he knew exactly how to do it?

"Tum apni bhookh band karo," he shot back. "Donon mushkil hai."

She reached for the spoon again. She couldn't hold it. Not anymore atleast.

Akshay smacked her hand lightly. "Mana kiya na."

She yelped. "Tumhe haath uthane ki aadat hai kya?!"

Wincing dramatically, she clutched her hand, as though she'd been grievously wronged—far more than the moment deserved.

"Haan," he said calmly. "Especially jab tum khana chura rahi ho."

Aksh laughed from the other side. "Isko plate de do warna poora butter chicken raw kha jaayegi." He pulls out the plate from the Cabinet handing it to Akshara

"Dekha?" Akshara pointed at Akshay. "Bhaiya samajhte hain."

Akshay scoffed. "Haan haan, alliance ban gaya tum dono ka."

She stuck her tongue out at him, then immediately froze. She knew he hated this, whenever she did this.

"Don't," he warned. She did it again. Akshay grabbed a napkin and waved it in her face. "Meri taraf se last warning."

She giggled and darted behind Vikram like a shield. "Tum dono bachche ho kya?" Vikram muttered, though he was clearly smiling.

The butter chicken was finally done. Aksh set the pan aside while Vikram leaned in, staring at it like it was a sacred offering.

Akshara bounced slightly on her feet. "Ab toh chakhne do."

"Fine," Aksh said. "Bas ek bite."

She reached forward enthusiastically— of course spilled gravy on her sleeve.

She stared at the stain, horrified. "Nahi—yeh kya ho gaya."

Akshay laughed immediately. "Congratulations, tum officially part of the kitchen ho gayi."

She glared at him. "Tumhari wajah se hua."

"Main toh yahan khada tha," he said innocently.

She tried to wipe it off, failing miserably.

"Ruko," Akshay said suddenly.

She looked up confused. Before she could react, he stepped closer, took the edge of her dupatta, and wiped the gravy off her sleeve himself, quick and careless like it was nothing.

There was a pause. She forgot to breathe. The Closeness was too much to handle.

"Ho gaya," he said casually, stepping back like he hadn't just crossed several invisible lines. "Next time dhyaan se."

Her cheeks heated instantly. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, suddenly very aware of how close he'd been.

"Tum... tum bina bole haath kyun laga dete ho?" she muttered.

He tilted his head, smirking. "Abhi toh sirf dupatta tha." His eyes lingered on the way her cheeks flushed, her pupils widening, and, of course, the slight tension in her fingers tightening on her pants.

That did it. She turned away fast, pretending to be extremely interested in the counter, her face completely flushed.

Behind her, Akshay smiled, turning to walk away—but not without one last whisper.

"And... I also know you love it."

And this time, he didn't say a word. Because he didn't have to.

The butter chicken was finally done, rich and steaming, the aroma thick enough to make them all forget the late hour, but now came the "easy" part—packing it for Zoya without destroying the kitchen or each other in the process.

Vikram tried to carefully scoop the chicken into the airtight container, leaning over the counter like a surgeon, his brow furrowed in complete concentration, while Akshara hovered, hovering far too close, holding a ladle like it was a weapon and muttering to herself about spillage hazards.

Akshay, of course, stood to the side, arms crossed, smirking like he was the general of a war he had no intention of fighting but was enjoying immensely anyway.

"Bhaiya, thoda dhyan se," Akshara warned, reaching forward to steady the container, only for her elbow to bump Vikram's hand, causing a little chunk of chicken to fly across the counter and land squarely on the floor.

"Eww!" she shrieked, flinging her hands up, while Vikram froze, staring at the mess like someone had just insulted his family.

Akshay burst out laughing immediately. "Congratulations, tum dono ne kitchen ko aur zyada creative bana diya!"

Vikram gaped at him. "Tu chup rahega?"

"Nahi, main toh art ko appreciate kar raha hoon," Akshay said solemnly, as if the floor chicken was a masterpiece.

Akshara groaned, trying to grab a napkin, but somehow knocked over a small jar of chilli powder, sending it skittering across the counter. The powder puffed into the air like smoke, making them all cough violently.

"Ab tumhari wajah se," Akshara shouted at Akshay, waving her hands frantically, "sab khana kharaab ho jayega!"

"Relax, princess," Akshay said, waving his hands lazily. "It's seasoning. Totally intentional."

Vikram, meanwhile, had somehow managed to tip the container slightly while moving it, and a dollop of gravy landed on Akshara's hand. She yelped, smacking it off and splattering a little on the counter, which only made Akshay laugh harder.

"Bas karo!" Vikram hissed, leaning over to rescue the container again, while Akshara wiped her hands furiously on a kitchen towel, muttering about kitchen disasters and never coming back alive if Zoya saw this.

Akshay, of course, could not resist. He leaned in close to Akshara and whispered, "Tumhare saath kaam karna dangerous hi nahi, entertaining bhi hai."

She shot him a glare that could have killed a grown man, which only made him grin wider.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the butter chicken was packed into the container, the lid sealed with a satisfying click, and Aksh carefully inspected the work, nodding approvingly at the slightly messy but intact meal.

"Good job," he said, patting Vikram on the shoulder. "Ab bas Zoya ke paas safe deliver ho, aur hum sab survive karenge."

Vikram exhaled deeply, brushing sweat off his forehead, while Akshara leaned against the counter, staring at the mess around them with a mix of horror and amusement.

And then, just as she turned to leave, Akshay leaned casually against the counter beside her and flicked a tiny dab of butter from the lid onto her arm, smirking like a cat who had just knocked over a vase for fun.

Her cheeks immediately heated, her hands flying to her arm as she swatted at him. "Tum... tum pagal ho!" she hissed, but she couldn't hide the small, reluctant laugh that escaped despite herself.

Akshay just grinned and shrugged. "Aur yahi fun hai, princess."

"Mai koi princess nahi hun," she shot back, glaring at him with defiance that practically sparkled.

Vikram, watching both of them, shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath about how he was never cooking anything at night again—but secretly, he knew he'd do it all over if it meant seeing her like this.

 ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

When ignorance struck, it made him bleed
In ways he never imagined, wounds unseen.
It tore through corners of his heart unknown,
Awakening pains and loves he'd never known.

And still, through every cut, every scar,
He would endure it all—just for her,
Over and over, without question,
For love that hurt, yet made him whole.

- Zaid

(ALIGANJ, LUCKNOW)

IQBAL RESIDENCE

The room remained dim despite the sunlight filtering in through the window, as if the light itself hesitated to fully enter.

Zaid stood before the mirror, adjusting his shirt, tucking it into his trousers with slow, practiced movements. Each action was precise, automatic—muscle memory doing the work while his mind stayed elsewhere. It felt less like getting ready and more like going through motions he had repeated all his life.

Because this wasn't just heartbreak.

It wasn't merely that a woman had walked into his life and turned it upside down.

It was the fact that she had done it in a week.

A week was all it had taken for her to settle into him, quietly, dangerously—until now her absence echoed louder than her presence ever had. The kind of damage he hadn't known was possible, the kind no warning prepared you for.

He reached for the comb, dragging it through his hair, setting it the way he always did. The reflection staring back at him looked unmistakably like Zaid—sharp jaw, familiar posture, the same face the world recognized.

And yet, something was off.

This wasn't him.
Not today.

Then her voice reached him from downstairs.

"Zaid, niche aaja. Bacha, dekh Akshay aaya hai."

The sound of Aisha's voice made him flinch—just slightly, but enough. His eyes lifted back to the mirror, catching the dark circles beneath them, stark and unhidden. A silent confession of a night spent awake, staring at ceilings, replaying moments he wished he could undo.

"A-ammi... a--aa r-raaha ho-hoon," he murmured, the words barely louder than a breath.

He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, rough and careless, as if the weight irritated him, as if everything did. There was no trace of his usual charm now—no cocky tilt of the lips, no effortless confidence he carried like second skin.

All of it was gone.

Because one woman had held him—softly, briefly—and somehow left with the power to break him without ever trying.

Zaid turned away from the mirror and walked out of the room.

His steps down the staircase were steady, but something inside him wasn't.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the house itself knew he wasn't leaving whole.

And yet—he kept walking.

Zaid stepped onto the staircase, his fingers brushing the cold railing out of habit.

The first step—

Her doe eyes.

The way they had knocked the air clean out of his lungs. The way he had forgotten how to look anywhere else. They hadn't wavered. Hadn't blinked. His gaze had stayed on her, steady and helpless, as if the rest of the world had quietly slipped out of existence.

He paused—just for half a second—then forced himself forward.

The second step—

Her voice.
Soft. Gentle. Almost hesitant when she had tried to apologise.

Not rushed. Not careless.

"Dekhiye... I'm sorry abou—"

She hadn't even finished the sentence.

The way she had tried to be kind—God, it killed him. It hadn't even been her fault, and yet she had stood there, offering an apology like it was something precious.

His jaw tightened.

The third—

The way she had apologised again later, when he was walking out of the washroom. Her words still careful, still tender, as if she was afraid of hurting him further.

He hadn't deserved it.
He hadn't deserved her.

And yet she had given him her kindness anyway.

His grip on the railing tightened.

By the fourth step, his chest felt heavier.

He reminded himself—it had only been a week.
A week wasn't supposed to do this. It wasn't supposed to rearrange someone's breathing, wasn't supposed to follow them into empty rooms and quiet mornings.

And yet—

The memory shifted without warning.

The fifth—

That one hurt the most.

The way she had looked in that suit and salwar.
So beautiful it had almost hurt to look at her. The kind of beauty that settled somewhere deep and ached. He had wondered then—how did he get so lucky, just breathing the same air as her?

His steps slowed.

The sixth—

The moment he had offered her his handkerchief while she was crying.

And that touch.

Their fingers brushing—brief, accidental—and still it had struck him like an electric shock. His knees had nearly buckled; he'd had to force himself to stay upright.

Her effect on him—God, it destroyed him.

That had been the first time she had touched him.

And it had felt like the best day of his life.

The seventh—

The way she had walked through the hallway.

He hadn't slowed. Hadn't paused.

He had stopped entirely.

As if the air had been locked out of his lungs at the sight of her.

The eighth—

The way she had defended him in front of Rohan and his gang. The way she had stood there, fearless, speaking for him when they had tried to tear him down.

No hesitation. No doubt.

The way no one had ever stood up for him before.

And maybe she didn't know it—but it had warmed something deep inside his chest. Something he hadn't known was still capable of feeling safe.

Zaid exhaled slowly, forcing the weight down, pushing the memories back where they belonged—somewhere deep, somewhere he wouldn't have to look at them.

Not now.
Not when the world expected him to be himself again.

And yet, after all of this—after treating him like he mattered without ever trying—

She ignored him.

As if none of it had meant anything.

Not realising how her absence was killing him, how it made him bleed in ways he hadn't known were possible.

She was just... gone.

Like she had slipped out of his life the same way she had entered it—quietly, leaving everything behind altered.

By the time he reached the last step, his fingers were clenched around the railing, knuckles pale.

He forced a breath in.

Then another.

The memories had done their damage. Now they had to be buried.

Zaid straightened, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt, pulling the mask back into place.

When he finally stepped onto the floor below, his face was calm. Unreadable.

No one would ever see the staircase he had just survived.

And Akshay was waiting.

"Oye, tune itni der laga di?" Akshay murmured, his voice low, the usual teasing smirk resting on his lips—but it didn't stay long.
It faltered the moment his eyes met Zaid's face.

Because Zaid didn't look tired.
He looked... wrecked. Like someone who had spent the night fighting battles no one else could see.

Akshay noticed. Of course he did.
But he also knew better than to ask questions in a room filled with elders, with prayers hanging in the air and silence that could cut.

Aisha stepped forward, placing the breakfast plate down before Zaid, her hand reaching out to cup his cheek gently, lovingly.
"Bache, nashta kar lo... thik hai?" she said softly.

Her touch lingered for half a second longer than usual, almost hesitant, almost forced—like a mother going through motions her heart wasn't fully in today.

Zaid noticed everything.

The tightness in her smile.
The slight tremble in her fingers.
The way her eyes refused to meet his.

His own expression stayed unreadable, but beneath it, something violent twisted and turned. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, his hands curling into fists at his sides like if he didn't hold himself together, he'd fall apart right there.

He pulled the chair back and sat down far too roughly.

The sound scraped through the room.

Aisha gasped softly.
Akshay stiffened.
Zoya's head snapped up, worry flashing across her face.

"Bhai... theek ho?" Zoya asked carefully, her voice light but her eyes searching his.

Little Zain, who had been happily swinging his legs under the table, froze mid-bounce. His smile faded, replaced by a small frown, eyes widening just a little.
"Bhai...?" he called again, unsure, a little scared.

Zaid swallowed hard.

"Ammi... m-mujhe... bh-bhook nahi hai," he said, the words stumbling out unevenly, like they hurt his throat.
"I am... I'm leaving."

He stood up abruptly and started walking away, not looking back—until he stopped near the doorway, shoulders tense.

"O-oye," he muttered, voice rough, speaking over his shoulder, "t-tujhe kya... kya invitation du? C-chal ab."

Akshay froze.

Zaid had never spoken like to anyone.

Something was seriously wrong.

"Arey yaar," Akshay whispered, following him a step closer, lowering his voice, trying to keep things light, "aunty ne nashta banaya hai, at least thoda sa toh khaa le—"

"M-mujhe... mat bata," Zaid cut him off immediately, the stutter sharper now, like the words were fighting him.
"C-chal... ab tu."

And then he walked out.

Aisha hurried after him with the lunchbox in her hands, panic seeping into her steps—but by the time she reached the door, he was already gone.

So was Akshay.

Her shoulders sagged.

"Mere bache ko... kya ho gaya hai?" she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.

She closed her eyes slowly, pressing her lips together before murmuring under her breath, hands lifting instinctively in prayer.
"Ya Allah... mere bachon ko khush rakhna... mere parivaar ko hamesha apni hifazat mein rakhna... mujhe sabr dena."

Zoya stepped forward, slipping her bag onto her shoulder.
"Abhi bhai thoda pareshaan hai," she said gently, trying to sound reassuring even when she didn't feel it herself.
"Chinta mat kijiye, Ammi... main baat kar lungi."

She leaned in and kissed Aisha's cheek softly before picking up the lunchbox.

Zain copied her immediately, standing on his toes to press a small kiss against his mother's other cheek, his arms wrapping around her waist for a brief second—before both siblings quietly walked out.

Aisha remained standing there, alone now, worry clinging to her like a second skin, exhaustion settling deep in her bones.

From behind her glasses, Amna spoke softly, her voice calm, steady, seasoned with years of faith.
"Jaan, itni chinta mat karo, meri beti. Allah sab dekh raha hai... sab theek ho jayega."

Aisha nodded slowly at her mother-in-law's words, even though her heart struggled to believe them.

Just then, Imam came down the stairs, resolve etched onto his tired face—today, finally, he wanted to speak, to clear the misunderstandings, to bridge the distance.

But Aisha didn't stop.

She murmured something about washing clothes, about work that needed to be done, and walked past him without meeting his eyes.

Imam let out a heavy sigh.

His shoulders slumped as he sank down beside his mother, the weight of everything finally catching up to him.
"Ammi..." he whispered, his voice small, fragile.
"Aapko... mujhpe yakeen hai na?"

He sounded like a child again.
A boy asking his mother if she still believed in him.

Amna turned toward him immediately.
"Mera bacha dhokebaaz nahi hai," she said firmly, cupping his face.
"Itna toh main jaanti hoon. Allah tumhari parakh le raha hai, beta... himmat rakho."

She kissed his forehead gently.

And something inside Imam broke.

He leaned into her, collapsing against her shoulder, a low groan escaping him—raw, tired, defeated.

This distance from his wife, from his children... it was suffocating him.

"Shhh..." Amna whispered, her hand moving through his hair slowly.
"Himmat rakho, mera bache."

And for a moment, he wasn't a grown man drowning in responsibility.

He was just a little boy again—lost, hurting—held together only by his mother's arms.

 ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

(ST. MARY SECONDARY SCHOOL)

The playground of the school was pure chaos, murmurs and whispers spilling everywhere just like it did in every other school. Birds chirped loudly in the sky, as if they were adding to the madness instead of calming it. Groups were scattered from corner to corner—some backbitching shamelessly, some roasting each other like it was a sport, while others were dying over their crushes and unread messages.

Zaid sat on the bench with Akshay and Vikram beside him, as usual, except this time worry flickered openly on their faces. Since morning, Zaid had been unbearably silent—jaw clenched tight, hands curled into fists for God knows how many hours now, like he was holding himself together by force alone.

Akshay and Vikram shared a worried, knowing look—they weren't smirking, joking, or roasting each other for once.

This was real.

They had never seen Zaid like this—so wrecked, so hollowed out, like he had walked out of a war and left half of himself behind. For God's sake, he was the kind of boy who didn't care about anything, laughed things off, brushed pain aside like it meant nothing, and yet here he was... broken in a way that scared them.

"Bhai... dekh... k-kuch bol toh sahi," Vikram whispers, leaning closer and placing a hand on Zaid's shoulder. He was genuinely worried—anyone would be if they saw their best friend this silent, this destroyed, and it was fucked up when you didn't even know why.

"Haan bhai... k-kuch toh bol... tu hame bol toh sahi," Akshay whispers too, placing his hand on Zaid's other shoulder, hoping—desperately—to provide some comfort. Because honestly, they couldn't take this anymore.

Whatever was troubling their boy, they would fix it. And if it was a person... well, that person should probably start praying.

Zaid snapped.

Everything that had been eating him alive—the mess at home, his mother's forced smiles and hollow affection, his father being a liar, not the man he thought he was, and of course... her absence—it all crashed into him at once.

"O-Oh... so wow," he scoffs, voice breaking before he can stop it, words tripping over each other. "Y-you don't even k-know. You're my b-best friends and you d-don't even know what's wrong with me?" His laugh is bitter, almost hysterical. "Is that—i-is that what you c-call a best friend?"

He doesn't even realise what he's said until it's already out there—shitty, unfair words thrown straight at their faces, born from hurt rather than thought.

Shock flashes across Vikram and Akshay's faces, hurt following close behind. This motherfucker had just questioned their friendship because he was bleeding over something he hadn't even told them about.

Vikram doesn't snap, despite the sting in his chest, despite not expecting this from Zaid. He chooses understanding instead, leaning in once more. "Bhai... dekh, I understand tu literally bohot disturbed hai," he whispers softly, sympathy clear in his eyes, "but c-come on... t-tell me."

Akshay, however, had lost it.

He wasn't taking this shit. Not today. Not from him.

He yanks Vikram's hand away from Zaid's shoulder. "Oye, koi zarurat nahi isse itna kind hone ki," he snaps. "First this motherfucker doesn't tell us what's wrong with him, then he storms out of his own house, and now he's blaming us?" His eyes darken as he stares at Zaid, disbelief written all over his face. "No. Just—just keep sulking, Zaid. I hope whatever it was, it was precious enough for you to doubt our friendship."

He stands up, grabbing Vikram's hand, ready to walk away when—

Ekansh pops up in front of them.

With a tiny pout on his lips, hair falling messily over his forehead, pants tucked in that slightly awkward way that only kids manage, making him look unintentionally adorable.

Vikram's expression softens instantly at the sight of his little brother, though confusion follows soon after. "Oye champ... yahan kya kar raha hai?" he asks, forcing his voice to stay normal while shooting Akshay a look, silently telling him to shut up. He didn't want a fight—at least not in front of Ekansh.

"Bhai... aapse kuch puchna tha," Ekansh whispers, stepping closer.

Vikram nods with a small smile. "Haan... go on, champ."

Ekansh pauses, his pout deepening as if weighing the seriousness of his words before finally blurting out, "Bhai... w-what do I do if a girl g-gave me a rose?" he whispers bluntly.

"Girl gave you what?" Vikram chokes on air, eyes widening as he stares at his little brother—who should be worrying about homework, not flowers.

Akshay bursts out laughing, completely forgetting the earlier anger. "Bro... at least someone has a love life," he mutters, earning himself a glare from Vikram.

"Who gave you a rose, Ekansh?" Vikram asks calmly, though amusement sneaks into his voice despite himself.

"Bhai... a girl in my class," Ekansh whispers proudly. "She's p-pretty and I saved her yesterday from a meanie boy, so she gave me a rose." He puffs his little chest out, clearly proud of his heroic deed.

"That's good, champ," Vikram says softly, patting his head. "Good that you saved her."

He honestly doesn't know how to handle this. God. Is this a love story now?

When Vikram was Ekansh's age, all he cared about was getting home in time to watch Chhota Bheem.

Is the innocence really gone already?

Just then, Ekansh's eyes wander to Zaid—his slumped shoulders, his downcast gaze—and suddenly the boy points at him, blurting out without a filter, "Why you look like pretty boy from Didu's laptop she was googling yesterday?"

He giggles, slapping a hand over his mouth as if he's just revealed a secret he wasn't supposed to.

For a moment—

everything freezes.

The playground noise fades into something distant, muffled, like Zaid's ears have been stuffed with cotton. The laughter, the shouting, the bell somewhere far away—it all blurs. Even Akshay and Vikram go still, their bodies present but their voices gone.

Pretty boy.
Didu's laptop.
Googling.

"Ekansh," he says quickly, a little too sharply for a moment before softening again, crouching slightly to meet his brother's eyes. "Champ, aise bolte nahi hai. Go—go play, haan?" He nudges him gently, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"But bhai—" Ekansh starts, confusion clouding his little face. He's too young to understand what he's done wrong. His lower lip trembles, caught between fear and hurt.

"Ja," Vikram says softly but firmly.

Ekansh hesitates, glances at Zaid once more, then shrugs and runs off toward the swings, already distracted by something else—because that's how kids are. They don't know how much weight their words carry.

Zaid's breath catches. Last night.

Did she search him?

The thought curls painfully in his chest.

Did she care enough to look him up?
To stare at his picture the way he had stared at hers?
Or was it just curiosity—nothing more than a name typed and forgotten?

His fingers twitch again, nails digging into his palms.

"S-she..." Zaid whispers before he even realises he's speaking. His voice cracks, eyes welling up as he finally turns to Akshay and Vikram.

Akshay and Vikram both turn to him instantly. "She w-what?" Vikram asks quietly.

Zaid shakes his head, swallowing hard. His eyes don't lift from the ground. "G-Gauri," he says, voice barely holding together. "S-she m-might've... b-been s-searching m-me last night."

Akshay stiffens.

"Searching you?" he repeats, careful, like he doesn't want to scare the words away.

Zaid lets out a shaky breath. "I d-don't k-know. B-but Ekansh said... D-didu's l-laptop." He lets out a small, broken laugh. "M-maybe I'm j-just m-making shit up in my h-head."

He keeps staring at the ground.

"M-my Ab-Abba," he says suddenly, the words coming out uneven, like he didn't plan to say them at all. "H-he m-might be... ch-cheating."

Akshay's breath catches.
Vikram stiffens.

"I d-don't k-know," Zaid adds quickly, shaking his head. "B-but I s-see things. A-and my m-mother—" he exhales sharply, almost scoffing. "S-she a-acts like e-everything's f-fine. L-like n-nothing's wrong."

"And G-Gauri..." His voice drops. "I d-don't u-understand."

Not anger.
Not blame.

Just confusion.

"I d-don't k-know w-what I d-did," he whispers. "O-or i-if I d-did a-anything at a-all." His jaw tightens. "S-she j-just s-stopped t-talking to m-me."

Akshay shifts slightly, listening.

"I k-keep t-thinking," Zaid continues, voice cracking softly, "m-maybe I s-said s-something w-wrong. M-maybe I l-looked at h-her t-too l-long. M-maybe I s-should've n-noticed s-something e-earlier."

His breath stutters. "W-why w-would s-someone i-ignore you l-like that?" he asks quietly, not expecting an answer. "W-what d-does that s-say a-about m-me?"

The words come out smaller now.

"Am I r-really t-that easy to d-drop?"
The insecurity slips into his voice before he can stop it. Zaid looks at Akshay and Vikram—both of them frozen, stunned. This is their best friend. The backbencher who never cared. And now he looks like he's been through hell... all because of a girl who chose silence over him.

Silence.

Zaid swallows hard, blinking fast.

"I d-don't e-even k-know w-why I c-care t-this m-much," he admits. "N-nothing h-happened b-between us. W-we w-weren't a-anything." He lets out a weak, broken breath. "B-but I c-can't j-just a-act l-like it d-doesn't m-matter."

His shoulders sag.

"B-because it d-does," he finishes softly. "M-more than I w-want it t-to."

No one interrupts.

Because this isn't drama.
It isn't romance.

It's just a boy trying to understand why someone's silence can feel heavier than words — and why pretending not to care feels impossible when caring came without permission.

Vikram looks at Akshay sharing a knowing look, worry flickering over their eyes. Akshay looks back.

No words needed.

Akshay sighs and nudges Zaid's knee lightly with his own. "Bhai," he says, quieter than before, "you're an idiot for saying what you said."

Zaid flinches.

"But," Akshay continues immediately, "you're an even bigger idiot if you think we'd walk away for real." He tilts his head, eyes serious now. "Next time, just—don't bleed on us without telling us where you're hurt."

Zaid's breath stutters. "I-I didn't m-mean—"

"I know," Vikram cuts in gently. "Hum jaante hai."

For the first time since morning, something in Zaid's chest loosens—not healed, not fixed, just... held. He wipes his face roughly with the back of his hand, eyes red but steadying.

"Y-you're s-still annoying," he mutters weakly.

Akshay snorts. "Tu zinda hai, bas wahi kaafi hai."

The bell rings in the distance, sharp and loud, pulling the playground back into motion.

Zaid doesn't stand up right away.

Neither do they.

And for now—just for now—that's enough.

No one speaks.

Because there is nothing to fix.

Nothing to joke away.

Just a boy sitting on a bench, carrying his father's sins, his mother's silence, and a girl's absence—all at once.

Zaid presses his lips together, blinking hard. "I-I didn't m-mean to s-say those t-things to y-you," he whispers finally. "I j-just... I d-didn't k-know w-where else to p-put it."

Akshay exhales slowly, the anger completely gone now.

Vikram leans closer—not touching him, just there.

And the playground, for the first time, feels too loud for the kind of pain Zaid is holding.

Vikram and Akshay look at each other.
This isn't a stupid crush. And it's not what they assumed.

This is Zaid—the boy who never cared—standing wrecked because of a woman who never even tried to hurt him.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

"I am going to talk to Gauri," Vikram whispers, voice low but firm, the kind that leaves no room for argument. "Enough is enough. No one gets the right to hurt my boy like that."

And then suddenly, he's already moving.

Because Gauri was wrong—wrong if she thought she could leave Zaid this wrecked, this hollowed out, and then just walk away like none of it mattered.

Well... too bad.

Vikram wasn't letting that happen.

Zaid jolts to his feet immediately, panic flashing across his face. "V-Vikram—n-no," he says, words tripping over each other as he reaches out. "D-don't. P-please d-don't d-do that." His voice cracks. "I d-don't w-want y-you to f-force h-her to t-talk to m-me."

He shakes his head, chest rising unevenly. "I—I d-don't w-want to h-hurt h-her."

For a second, it looks like he might actually run after Vikram.

But Akshay grabs his arm, holding him back before he can take another step. "Bro," he says sharply, not unkind but unyielding, "stop being such a softie."

Zaid turns to him, eyes wide, torn.

"She o-owes you a-a answer," Akshay continues, jaw clenched. "And she better damn give it." His grip tightens just a little. "You don't get to wreck someone and pretend it's nothing."

Zaid exhales shakily, shoulders slumping as the fight drains out of him. "B-but w-what if..." he starts, then stops, unable to finish the thought.

What if she looks at him with that distance again.
What if the answer hurts more than the silence.

He doesn't say it.

Akshay sees it anyway.

"Whatever it is," Akshay says quietly, voice dropping, "at least you won't be left guessing."

Zaid looks in the direction Vikram disappeared, heart pounding too loud in his chest.

He doesn't know what scares him more—

that Gauri might finally speak,
or that she might say nothing at all.

Class – 12 C

Gauri sat in class — it was the science period. The teacher was droning on about chemical reactions, something to do with equilibrium and formulas, the blackboard filled with messy white lines, half of them already smudged because no one ever cleaned it properly.

She wasn't listening.

She sat on her bench with her book open in front of her, eyes fixed somewhere between the board and the window, nodding every now and then — just enough to look attentive. The fan above her head creaked with every slow rotation, pushing warm air around, lifting loose strands of her hair that kept falling into her face no matter how many times she tucked them back.

Her mind was somewhere else.

It had been there since morning.

She couldn't focus, and that alone unsettled her. For God's sake, she was the topper — Gauri Tripathi. The girl who never drifted in class, who was always the first to answer, the first to question, the first to be noticed.

But today, her thoughts refused to stay put.

Today, they were only on him.

Zaid.

Guilt sat heavy in her chest, an ache she had been carrying since the moment she'd decided to pull away. She knew what she was doing was cruel in its own quiet way, and yet, deep down, she also knew why she was doing it. This was right — or at least, it was necessary. For both of them.

She had to ignore him so he would forget this crush, let it fade into something harmless, something survivable. Because this — whatever it was — could never happen. If their families ever found out, it wouldn't just be uncomfortable; it would be a complete disaster. Especially her father.

So she forced herself to keep going, to keep pretending he didn't exist, even though it hurt to see that look on his face — the way his eyes dulled every time she passed him, the way his shoulders seemed to carry a weight he had never known before.

He looked defeated.

And that, more than anything, made her wonder how long she could keep convincing herself that this pain was worth it.

"Gauri."

The teacher's voice snaps, sharp enough to pull her back. "What is the answer?"

She blinks once.
Twice.

"I—I'm sorry, ma'am," she says quickly, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. "Could you repeat the question?"

The entire class freezes. She hadn't answered. She was never the one to hesitate. In fact, she was the one who usually knew the answers beforehand — and now she couldn't even speak.

A few muffled chuckles ripple through the class. The teacher shocked as well repeats the question slowly.

Gauri answers this time. Correctly.

The teacher nods and moves on, chalk tapping against the board again.

But Gauri's chest doesn't ease.

Her eyes drift, against her will, to the empty bench near the back of the room. Zaid wasn't here. Nor were Vikram or Akshay. Something was wrong — she could feel it. She should have known. Was it because of her?

Was it because she ignored him?

"Shankar... please maaf kar dena," she whispers under her breath, swallowing hard, hands joining beneath the desk like a quiet prayer. "Aap toh jaante ho why I am doing this."

She feels painfully alone and embarrassed. Akshara and Zoya were already gone, busy with sign-ups for the dance performance for the upcoming Diwali function.

She sighs and looks around, and all she sees are stares.

For a girl who had always been confident, always alert in class — she now sits buried under guilt, wondering if her silence had hurt him a little too much.

LUNCH BREAK — CAFETERIA

The cafeteria was loud in that familiar, exhausting way.

Metal chairs scraped against the floor constantly, lunchboxes slammed shut and reopened, someone laughed too hard near the windows, and the smell of fried snacks mixed badly with spilled juice and sanitizer. The canteen counter was already crowded, students pushing forward with coins in their palms, shouting orders over one another like it was a competition.

Someone had brought biryani from home — the smell carried halfway across the room. From another table came the sharp tang of instant noodles, overcooked and shared between four people with plastic forks. Chips crunched. Bottles hissed open. Someone somewhere dropped a spoon and cursed under their breath.

Every table was occupied.

Groups sat pressed together — uniforms wrinkled, ties loosened, blazers long forgotten. A few people stood because there was nowhere else to sit, balancing tiffins on their palms, leaning against walls that were already covered in old scribbles and scratched names.

It was chaos, but the kind everyone was used to.

Gauri stepped inside slowly, tray in her hands, scanning the room without meaning to.

Her girls were already there — laughter rising from their corner, Zoya sitting on their table as usual, Akshara stealing fries off someone else's plate like it was her birthright. Normally, Gauri would have gone straight to them.

Today, her feet didn't move.

Her eyes drifted past the noise, past the crowd, searching without permission.

Zaid.

She didn't see him.

The realisation settles oddly in her chest — not relief, not disappointment, something more uncomfortable. She exhales and forces herself to walk toward her table, slipping into her seat like she belongs there, like nothing's wrong.

Conversation continues around her, but she barely registers it. Because somewhere near the exit, just beyond the hum of voices, she knows he's there.

Waiting.

And the cafeteria suddenly feels too small for the kind of conversation she's been avoiding all day.

She knew it was lunch break, and as Head Girl she had duties to perform—but today, all she wanted was to see him once.

Just once.

She didn't even get the chance to move.

A hand closed around her arm, rough and unyielding. She gasped, turning just in time to see Vikram pulling her out of the cafeteria. Heads turned. Whispers followed. But he didn't slow down, didn't care. And she knew better than to protest when her brother looked like this.

He didn't stop when she winced. Didn't stop when she murmured an oww under her breath. Only when they reached a secluded corner did he finally let go.

"Bhai, wh—"

Before the word could even leave her mouth, Vikram turned to her.

His eyes were dark—furious in a way she had never seen before. Not loud. Not explosive. Just cold, steady, and burning all at once.

And somewhere deep inside, she already knew.

This anger was because of her.

"Gauri," he says, voice low.

She swallows. "Bhaiya... kya hua?"

He studies her for a moment, like he's deciding how much to say and how much to keep to himself.

"Tu Zaid se baat karegi," he says at last—not unkind, but final. The kind of firmness that leaves no space to argue. "Abhi."

Her chest tightens instantly. "Bhai, main—" she starts, then stops, shaking her head. "Please. Abhi nahi."

He exhales slowly, clearly holding himself back. "Tumhe lagta hai ignore karne se sab theek ho jaata hai?" he asks quietly. "Because it doesn't."

Her eyes sting, but she keeps her face steady. "You don't understand."

"Shayad," he admits. "But main usse jaanta hoon."
He pauses, jaw tightening. "Zaid kabhi rota nahi hai. He never does. Emotions uske liye aise hote hi nahi—at least not like this."

A slow sigh escapes him.

"And yet," he continues quietly, "barely ek hafta hua hai, aur woh tere chakkar mein itna wrecked ho chuka hai." His eyes lift to her face, sharp and searching. "Do you even see what you're doing to him?"

The question isn't loud.

But it hits harder than anything else.

That lands heavier than anything else.

"He's not angry," Vikram continues, his voice softer now. "He's confused. Hurt. And he keeps thinking he did something wrong."

Gauri's throat tightens painfully. "That wasn't my intention," she whispers.

"I know," Vikram says. "But intentions don't erase impact."

He pauses, then adds more gently, "Aur mujhe pata hai tu dar rahi hai—what would happen if you talk to him, ya agar tujhe sach mein pasand aa gaya toh." His eyes soften, just a little. "Don't worry. Tera bhai hai na. Kuch nahi hoga."

Her breath stutters.

"And haan," he continues, quieter now, "tu ne kal raat usse search kiya tha. Mujhe pata hai. Aur usse bhi." He watches her closely. "That means you care, Gauri."

She freezes.

What—how did they even—

Then her shoulders slump, something tired and resigned settling in her posture. Here we go again.

Silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Finally, Vikram steps aside, clearing the path. "He's outside," he says simply. "Main force nahi kar raha. But he deserves at least one honest sentence."

Gauri closes her eyes briefly.

One sentence.

She doesn't know if she can survive even that.

But when she opens them again, she knows one thing for certain— running away has already cost her more than she expected. And for the first time all day, she steps forward instead of back.

But just then, Aditya—the head boy—comes rushing toward her, expression harried like the building is about to collapse.

"For God's sake, Gauri," he says sharply, already grabbing her wrist, "you have duty in the corridor. Let's go."

She doesn't even get a chance to react. Before she can speak, before she can turn back, she's already being pulled away through the crowd, shoes scraping against the floor as the cafeteria noise swallows her protest.

All she manages is a half-turn.

Vikram is still standing there.

She sees the look on his face, and it stops her cold — disappointment written so clearly that there's no mistaking it for anger or frustration.

This is worse.

She freezes.

Her own brother is disappointed in her.

And in that moment, it finally sinks in how badly she has messed up.

The noise of the cafeteria fades, her chest tightening as the realisation settles deep, heavy and unavoidable.

Now there's only one place her thoughts turn to.

Only Shankar can guide her now.

PLAYGROUND

The playground was loud and uneven, dust rising with every careless step, shouts echoing across the open ground where no one ever really listened to anyone. 

Swings creaked with a tired rhythm, a football thudded against the boundary wall again and again, laughter mixing with arguments until it all became one restless noise. 

Groups sat scattered everywhere—some joking loudly, some fighting over nothing, some simply existing because the bell hadn't rung yet.

Life moved on around them.

The playground never paused.

Zaid stood beside Akshay, who had been trying to make him smile for God knows how long, cracking half-hearted jokes and nudging his shoulder like it might magically fix whatever was breaking him from the inside.

 Just then, Vikram appeared and dropped down beside them, a little too quiet, his jaw tight, eyes distant.

Zaid looked up instantly. He knew Vikram had gone to talk to Gauri. He had felt it in his chest the moment Vikram walked away. 

Somewhere inside him, there was this fragile hope that she would talk to him, even though another part of him hated the idea of anyone forcing her.

 He didn't want to corner her. He didn't want to pressure her. He just needed to know—what had he done wrong? Why had she pulled away like he didn't exist?

Then there were footsteps.

All three of them turned at the same time.

Zoya was walking toward them, her skirt swaying behind her, lunch box tucked under her arm, her expression already sharp like she could sense something was off. 

Vikram froze the second he saw her. His breath hitched, stupid heart betraying him again, reacting the same way it always did, like he hadn't learned a damn thing, like he wasn't tired of being the idiot who felt too much.

Zoya stopped right in front of Zaid, eyes blazing, and he knew immediately it was because of the way he had walked out of the house that morning without saying a word.

 She lifted her hand out of habit to smack his arm, but he caught her wrist before she could, and in the next second he pulled her into a bone-crushing hug.

Zoya froze.

Then she felt it.

His tears soaking through her shirt.

Her anger cracked instantly, replaced by raw concern. "Bhai, kya hua?" her voice broke despite her trying to sound firm. "Kuch toh bolo."

She lifted her head slightly, looking past his shoulder at Akshay and Vikram, silently asking for answers, but all she got was silence and faces that looked just as helpless. 

Her arms tightened around Zaid anyway, rubbing his back slowly, soothingly, the way she always did when words failed. She had never seen her brother like this—so hurt, so broken, like something inside him had finally given up.

"Shh," she whispered softly, pressing her cheek to his head. "It's okay. Main hoon. Sab theek ho jaayega."

And maybe those words did something, because his grip loosened just a little, his head coming to rest against her shoulder, breaths uneven but slowing. Carefully, gently, she guided him back down to sit beside Akshay and Vikram, staying close like she wasn't going anywhere.

Only then did she look at Akshay properly, eyes shining with worry. "Bhaiya," she pleaded quietly, "aap hi kuch bata do."

Akshay took a deep breath, exchanging a look with Vikram that said there's no easy way to say this, and then he started speaking, even as Zaid tried to interrupt, shaking his head, not wanting to drag Zoya into his mess.

But Zoya cut him off instantly, her hand pressing against his arm, firm and unyielding.

"Chup," she said softly but with authority. "Main sunna chahti hoon."

Akshay exhales slowly, like he's been holding this in for far too long, and then he tells her everything—about the silence, about the way Gauri had started pretending Zaid wasn't there, how every ignored glance and unfinished sentence had cut deeper than any outright rejection.

 He tells her how Zaid had only wanted to talk, just once, not to corner her or accuse her, but simply to understand what he had done wrong, why she had suddenly decided he wasn't worth even a conversation.

Zoya freezes.

This isn't the story she was expecting.

She looks at her brother properly now—at the way his shoulders are slumped, at the emptiness in his eyes that she's never seen before. 

Zaid had never been like this. He had never been the kind to feel out loud, never the kind to fall apart over someone, never the kind to let anyone see how deeply something affected him. He used to swallow things whole, lock them away, pretend they didn't matter.

And yet here he was.

So wrecked over her best friend.

Her chest tightens painfully as the realization settles in, heavy and undeniable. This wasn't some stupid crush. This wasn't attraction or passing interest or teenage nonsense that would fade in a week.

She knew it then.

Her brother wasn't just hurting.

He was in serious love with Gauri.

Zoya doesn't speak immediately. She just looks at him—really looks at him—and something in her expression hardens, settles into place like a decision she didn't know she was going to make until this exact moment.

"I'll talk to Gauri," she says. The words land heavy.

Zaid straightens at once, alarm flaring. "Z-Zoya, n-nahi—p-please. D-don't d-do that. I d-don't w-want y-you g-getting d-dragged i-into th-this."

She shakes her head, a small, firm motion. "bhai tu already dragged ho chuka hai," she says quietly. "And you're drowning."

Akshay opens his mouth, then closes it again. Vikram looks away, jaw tight.

Zoya adjusts the lunch box under her arm and stands up. She leans down, presses her forehead briefly against Zaid's, grounding him the way only she can. "Main usse force nahi karungi," she says softer now. "Bas poochungi. Bas sunungi."

Zaid swallows hard. "W-what i-if sh-she d-doesn't... w-want t-to t-talk?"

Zoya straightens, eyes steady. "Phir bhi. At least tum yeh nahi sochoge ki tum galat the." 

Before anything else can be said—

The bell rings. Loud. Shrill. Unforgiving.

The playground erupts into movement—bags slung over shoulders, benches scraping, voices complaining as the bell's echo fades into chaos. Zoya steps back, already being pulled into the stream of students heading towards the building.

Not before she leans in, just enough for him to hear. "She is my best friend, remember," she whispers. "I know her. She would never hurt someone like that, bhai."

And then she's gone.

Zaid watches her disappear into the crowd, her skirt vanishing between uniforms and noise, his chest tight, hands clenched in his lap like that might keep him steady.

For the first time since morning, the ache inside him shifts.

Not gone.
Not healed.

Just... different.

Like maybe—finally—something might be said.

2 PM

Zoya was getting ready to leave the classroom. School had almost ended—the kind of restless end where benches scraped against the floor, zips buzzed open and shut, and everyone suddenly remembered they had a life outside these four walls. She packed her bag like everyone else, mechanically, movements practiced and automatic. It was the end of the day, after all.

And yet—
no one could tell that her chest felt like it was caving in.

She hadn't shown it the entire day. Not once. Not during classes, not during lunch, not when her friends laughed around her. But the memory of Rohan's threat clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake off. Every word he had said replayed in her head, over and over, sharp and cruel.

She trusted Zaid. She trusted his plan. She knew—she had to know—that he wouldn't let anything happen to her dignity.

Still, fear lingered deep inside her bones.

What if the photos Rohan had...
what if they reached people?

Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the strap of her bag.

Just then, Akshara came running toward her, breathless, pushing past students without a care for the annoyed looks thrown her way. A lunch box was tucked under her arm, a small tag dangling from it—Zoya's name written neatly on it.

Akshara didn't slow down. She didn't apologize. She weaved through the crowd with quiet determination, clutching the tiffin like it was something precious. There was a satisfied smile tugging at her lips, one she clearly tried—and failed—to hide.

She finally stopped right in front of Zoya, grinning widely, her perfect teeth on full display. As if this were some grand secret, she paused dramatically. Then, with a flourish, she pulled out the tiffin and held it up.

Zoya blinked.

Inside—
butter chicken and naan.

Her favourite.

Her comfort food. The one thing that had always made bad days feel survivable. The dish she loved more than anything.

And right now—when all she wanted to do was scream, cry, disappear—this was exactly what she needed.

Her throat tightened.

But confusion quickly followed.

She looked up at Akshara, frowning slightly.
"Akshu... who sent this?"

For just a second, Akshara's smile faltered. Just a second too long. She cursed herself inwardly—no, not now. Zoya couldn't know.

"Uh... tere ghar se aaye hain, yaar," she said casually, waving it off.

Zoya nodded, not suspecting a thing. They settled down on a nearby bench. Zoya barely waited before tearing the plastic container open. She didn't bother being neat. She didn't bother pretending she was okay.

She took a bite—then another—shoving the naan into her mouth as tears began to stream down her face.

Akshara froze.

Before she could say anything, Zoya spoke through mouthfuls of food, her voice cracking, broken.
"I just... I can't hold it anymore, Akshu. I'm so scared."
Her hands shook. "What if Rohan actually does it? What if he sends those photos online?"

Her voice dissolved into sobs. She choked—not just on the food, but on the fear.

Akshara immediately sat beside her, alarmed, patting her back gently, firmly.
"Zoya, tu chinta mat kar, okay?" she said softly but with conviction. "We're all in this. We're going to get that bastard."

Zoya nodded, the reminder of their plan—the one they'd made in the library yesterday—flashing briefly through her mind.

She ate more. Faster. Rougher. Almost desperately, like she was trying to fill the hollow ache inside her. Tears continued to fall into the food, her hands trembling as she kept shoving bite after bite into her mouth.

It was stress eating. She knew it.
But she didn't stop.

Not even a little.

From not too far away, half-hidden in the shadow of the corridor, Vikram watched.

He shouldn't have been there. He knew that. He had only wanted to see the happiness on her face when she tasted the butter chicken—but watching her break down like this shattered him too.

 But his feet had carried him anyway, as if some part of him already sensed what he would see.

And when he saw her cry, something inside him broke.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was the quiet, devastating kind of pain—the kind that hollowed him out from the inside. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. He had faced worse things in life. Pain, failure, humiliation. He had lived through days when cricket had been taken away from him, when everything he loved felt just out of reach.

He could survive all of that.

But this—
this was unbearable.

Seeing her like this, shoulders trembling, trying to hold herself together while her world quietly fell apart... it made him feel useless. Powerless. Like no matter how strong he was, he had still failed her somehow.

His hand pressed against the wall beside him, fingers curling, nails biting into concrete as if the ache in his palm could anchor him. His jaw tightened, eyes burning—not just with rage, but with something worse.

Guilt.

Because she was hurting. And he was still standing there, doing nothing.

Every instinct in him screamed to move, to go to her, to wipe her tears away, to make sure she never cried like this again. Another part of him wanted something darker—to find Rohan and end it all in one reckless moment.

But he stayed still.

He had to.

Just a little longer.

Because when he finally moved—when the waiting was over—no one would be able to save Rohan from the wrath of a man who would burn the world down for the woman he loved.

And this time, he wouldn't look away.

4 PM

Four in the evening carried a strange, suffocating stillness with it, the kind that didn't feel peaceful but waiting, as if the day itself had paused to watch something terrible unfold. 

The sun was no longer cruel or sharp, only exhausted, slanting weakly through the half-open windows, laying long tired shadows across the floor like they too were done standing upright. 

It was that hour where time slowed down on purpose, where the noise of the day dulled, but the heaviness—woh bojh—refused to leave.

Zaid stood in his room, finally getting ready, movements mechanical, almost detached, like his body was working on instructions his mind had stopped processing a while ago. 

He had already talked to Vikram and Akshay—short calls, clipped voices, plans exchanged in low tones—about how they would work together and deal with that bastard Rohan who had dared to touch his sister's life like it was something disposable.

Hurt her.

Hurt her dignity.

The thought burned, sharp and acidic, but he swallowed it down, jaw tightening until it hurt, because if he let himself feel it fully right now, he knew he would lose control, and losing control was a luxury he couldn't afford today.

He fastened the watch around his wrist, fingers trembling just a little, and glanced at it—4:02 PM.

Almost time.

Zoya had already left.

Already walked out of the house to meet that bastard, holding herself together for everyone else, while he stood here pretending his chest wasn't collapsing in on itself. He had fixed the mic carefully onto her top earlier—one he'd taken quietly from his father's bag—hands shaking as he adjusted it, murmuring, "Bas thoda sa, Zoya... haan, theek hai," even as his throat closed up, knowing every sound she made would now echo straight into his ears.

In case something went wrong.

In case he went wrong.

He walked down the stairs slowly, footsteps heavy but silent, his face unreadable, expression carved into something numb and distant, because right now—right now—he couldn't afford to deal with his emotions. Not the rage clawing at his ribs, not the fear that sat like a stone in his stomach, not the scream lodged in his throat begging to be let out.

He had to save his sister.

Everything else could wait.

Even though all he wanted was to scream, to break something, to demand why this was happening to them, to her.

Downstairs, Aisha stood up abruptly the moment she saw him, worry written deep into her tired eyes, the kind only a mother carried, the kind that never really left.
"Zaid beta," she said softly but urgently, "kuch toh khalo. Na nashta kiya, na khaana... kya ho raha hai tumhare saath?"

She crossed the distance quickly, reaching out to place her palm against his forehead, checking for fever, for illness, for anything she could fix with her hands. He caught her wrist gently before she could, holding it there for a moment longer than necessary, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin, before pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"I—I am f-fine, Ammi," he said, the stutter slipping out despite himself, voice low and strained. "M-maine school mein... z-zyada kha liya tha."

He forced himself to breathe, forced the next lie past his lips.
"M-main V-Vikram a-aur A-Akshay s-se m-milne j-ja r-raha h-hoon. B-bas... th-thodi d-der m-mein a-aa j-jaunga. A-ap f-fikr m-mat k-kijiye."

He pressed another kiss to her knuckles, softer this time, as if apologising without words, and gently let her hand go.

He hated lying to his mother.

He had never done it before—not really. Whatever trouble he got into, whether it was bunking classes, sneaking out late, or doing something stupid and mischievous, he had always come back and confessed, always sat in front of her with his head lowered, waiting for the disappointment he believed he deserved.

But today was different.

She was already hurting, already watching cracks form in the family she held together with prayers and silent endurance, and he couldn't be the one to add to that weight. Not now. Not when everything felt so fragile.

So without another word, he turned and walked out.

Leaving behind a mother standing in the doorway, watching her son's back disappear, watching her home feel a little emptier, a little more broken, piece by piece—chup chaap, with no sound at all.

The park felt wrong at that hour.

It wasn't the time.
But to someone it did.

Too quiet. Too open. Too exposed—
like the world had stepped back just enough to watch something ugly unfold.

Zoya knew why he had called her here.

The park was small, forgotten—one of those places people passed by without ever stopping. The roads around it were empty too, stretching out in every direction, eerily still. No voices. No footsteps. Nothing.

That was exactly what Rohan wanted.

And that realization—
more than his name, more than his presence— scared her more than anything.

The trees barely moved, leaves hanging still in the thick afternoon air, the sun dipping low but not low enough to offer comfort, its light pale and tired as it spilled across the cracked pathways.

Zoya slowed at the entrance, her steps faltering despite herself.

Her heart was pounding so violently she could feel it in her throat, in her wrists, in the hollow behind her ears, every beat whispering don't, don't, don't—but she pushed past it, fingers tightening around her bag strap like it was the only thing anchoring her to the ground.

She told herself to breathe.

She told herself she wasn't weak.

And then she saw him.

Rohan stood near the children's slide, leaning against the railing with infuriating ease, one foot crossed over the other, head bent slightly as he scrolled through his phone like he was killing time. The moment he sensed her presence, he looked up—and smiled.

Not warm.

Not amused.

Smug.

The kind of smile that knew it had already won. "Well," he drawled, straightening slowly, eyes dragging over her face. "You actually came."

Zoya stopped a few steps away from him, putting distance between them on instinct, arms folding around herself as if she could hold herself together by force alone.

The sight of him made her skin crawl—every nerve tightening, every breath turning careful.

"Tumne b-bulaya," she said, voice unsteady but still audible. "Ab jo kehna hai... keh do."

He chuckled softly, eyes flicking down to his phone before lifting it just enough for her to see the screen.

The paused video.

Her breath left her lungs in a sharp, broken gasp.

For a second, everything tilted—the park, the sky, the ground beneath her feet—and she had to dig her nails into her palm to stop herself from collapsing.

"Relax," he said lightly, noticing her reaction and enjoying it far too much. "Aise mat dekho jaise maine tumhara qatl kar diya ho. It's just a video."

"Just?" Her voice cracked despite her effort to stay composed. "T-tumhe andaza bhi hai... yeh kya hai?"

"Oh, mujhe poora andaza hai," he replied calmly, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "Isliye toh sambhaal ke rakha hai."

She swallowed hard, eyes stinging. She had never felt so helpless in her entire life. "Please," she whispered, the word tearing itself out of her chest.

He raised the phone again, thumb hovering dangerously close to the screen."Let's make this simple," he continued, tone almost bored. "Tum meri baat maano. Jo main bolun—tum karogi. Calls uthana, messages ka reply, milna jab main bolun. Bas."

Her stomach dropped. "A-agar m-main na karoon?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled wider. "Toh phir tum jaanti ho kya hoga." He tilted the phone toward her again. "Ek click. Phir ek aur. Aur phir tumhari izzat... tumhari shakal... tumhara naam—sab jagah."

She imagined it all—everything turning against her.

A video.
Going viral.

She could already see the shame it would drag through her family's name. Her father's years of hard-earned respect reduced to whispers and looks that lingered too long. Her mother—soft, fragile—breaking under a weight she never deserved to carry.

They would call her haram.

No.

She couldn't let that happen. 

Her vision blurred, tears spilling despite her fight against them. "Tum aisa nahi kar sakte," she said, shaking her head slowly. "Tumhe koi haq nahi hai—"

"Haq?" he interrupted, eyes hardening. "Jab yeh video bana, tab bhi toh kisi haq ki baat nahi ki thi, na?"

She flinched like she'd been slapped. "My bh-bhai—" she began, desperation creeping in, "woh tumhe—"

"Tumhara bhai kya karega?" Rohan snapped, stepping closer now, invading her space deliberately. "Gunda hai kya? Police bulayega? Tum jaanti ho na, ek baar cheez internet pe chali gayi... phir koi nahi rok sakta."

He leaned in, voice low, poisonous.
"Soch lo, Zoya. Izzat bachani hai... ya hero banna hai?"

She stood there, trembling, tears sliding down her cheeks silently, heart screaming for help—but she didn't fall apart. She didn't beg again.

She just looked at him, shattered and terrified, yes—but still standing.

And that—that—was the mistake Rohan didn't even realise he was making.

Because every word he spoke was being heard.

And somewhere, a brother was already on his way. Or maybe she thought so.

He straightened slowly, slipping the phone into his palm like it belonged there, like it had always been his, his gaze locking onto her face with a patience that made her skin crawl. "So," he said at last, tone almost conversational, "yeh deal hai."

Her chest rose and fell unevenly.
"K-kaunsi... deal?" she asked, even though every part of her already knew.

He smiled again, lazy and deliberate.
"Tum meri girlfriend banogi."

The words landed heavy, filthy.

Zoya stared at him, shock freezing her in place for a second too long.
"W-what?" Her voice came out broken. "T-tum pagal ho gaye ho?"

"Shhh," he murmured, lifting a finger mockingly. "Itna shock mat dikhao. It actually suits you better jab tum chup hoti ho."

She took an instinctive step back, disgust flooding her face.
"Nahi," she said immediately, shaking her head hard. "Yeh kabhi nahi ho sakta. Tum jo keh rahe ho woh—woh ghinona hai."

His expression didn't change. Didn't crack. Instead, he pulled his phone out again, unlocked it with one smooth motion, and turned the screen toward her just enough.

Paused.

Waiting.

"Phir toh problem hai," he said mildly. "Because agar tum meri girlfriend nahi bani... toh yeh video—" he shrugged, casual as anything, "—viral ho jayega."

Her knees almost gave out. "T-tum mujhe force nahi kar sakte," she whispered, voice shaking violently now. "Yeh crime hai. Blackmail hai."

"Sab cheezein crime hoti hain jab pakde jaate hain," he replied coolly. "Aur mujhe pakadne ke liye tumhe bolna padega, na? Aur agar tum bologi..." his eyes flicked meaningfully to the phone, "...tum khud jaanti ho log kya bolenge."

Her throat closed. 

"Log tumse sawaal karenge, Zoya," he continued softly, enjoying every second of it. "Video asli hai ya fake, tumne bheji ya kisi ne zabardasti li—par end mein ungli tum par hi uthegi. Tumhara ghar, tumhara school, tumhari Ammi..."

He paused deliberately.

"Tumhare Bhai."

That did it.

Her breath hitched, a sob tearing its way out before she could stop it.
"B-bas," she pleaded, tears spilling freely now. "Meri family ko isme mat laao. Please."

He tilted his head, studying her like a problem he had already solved.
"Toh phir simple hai," he said. "Tum meri ho jaogi. Publicly. Officially. Instagram story, couple photos, saath ghoomna—sab kuch."

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "M-main tumse pyaar nahi karti," she said hoarsely. "Kabhi nahi kar sakti."

He laughed quietly.
"Pyaar kaun maang raha hai?" he said. "Bas saath rehna hai. Smile karna hai. Baaki sab main handle kar lunga."

She shook her head again and again, tears blurring her vision.
"Tum mujhe khatam kar doge," she whispered.

He leaned in close enough that she could smell his cologne, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her.
"Tum pehle se hi aadhi khatam ho, Zoya," he said coldly. "Main bas decide kar raha hoon... kitna."

Silence fell between them, thick and suffocating. Somewhere deep inside her bag, the mic caught every word.

And somewhere else, Zaid heard everything—the deal, the threat, the way her voice broke.

Rohan stepped back, straightening his shirt like this was just another normal conversation.

"Soch lo," he said casually. "Tumhare paas zyada time nahi hai. Kal tak haan chahiye mujhe."

He turned away then, already confident, already certain.

He didn't see the way Zoya's tears slowed.nDidn't notice the way her fear sharpened into something else.

And he didn't know—
that the clock had already started ticking.

Somewhere, a woman was being manipulated. Cornered. Forced toward something she never chose.

Just like that, a woman was made to feel small—
made to believe she had no way out,
all because a phone now held her dignity hostage.

And when it came out—
society would look at her,
not at the man who had always carried the rot in his intentions.

Zoya heard footsteps before she understood what they meant.

Not rushed.
Not hesitant.

Heavy. Purposeful.
Like someone who had already crossed the point of thinking.

Rohan was still talking, still standing there with that vile calm on his face, phone loose in his hand, words spilling poison like he had all the time in the world.

"Soch lo," he was saying, voice lazy, cruel. "Girlfriend banna koi badi baat nahi hai. Warna—"

He never finished the sentence.

Because Vikram had stopped a few steps behind him.

The sound came first.

A dull, sickening thud as Rohan's head hit the rough bark of the tree, hard enough to knock the breath clean out of him, hard enough that the smugness didn't even get the chance to fade properly—it was just gone, replaced by a sharp, broken gasp.

Zoya gasped too, a small, fractured sound torn straight out of her chest, tears blurring her vision as she stumbled back a step, heart slamming violently against her ribs. Her hands flew to her mouth on instinct, her body shaking, her mind struggling to catch up with what her eyes were seeing.

He had taken in the scene in one look—the way Zoya stood frozen, shoulders caved inward, tears streaking her face but her spine still forced straight; the way Rohan stood too close, too confident; the phone in his hand, tilted just enough to know what kind of power he thought he had.

And something in Vikram snapped.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Quietly. Completely.

For a second, he didn't move. His chest felt tight, like the air had been sucked out of it, like he was suddenly standing inside someone else's nightmare. He had known she was scared. He had known she was in trouble.

But seeing it—seeing her like this—did something vicious to him.

His jaw clenched.
His hands curled slowly into fists.

Rohan turned, irritation already on his face, ready to snap at whoever had interrupted—

And then Vikram's arm came around his collar, violent and sudden, dragging him back with a force that slammed his head into the tree hard enough to make the leaves above them shake.

The sound was ugly.

Zoya gasped, a broken sound tearing out of her as she stumbled back, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.

Vikram didn't look at her.

He couldn't.

If he did, he knew he'd lose control completely.

Instead, he held Rohan there, forehead pressed to bark, voice low and shaking, every word dragged up from somewhere dark and furious inside him.

"You stood here," he said, teeth clenched, "and you thought you could break her."

His fist drove into Rohan's face.

"You stood here and decided her fear was yours to use."

Another punch.

"You took something private—"

Punch.

"—and turned it into a weapon—"

Punch.

Rohan cried out, the sound panicked and wet, but Vikram didn't let go.

"You looked at her shaking," he continued, breath ragged now, anger bleeding through every syllable, "and you still kept talking."

Punch.

"You still smiled."

Punch.

"You still thought you were untouchable."

Blood smeared across Vikram's knuckles, warm and real, grounding him in the moment, but it didn't slow him down.

He grabbed the phone from Rohan's hand mid-struggle and shoved it up near his face.  He unlocked it with Rohan's trembling finger.

Deleted the video.

Deleted the backups.

Once.

Twice.

Until there was nothing left.

He flung the phone away.
It hit the floor with a sharp crack—the screen splintering, but still faintly alive.

That did it.

He stepped forward and brought his shoe down on it. Once. Then again.
Glass shattered completely, the screen going dark at last.

Whatever little hope had been left in it—
he crushed that too.

"You think this makes you powerful?" he said hoarsely.

Punch.

"You think blackmailing a woman makes you a man?"

Punch.

"You think threatening her dignity gives you control?"

Punch.

Rohan sagged, knees buckling, breath coming out in sobs now, terror finally carving through him.

Vikram slammed him back once more, voice dropping, dangerous and final.

"You don't scare women because you're strong," he said. "You scare them because you're nothing without their silence."

He hit him one last time, sending Rohan collapsing onto the dirt, broken and gasping.

Only then did Vikram step back.

His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking—not with regret, not with doubt—but with the effort it took to stop.

He turned finally.

Looked at Zoya.

And the moment their eyes met, everything in him shifted. The rage didn't disappear, but it bent inward, making room for something heavier—guilt, protectiveness, a quiet ache that he hadn't been able to name before.

"I'm sorry," he said roughly. "You shouldn't have had to hear any of that."

Zoya's knees gave way then, her strength finally collapsing now that she wasn't alone, sobs breaking free as the park stood witness to the moment fear loosened its grip.

And Vikram stayed right there.

Not as a hero.

Not as her brother.

Just as someone who saw her hurt—and refused to walk away.

From the corner of the park, two figures finally moved.

Akshay saw it first—the way Vikram's shoulders were rising and falling too fast, the way his stance hadn't loosened even after Rohan had crumpled to the ground, the way rage had settled into him like something that no longer needed fuel. His stomach dropped.

Beside him, Zaid froze.

For half a second, his mind refused to process what his eyes were seeing.

Vikram.

Blood on his knuckles.
Blood on Rohan's face.
That expression—empty, burning, terrifyingly focused.

Zaid had known Vikram for years. He had seen him angry, irritated, annoyed, even reckless. But this—this was something else entirely. This wasn't temper. This was fury born from witnessing something unforgivable.

And Rohan moved.

Just a twitch, barely there, a broken groan escaping his mouth.

That was enough.

Vikram stepped forward again, fist tightening, knuckles cracking as he dragged Rohan up by the front of his shirt like dead weight, rage surging back to the surface with renewed violence.

Zaid didn't think.

He ran.

"V-Vikram—  his voice broke as he grabbed Vikram's arm from behind, fingers digging in hard, desperate.''V-Vikram r-ruk j-ja, p-please."

Vikram didn't even turn.

His arm jerked violently, trying to free itself, breath coming out in harsh bursts like he was drowning.

"He's not done," Vikram growled, voice low, dangerous. "He's still breathing."

Akshay reached them a second later, wrapping his arms around Vikram's shoulders from the side, putting his full weight into it.

"Bhai, bas," Akshay said urgently, voice shaking despite himself. "It's over. He's done. Tu usse maar dega."

Vikram struggled against them, not wildly—but with a frightening strength, muscles locked, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.

"You didn't hear him," Vikram said through his teeth, eyes still fixed on Rohan. "You didn't hear what he said to her."

Zaid swallowed hard, tightening his grip, chest aching, eyes burning.

"I-I h-heard," he whispered hoarsely. "M-mic p-pe s-sab s-suna m-maine."

That stopped him.

Not completely.

But enough.

Vikram's body stiffened, breath hitching for just a fraction of a second.

Zaid stepped closer, voice low now, pleading—not commanding."S-sh-she's s-safe," he said. "T-tu ne u-ussegl b-bacha liya. A-ab b-bas... p-please."

Akshay whispered in his ear leaning close"Tu agar abhi nahi ruka," he said quietly, "toh hum sab kuch kho denge. Aur woh—" he nodded slightly toward Zoya, still shaking, still barely holding herself together, "—woh yeh apni zindagi bhar dekhegi."

Vikram's fists trembled. For a moment, it looked like he might tear himself free anyway, like nothing would reach him, like this would end only when Rohan stopped moving altogether.

Then his gaze shifted.

Just slightly.

And landed on Zoya.

Gauri reached her first. She didn't say a word, didn't ask anything, didn't wait for permission—she just pulled Zoya into her arms with a force that startled her, fingers digging into her back, holding her like if she loosened her grip even a little, Zoya might slip right through her hands.

Akshara followed immediately, wrapping her arms around both of them, pressing her cheek against Zoya's hair, hugging her so tightly it almost hurt.

Almost.

But none of them cared.

Zoya's breath hitched, a broken sound escaping her throat before she could stop it, and then she was crying properly—no longer silently, no longer trying to stay strong—her body shaking as everything she had been holding back finally collapsed under the weight of their arms around her.

Gauri's hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her hair, protective, grounding.
"Bas," she murmured softly, voice thick. "Bas, Zoya. Ab khatam ho gaya."

Akshara's grip tightened instead of loosening, like she was daring the world to try and touch her again.
"Tu akeli nahi hai," she said fiercely, almost angrily. "Kabhi bhi nahi thi."

Zoya clutched at their clothes, knuckles white, like they were the only solid things left in a world that had nearly swallowed her whole. Her sobs came hard now, ugly and uncontrollable, her chest aching with every breath, tears soaking into their shoulders.

"I—I th-thought—" she tried to speak, but the words tangled and broke apart, fear still lodged deep in her voice.

Gauri pressed her forehead to Zoya's temple.
"Shhh," she whispered. "Kuch mat bol. Aaj bolna zaroori nahi hai."

Akshara nodded, eyes burning, jaw clenched. She looked past Zoya for a second—at Rohan lying unconscious on the ground, at the blood, at Vikram standing a little distance away with Zaid and Akshay—but her arms didn't loosen.

Not even for a heartbeat.

"She didn't deserve any of it," Akshara said quietly, anger trembling beneath her words. "Not the fear. Not the threats. Not the shame he tried to put on her."

Gauri swallowed hard.
"She survived something no one should have to," she said. "Aur woh sirf isliye kyunki woh strong hai... chahe use khud na lage."

Zoya's crying softened into quiet, shuddering breaths, her body still trembling but no longer collapsing inward, their warmth holding her upright when her own strength had run out.

They stayed like that.

Too long.
Not long enough.

Three bestfriends standing in the middle of a silent park, clinging to each other without caring who saw, without caring how it looked, because right now all that mattered was this—

That Zoya was not alone.

That whatever nightmare she had walked through, she hadn't come out the other side by herself.

And this time, the world would have to try a lot harder to break her.

Vikram's grip loosened.

Not all at once—slowly, painfully, like letting go hurt more than holding on.

Rohan slipped from his hands and collapsed fully onto the ground, unconscious now, chest barely rising.

Vikram staggered back a step.

Then another.

Akshay didn't let go immediately, just in case. Zaid stayed close, one hand still fisted in Vikram's sleeve, like if he released him even now, everything might start again.

Vikram dragged a hand down his face, smearing blood across his skin, his breathing uneven, chest aching like it was caving in.

"I didn't plan this," he said finally, voice rough, almost unrecognisable. "I swear... I didn't."

Zaid nodded, throat tight.

"I-I k-know,"he said softly."B-but y-you c-came. Th-that's w-what m-matters."

Vikram let out a shaky breath, eyes lifting again to Zoya.

And for the first time since he'd arrived—

The rage finally cracked.

What replaced it wasn't relief.

It was the weight of realising exactly how close he'd come to losing himself... and how far he'd gone because someone had dared to hurt her.

The park stood silent around them.

And nothing about any of them would ever be the same after this.

Zaid stood in the corner, rigid. Waiting.

They had a plan.
They would move in soon and deal with the bastard.

They had been behind the tree from the moment those disgusting words started pouring through the mic, every syllable clawing at his restraint. And Zaid held himself together with everything he had left inside him.

All he wanted—
was to end him.
Right there. Right then.

But he had to wait.

Akshay and Vikram stood beside him, silent, tense.

And then—
it happened in an instant.

Vikram snapped.

Not like this.
Not for her.

He couldn't watch her cry because of that fucker and stand there pretending patience was bravery. He couldn't be a coward while she was breaking apart.

He wouldn't.

In his culture, women were goddesses—
not things to be threatened, humiliated, or held hostage by filth like him.

And Vikram would make damn sure the bastard understood that.

 Zaid didn't care.Not about the plan falling apart, not about how nothing had gone the way it was supposed to, not about the fact that this wasn't how he had imagined protecting his sister. None of that mattered anymore.

What mattered was this—

Vikram had shown up.

When it counted.
When it was ugly.
When it was dangerous.

Zaid's arm stayed wrapped firmly around Vikram's shoulders, holding him back not like someone stopping a fight, but like someone anchoring a man who had gone too far because he cared too deeply. Vikram's body was still tense, eyes locked onto Rohan lying unmoving on the ground, fury simmering beneath his skin, not gone—just contained.

Zaid didn't pull away.

He tightened his hold instead.

For once, he let himself feel it fully—the relief, the pride, the gratitude so heavy it made his chest ache.

"I—I'm p-proud of y-you," he said quietly, voice low so only Vikram could hear. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just true.
"Y-you s-saved h-her."

Akshay joined them without a word, slipping an arm around Vikram from the other side, pulling both of them closer, the three of them standing like a wall without even meaning to. His grip was firm, steady, like he knew Vikram needed pressure, needed weight to remind him he was here, that this was over.

Vikram's breathing slowly began to even out.

The shaking in his hands dulled.

The touch grounded him in a way words never could.

He swallowed hard, jaw unclenching inch by inch, and then—almost without meaning to—his gaze shifted.

To the bench.

Gauri and Akshara still had Zoya boxed in between them, arms thrown around her like they were daring the world to try again. And then, unexpectedly, Zoya laughed.

A small sound.
A broken one.
But real.

She wiped at her face, nose scrunched, eyes still swollen with tears, and said something that made Gauri roll her eyes dramatically and Akshara nudge her shoulder. And Zoya giggled again—softer this time, but freer.

Alive.

Vikram felt something in his chest loosen.

His lips twitched before he could stop them.

He was smiling.

Not because of what he had done.
Not because Rohan lay broken on the ground.

But because she was laughing.

Because the fear had left her eyes.

Because she was safe enough to be silly again, even for a moment.

The rage finally drained out of him then, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary exhaustion, but also something quieter—something like peace.

The danger was gone.

She was happy.

And standing there, held up by the two people who refused to let him fall, Vikram realised that was all he had ever needed.

Nothing else mattered.

Somewhere in the chaos, Zaid failed to see the truth.
This wasn't just protection.
Vikram hadn't stepped in simply because Zoya was his sister—
he had stepped in because he loved her more than his own life.

AT NIGHT - 9 PM

Zaid stood by the window long after the cigarette had burned down too close to his fingers, smoke curling lazily around his face, stinging his eyes, settling into his lungs, but he didn't move. He barely noticed. He had been smoking too much these days—he knew that—but caring required energy, and right now he didn't have any left to spare.

The city outside looked distant, blurred, like it belonged to someone else's life.

Everything was well now.
Zoya was free from Rohan—free from that bastard.
Vikram had saved them all today, had taught that fucker a lesson he wouldn't forget.

He knew his sister would sleep peacefully tonight.

And yet, once again, he found himself lost.

All he could think was her.

How everything inside him seemed to quiet down only when she existed somewhere near him, how the ache in his chest only ever eased at the thought of her voice, her presence, her forgiveness. And she hadn't spoken to him. Hadn't looked at him. Hadn't given him anything to hold on to.

It was eating him alive.

He sighed heavily, finally turning away from the window, shoulders slumping like he had been holding himself upright by force alone. That's when his eyes fell on the bed.

The note.

Folded.
Crumpled at the edges.
Waiting.

He remembered Zoya handing it to him earlier, quiet, careful, telling him it was from Gauri. He had nodded, slipped it into his pocket, told himself he'd read it later.

Later had taken everything he had.

Because reading it meant knowing.
And knowing scared him more than silence ever could.

What if it was distance put into words?
What if it was closure dressed politely?
What if this was the moment he finally lost her for good?

His chest tightened.

But he couldn't not read it.

With slow, almost hesitant fingers, he picked the note up, smoothing it out as if being gentle with the paper might soften whatever waited for him inside. His eyes scanned the words once—too fast—then again, slower, the meaning sinking in properly this time.

Mujhe maaf kardijiye.

His breath caught.

I had no idea I had hurt you so much.

Something inside him cracked quietly.

Please don't blame yourself, Zaid.

He swallowed hard.

Aap bohot ache insaan hai.

Ache.

The word hit him harder than anger ever could.

He froze completely, the room fading into the background, his mind stuck on that single word, turning it over again and again like it might change if he looked too closely.

She thought he was good.

Not reckless.
Not selfish.
Not someone who ruined things just by caring too much.

Good.

His eyes burned, but he didn't cry. He just stood there, stunned, like someone had reached into his chest and loosened a knot he hadn't realised was choking him.

I won't ignore you anymore... maybe forgive me... we can talk tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

His gaze lifted slowly, unfocused, like he was seeing the word written somewhere far away.

She wasn't shutting the door.

She was opening it—just a little.

Zaid let out a soft, shaky breath, the kind you release only when you realise you've been holding it for far too long. His shoulders sagged as the tension finally drained out of them, and before he could stop it, a smile crept onto his lips.

Not wide.
Not loud.

Real.

The kind that settled in his chest first and then reached his face, unguarded and almost disbelieving.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the note in his hands like it might disappear if he looked away. Then carefully—so carefully—he folded it back the way it had been and placed it beside him.

Like something sacred.

He crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray without another glance and leaned back, eyes closing for a moment.

She thought he was a good man.

And for tonight—just tonight—that was enough to make the world feel a little less heavy.

Tomorrow, they would talk.

Tomorrow, maybe, he'd hear her say his name again.

And for the first time in days, Zaid let himself sit in that fragile, dangerous thing—

Hope.

Zaid stared at the note for another second like his brain still hadn't caught up with what his heart already knew.

Then it hit him.

All at once.

Like a wave he hadn't braced for.

He let out a sound—half laugh, half broken breath—that escaped before he could stop it, hand flying up to cover his mouth as if the walls might hear him. His chest felt too tight, too full, like something was about to burst open inside him.

"Sh-she... she said tomorrow." he whispered to the empty room, voice cracking, eyes shining. "Sh-she said... w-we'll talk."

And that was it.

The dam broke.

He laughed again, louder this time, disbelief turning into something dangerously close to joy, and suddenly he was moving, pacing the room like he didn't know where to put all this energy, all this relief flooding his veins. He dragged a hand through his hair, breath coming fast, a stupid grin stretching his face.

"A-a-acha..." he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "U-uh... unhone mujhe... acha bola."

Before he realised what he was doing, he jumped.

Literally jumped—off the floor, feet leaving the ground, a sharp laugh tearing out of him as he landed and did it again, like a kid who'd just been told school was cancelled. He spun once in the middle of the room, arms flung out, almost breathless.

"A-All—Allah—" he breathed, laughing now, a little hysterical, eyes stinging. "Allah... shukr hai."

He almost screamed.

The sound clawed its way up his throat, joy so loud inside him it demanded to be let out, and he had to bite down hard on his knuckle to keep from actually doing it. Instead, he laughed again, wide and unrestrained, head tipping back as he stared at the ceiling like the answer had been written there all along.

He grabbed the note again, pressed it briefly to his chest, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise his ribs.

Tomorrow.

She wasn't gone.
She wasn't angry.
She hadn't shut him out.

He wasn't the villain he had convinced himself he was.

Zaid dropped back onto the bed, bouncing once, twice, still laughing softly under his breath, hands covering his face as if he needed to hide this ridiculous, overwhelming happiness from himself.

For the first time in days, the heaviness was gone.

The guilt loosened its grip.
The fear stepped back.

And lying there, staring up at the ceiling with a smile he couldn't wipe away even if he tried, Zaid let himself feel it fully—

The joy.
The relief.
The stupid, beautiful hope.

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

And just like that, a boy found his smile again—all because of a woman who held his heart in ways she didn't even know. A simple note from her had lit up his world, and this—this was only the beginning.

And just like that, his smile returned,
A spark from her, though she never learned.
A woman who held him without a key,
Yet unlocked a world of joy silently.

A note so small, yet vast as the sea,
It lit his heart, set his spirit free.
And this was just the opening scene,
Of a story of love, quiet yet serene.

 ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess