One moment she walks past me
like I’m a stranger she never learned to name,
eyes unreadable, silence loud enough
to bruise my chest.

And the next—
she’s standing in front of her father,
taking every word meant for me,
shielding me with a steadiness
I didn’t know I deserved.

Ya Allah,
she is more difficult than trigonometry—
at least numbers confess what they want,
at least equations come with answers.

She is a mystery,
all sharp turns and sudden warmth,
all distance and devotion tangled together.

And yet—
the way she made me feel like I matter,
like my existence holds weight in her world…

I think I love her
a little more
than I ever meant to.

- Zaid

(ALIGANJ, LUCKNOW)

IQBAL RESIDENCE

The house wore its usual demeanor—the chirping of birds slipping in through the open window, the soft sizzle of an omelette rising from the kitchen, the faint, familiar tinkling of bangles as the lady of the house moved from one corner to another. Everything sounded the same, looked the same.
And yet, the warmth was missing.
Somewhere between the ordinary noises, a cold had settled—quiet, unmoving, unmistakable.

Zaid sat at the dining table, waiting for nashta to be served. There had been a lightness in him this morning, fragile but real. He had felt... happy. Today he would get to talk to her, and maybe—just maybe—talking would stitch together a part of him that had been bleeding quietly for too long.

The smile on his lips vanished the moment his father, Imam, pulled the chair beside him and sat down.

At this point, Zaid hated the sight of this man in the house. His presence felt heavy, suffocating, like the air itself thickened around him. As if breathing became a conscious effort whenever Imam was near.

All his life, this man—this Abba—had spoken of loyalty. Of farz. Of how Allah watched everything, every intention, every misstep.
And yet, he had still managed to hurt their family. Had still shattered something sacred between them.

"Zaid bache—"

He didn't let him finish.
No, he didn't.

He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and spoke over his shoulder—not to his father, not even looking at him—but toward the kitchen. Toward his Ammi. The only person who still felt solid, real.

"Ammi... main jaa raha hoon. Mujhe... mujhe bhook nahi hai."

And it was true.
He wasn't hungry anymore.
Not after hearing bache said so softly by a man who had done everything wrong and still dared to sound gentle, as if nothing had changed, as if nothing had been broken.

The entire family froze.

His words were cold, sharp, unwavering—like he had already made up his mind, like there was no turning back from this.

And it broke Imam further.

To see his son refuse to even face him, to turn away as if the sight of him hurt too much, burned too deeply.

Amna stood up at once, Zain perched against her shoulder, her voice low but firm, the way it had always been in this house.

"Zaid bache... bado se aise muh nahi pherte."

Because it was true.
In this house, this was not how things were done.
Not like this.
This was disrespect.

Zaid paused. Just for a moment. When he spoke again, the words came broken, uneven, like they were clawing their way out of his chest.

"A-aur agar... agar woh bade... w-woh j-jhoothe niklein toh,  Badi Ammi?"
"Toh phir... phir kya karein...?"

Absolute silence.

No one moved. No one breathed.

And in that moment, Imam felt something inside him split apart in a way it never had before.

A liar.

From his own son.

Zoya gasped, her eyes widening as she watched her brother say something so cruel, so final. She had known something was wrong—but not this. Never this. She rushed to her father's side, gripping his arm tightly.

"Abba... woh aisa nahi kehna chahta."

Imam looked at his daughter, and something in his chest softened, just a little. At least she hadn't turned away. At least she still stood beside him.

He smiled faintly, patting her hand.

"Main theek hoon, meri bachi."

The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
He wasn't okay.
He never would be.

Not after hearing that from his own son.

Some breaks don't heal. They stay, lodged deep, a quiet ache that never leaves.

Even Aisha froze in the kitchen. No matter what had happened, no matter how complicated things were, she couldn't watch her family fall apart like this.

It was too much.

She stepped out slowly, hands trembling, her voice firm—but shaking the moment her eyes landed on Imam's broken face.

"Zaid... yeh tareeqa nahi hota apne Abba se baat karne ka."

And for the first time, even her strength faltered.

Then there it was—the ringing of the bell, sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet of the house in a way that made Zoya flinch before she even realized she was already moving, her feet carrying her toward the door on instinct alone, as if something inside her already knew that whatever waited on the other side was about to change everything.

She reached the door first, pulled it open without thinking. And there they were.

The Tripathi family stood at the threshold.

And no—it wasn't a nice visit. Not even close.

Bharat and Mandakini stood stiffly at the door, their expressions tense, weighed down by something heavy and unresolved, the kind of worry that sits in the chest and refuses to move, while just behind them stood Gauri, her face wet with tears she wasn't even trying to hide anymore, little Ekansh perched in her arms, his face buried deep into her chest as if he could disappear there and not have to witness whatever had brought them all here like this.

Imam's expression changed in a heartbeat.

One look at Bharat's face was enough.

They had been together since the very first day—best of friends in a way that time only deepened, from enrolling in the military together to standing beside each other at weddings, to becoming fathers almost in parallel, watching their children grow up under the same roofs, the same values.

 Religion had never once been an issue; they celebrated each other's festivals as if they were their own, shared food, prayers, laughter, grief, and that shared respect was what had kept the bond unbroken all these years.

And then their children had followed in their footsteps, becoming inseparable themselves.

Yet the tightness in Bharat's jaw, the barely restrained storm behind his eyes, told Imam something had gone terribly wrong.

Oh, it really had.

Imam stepped forward, his voice instinctively dropping into that controlled, measured tone that only one captain used when speaking to another, the words firm even though the tremble beneath them betrayed him.

"Tripathi... kya baat hai," he asked quietly. "Subah-subah bhabhi aur bachon ke saath yahan...?"

Bharat leaned in slightly, his voice low, tight, barely holding together.
"Inn bachon se pucho," he whispered, anger threatening to spill over, "kal yeh log kya kaand karke aaye hain."

He was right on the edge—right there—until Mandakini's hand tightened around his arm, grounding him, silently reminding him to breathe.

Aisha stepped forward then, unease spreading across her face as her gaze moved between them.
"Bhaisahab... kya baat hai?" she asked softly.

And that was when Zaid saw Gauri properly.

Her tears.

God—no.

No, no, no.

He felt his chest tighten painfully, breath stalling halfway as something sharp and merciless twisted inside him, because he could take shouting, blame, even hatred—but not this, not her tears, not the way she looked like she was breaking quietly while trying to hold herself together.

It felt like a knife sinking into his chest and twisting again and again, slow and cruel, and yet on the outside he stayed still, his face carefully neutral, his body refusing to give away the chaos ripping through him.

Zoya rushed forward at once, panic rising with every step as she wrapped her arms around Gauri's shoulders, murmuring her name, trying to speak, but Gauri only cried harder, the words dissolving before they ever reached her lips.

Zaid didn't move.

He couldn't.

Something was very, very wrong.

God—what the hell had happened?

And where was Vikram?

Why wasn't he here?

"Zoya beta... saamne aao." Bharat's voice softened as he called her, gentler now, almost careful, the way one spoke when they were trying not to break something already fragile.

Zoya hesitated, then stepped forward, and when Bharat patted her head lightly, a sad smile flickering across his face, his next words landed heavier than she expected.

"Beta," he said quietly, "jo kuch bhi hua tha na... sabse pehle apne Ammi-Abba ko batana chahiye tha."

Zoya froze.

Her heart sank.

Is that why they're here?
Because of me?

Gauri stepped forward instinctively, her voice trembling.
"Baba... woh dar gayi thi."

"Bilkul chup." Bharat's glare silenced her instantly, frustration finally bleeding through.

"Agar tum bachon ne hum bado ko pehle bataya hota," he continued, his voice rising, raw with anger and pain, "toh aaj Vikram jail mein nahi hota."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Zoya gasped.

Jail?

He was in jail?

He had saved her—and now he was in jail?

Because of her.

Of course it was because of her.

"Ya Allah..." her breath shook. Maine kya kar diya...

Imam and Aisha stepped forward, confusion and shock written all over their faces.
"Tripathi... kya baat hai yeh?" Imam asked, then turned to his daughter. "Zoya beta... kya nahi bataya?"

Zoya looked up at her father, tears spilling freely now.

Enough.

She couldn't do this anymore.

Not now. Not after this.

She turned fully toward him, her voice barely audible.

"Abba... main aapko kuch batana chahti hoon."

Zaid stiffened.

It clicked.

That bastard Rohan.

He had filed a complaint.

Against Vikram.

And now Vikram was paying for it.

Zaid stepped forward immediately, his arm wrapping around his sister's shoulders, his voice uneven. "Zoya... m-mat bata," he murmured, breath hitching.

"A-agar... agar t-tu n-nahi batana ch-chahti toh—

But Zoya straightened.

She couldn't hide anymore.

Before anything else went wrong. Before anyone else suffered because of her.

The guilt was eating her alive.

And so she spoke.

Everything.

You said:

The first time—how Rohan had grabbed her in the school corridor. How Vikram had stepped in. Saved her.

The next day—how Rohan had blackmailed her with photos.

Her voice broke there.

And finally—the plan they had made. The one they had executed yesterday.

Imam and Aisha froze. Shock. Rage. Pain. And beneath it all—a crushing sense of failure. How had they not seen this?

Imam pulled Zoya into his arms, pressing her face against his chest as his own tears slipped free. Aisha joined them, holding her tightly, trembling.

After a long moment, Bharat spoke again. "Yeh batao," he said quietly, "yeh plan kiska tha?"

Zaid inhaled sharply. This was it. He was ready to speak—to take it. Because it was his fault. His idea. And Vikram was sitting in jail because of him.

But before he could—

"Baba... yeh mera plan tha."

The voice was firm. Unshaking.

Zaid turned—and froze.

Gauri stood there, facing her father, unmoving.

She had lied. For him. She had taken the blame, knowing exactly what it would cost her.

Zaid swallowed hard.

What was this girl?

One moment she ignored him. The next—she shielded him like this.

God... it did something to him.

No one had ever done this for him. Ever.

He had always been the troublemaker. Always the one getting scolded.

And now—someone had stood up and said I did it.

Like he mattered.

Bharat sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Kya hai yeh, Gauri?" he said tiredly. "Aise plans kaun banata hai? Tum bachchi ho. Dekho tumhare bhai ko jail mein daal diya."

His voice hardened.
"I am disappointed in you, beta."

The words landed heavy.

Zaid froze.

How could she stand there, silent, taking it all—for him?

Did he really mean that much to her?

And in that moment, he fell in love with her all over again.

Zoya stepped forward instinctively, ready to tell the truth—but Gauri's look stopped her.

"I'm sorry, Baba," Gauri whispered.

Mandakini finally intervened, her voice steady.
"Bas. Ab kaafi hai. Bachon ne jo theek laga kiya. Ab Vikram ko bahar nikalne ka sochiye."

Because she knew her son had done something most boys wouldn't do. He had saved a girl, saved her honour saved her from being manipulated and controlled

She turned to Zoya gently.
"Beta... ro mat. Tumhari koi galti nahi." Zoya nodded weakly, though deep down she still blamed herself.

Aisha agreed, and soon Imam and Bharat left for the police station.

As they were about to leave, Imam stopped and turned back, lifting Zoya's face gently in his hands, his touch steady and warm, as if he needed her to feel—really feel—that she was here, that she was safe, that she was his.

"I'm sorry, meri bachi," he said softly, his voice low and full in that way only a father's could be when he was trying not to break. "Tumhein kabhi akela mehsoos nahi karna chahiye tha. Jo bhi hua—kuch bhi—tumhein mujhe aur tumhari Ammi ko batana tha. Hum hamesha yahin hain, beta... hamesha. Tumhara dard chup-chaap sehna hum dekh hi nahi sakte."

Zoya's breath hitched as his words wrapped around her, and for the first time since everything had begun, the fear inside her loosened—just a little—because her Abba was right there, holding her face, promising without saying it out loud that nothing in this world mattered more than her.

And for the first time, Zoya didn't feel scared.

Later, the house settled into a heavy quiet.

Aisha didn't leave Zoya's side. Mandakini went to the kitchen, Gauri following her.

And Zaid—

Zaid stood there, watching her.

Not knowing that in protecting him, she had just made him feel worth something.

Like he mattered.

It was almost half an hour later when the quiet of the house was disturbed again, this time by the soft click of the door opening, and Zoya looked up just in time to see Akshay and Akshara standing there, hesitation and urgency written plainly across their faces.

Of course Gauri had called them.

How could she not?

They had all been tangled in this mess together, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Akshay was the first to move, crossing the room in quick strides straight toward Zaid, and for once there was no smirk on his face, no careless grin or teasing remark ready on his tongue, because this wasn't one of those moments—this was real, painfully real, and their best friend was sitting in jail for something he had never done, for something he should have been praised for instead.

For saving a girl.

For doing the right thing.

But this society—no, it wouldn't see it that way, would it?

Akshara, meanwhile, didn't stop until she reached Zoya and Gauri, wrapping her arms around both of them tightly, pulling them close in a way that left no room for distance or explanation, and for a brief moment the rest of the world faded away.

Just three girls standing there.

Just three best friends holding on to each other.

"I can't believe Vikram bhai is in jail," Akshara whispered finally, disbelief thick in her voice. "Like... it was never his fault."

And as the words left her mouth, everything Vikram had ever done for Zoya came rushing back to her, things she hadn't even known about until today, moments of quiet protection and unspoken care that suddenly felt far too heavy to process all at once.

God—this was too much.

Was this really the price of loving a woman silently?

Something in Akshara broke then.

She couldn't keep it inside anymore.

"Mujhe tujhe kuch batana hai, Zoya," she whispered, her voice dropping, her eyes flickering briefly to Gauri before returning to Zoya, serious in a way that was rare for her.

Zoya frowned slightly, concern blooming where confusion had been.
"Kya baat hai, Akshu?" she asked softly.

"Yahan nahi," Akshara said quickly, shaking her head, then pausing before adding, her voice almost pleading now, "Tum dono... bas. Tere kamre mein chal. Please."

The word hung there.

And in that moment, both Zoya and Gauri knew—this wasn't something small, wasn't one of Akshara's usual impulsive confessions or half-formed worries.

This was important.

Important enough to change something.

Important enough that the way Zoya saw everything—Vikram, herself, this whole tangled mess—was about to shift, quietly but irrevocably, from this moment on.

Upstairs, Zoya's room greeted them in a hush, the kind of quiet that felt protective rather than empty, as if the walls themselves had learned to hold her secrets gently instead of echoing them back. Along one side of the room, framed posters of Kathak dancers adorned the walls—elegant, mid-spin, frozen in movement—because everyone in the house knew that dance was more than a hobby for Zoya; it was her refuge, the one place where the world fell silent and her heart found rhythm instead of fear.

The bed stood neatly made, soft pink sheets spread carefully across it, unapologetically girlish in the way Zoya liked—comfort chosen over pretence, familiarity over formality. The blinds were drawn shut, blocking the daylight completely, leaving the room wrapped in a dim calm that made everything feel slower, safer, as if time itself had agreed to pause here.

Near the dresser sat a small photo frame, almost easy to miss, holding a picture of Zoya with her family—smiling, unguarded, whole—and beside it another frame, one she touched often without realising it, capturing her with Akshara and Gauri, three girls pressed together, laughing at something forgotten yet still alive in the curve of their smiles.

It was a room built out of love and quiet escapes.
A room that had held her together on days when nothing else could.
And now, as they stood there, it felt like the only place where the truth could finally be spoken.

They settled on the bed, close but tense, Zoya and Gauri turning toward Akshara, their eyes fixed on her expectantly, waiting for her to begin.

"So... the thing is," Akshara started, then paused, her gaze lingering on Zoya as if weighing every possible reaction, as if wondering whether this truth deserved to be spoken at all. "Promise me something, Zoya. No matter what I tell you, promise you'll never hate Vikram bhai because of it."

Zoya froze.

Vikram?

So this was about him. Her mind scrambled, unable to find a single memory that explained the heaviness in Akshara's voice.

"I don't understand," Zoya said slowly, confusion seeping into every word. "Akshu, main Vikram se kyun nafrat karungi?" Her eyes flickered to Gauri, who looked just as lost and nodded faintly in agreement.

"Because I'm about to tell you something you would have never expected," Akshara replied quietly. "Something you wouldn't have even imagined."

The words settled heavily between them, stretching the silence until it became almost unbearable, so thick that Zoya felt her breath hitch, her chest tightening as she waited for something—anything—that would make this make sense.

"Aksha, bata hi de seedha," Gauri whispered at last, because at this point guessing was pointless, and with everything already weighing on them, suspense felt cruel.

Akshara took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Zoya, listen to me, okay? Vikram bhai... he loves you."

For a moment, the room went completely still. Zoya and Gauri didn't react, didn't speak, didn't even look at each other, as if their minds were still trying to register the words they had just heard.

Then Zoya let out a disbelieving laugh—shaky, uneven, the kind that slipped out when crying felt too heavy. “Yaar… yeh kaunsa mazaak hai?”
Today had already taken more from her than it had any right to. She didn’t have the strength left for another truth detonating in her chest, not when she was already buried under the weight of her own guilt.

"This isn't a joke," Akshara said, exhaustion lining her voice. "He loves you. Proper, serious wala. And you wouldn't even believe the things he's done for you."

Gauri found her voice somehow, though it came out uncertain, almost fragile. "You mean... my brother Vikram loves Zoya?" She looked at Akshara as if she needed to hear it again just to be sure.

Akshara nodded. "Yes. Your brother Vikram. And that's not even it. The butter chicken you liked so much yesterday—do you even know who made it?"

"You told me it came from my house," Zoya said slowly, her voice dropping to a whisper as something uneasy stirred in her chest. "So Ammi must have sent it for me."

Akshara gave a small laugh, but there was no humour in it at all. "No, yaar. Vikram bhai made it. For you. Only for you. He sneaked home two days ago with me and Akshay, took help from the neighbour next door, and went completely against his beliefs just to make it for you."

Once again, silence fell, heavier than before.

Gauri went rigid, shock finally breaking through. "My brother... touched meat?" The words tumbled out of her, eyes widening as the implication settled in. Hey Mahadev, what had he done? If their father ever found out, forgiveness would never even be an option.

Zoya finally found her voice, barely above a breath. "You mean... he made it for me?" She looked at Akshara, and when she nodded, the room seemed to tilt slightly, as if something deep inside Zoya had shifted without her permission.

And then Zoya cried. Not the dignified, silent kind either — this was full-blown, hands-shaking, breath-catching, why-is-this-my-life crying, the kind where tears fall faster than logic.

"Yah Allah," she sobbed, laughing weakly at the same time because apparently her brain had decided this was the correct emotional response. "Vikram loves me."

She laughed again, louder now, completely hysterical. "Can you believe that? Loves me. Proper, serious, no-escape wala love."

"My brother touched meat," Gauri whispered again, disbelief clinging to every word.
God—what the hell was happening?

She brought her hands together in prayer, eyes lowering as she silently pleaded with her Shankar to forgive her foolish brother for what he had done.

Zoya wiped her cheeks furiously. "Aur aaj woh jail mein hai," she added, pointing vaguely towards the universe like it personally owed her an explanation. "Because of me. Matlab he went to Jail for me?"

Akshara bit her lip, holding herself back from interrupting—Zoya was spiralling at Olympic speed."I'm pretty sure he's chilling in jail right now," Zoya whispered, "because he has no regrets."

She could already imagine Vikram—happy, foolishly in love, not regretting a single second of it, not even the bars.

Because for Zoya, he would do it all over again."I have never felt this pathetic," Zoya continued, sniffling loudly. "Itni stupid toh main exam hall mein bhi feel nahi karti jab answer sheet blank ho."

Akshara swallowed hard before speaking again. "Aur sabse badi baat yeh hai ki unhe bilkul bhi regret nahi hai. He just wanted you to be happy after Rohan blackmailed you."

That was when Gauri, still mentally stuck on one horrifying detail, whispered again like she needed confirmation from the universe. "My brother... touched meat?"

She couldn't believe her brother had done something like that. She had never imagined her nonchalant brother capable of loving someone so deeply, so silently.

God—what was even happening?

Zoya burst out laughing through her tears. "Touched nahi, Gauri," she cried. "Poora pyaar daal ke banaya. Butter chicken with emotions."

Akshara groaned. "Please don't phrase it like that."

Like what the fuck was even happening here?

Zoya sniffed, wiping her nose. "Mujhe bhi mat sunao, main khud shocked hoon." She laughed again, shaking her head. "Main kya kar rahi thi? I was rating the gravy. Zyada creamy nahi hai, bol rahi thi."

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently now. "I never knew him," she sobbed. "Itna sab kuch kar rahe the woh mere liye... aur main unhe sirf bhai samajti rahi—like it was just brotherly concern."

Her voice softened, humour thinning but still there, fragile. ''He broke rules, beliefs, apni saari boundaries," she whispered. "Aur main?" She let out a watery laugh. "Main slow learner nikli."

She dragged her dupatta over her face dramatically. "A man loved me so quietly that mujhe laga khamoshi hi unka nature hai."

She finally looked up, eyes red, swollen, shining. "Ya Allah," she said, half-laughing, half-crying. "Yeh main kya karke baithi hoon."

Gauri was still stuck on it. Completely, hopelessly stuck. She looked at Zoya like she was trying to solve a puzzle that refused to make sense.

"Okay," she said slowly, thoughtfully, "but if my brother made chicken—proper chicken—then I'm sorry, there is no debate left. He loves you."

Zoya let out a strangled laugh that immediately collapsed into another sob. "Why are you saying it like that," she cried. "Jaise tum grocery list padh rahi ho."

Gauri shrugged. “Because that’s the scale. Butter chicken is not casual behaviour.”
She waved a hand vaguely. “I mean… we don’t touch. Like, never. Ever.”
Then she leaned in, lowering her voice as if Baba himself might materialise.

 “And listen, my brother is a total scaredy-cat in front of our father. He’d rather disappear than mess up. But he did this—something Baba would never forgive.”

She paused, eyes flicking to Zoya. “And he would only do that for one reason.”

A beat.

“Someone he loves, Zoya.”

Zoya pressed her hands over her face not hearing Gauri's word yet even though they held the truth "He went to jail for me," she wailed. "Aur main yahan baith ke gravy ka texture discuss kar rahi thi."

Akshara muttered, almost to herself, "You did say that day thoda aur makhan hota toh—"

"PLEASE," Zoya cried, lifting her head. "Mujhe zinda rehne do."She laughed again, helpless and broken, then sank back against the pillows.

"I ruined everything," she said, voice shaking. "Unki zindagi, unka ghar, unke rules—sab kuch."

Gauri stared at her for a long second.

Then, completely straight-faced, she said, "Haan toh theek hai."

Zoya froze mid-sob. "Kya theek hai?"

"Date karle mere bhai ko."

Akshara choked. "GAURI."

Zoya stood there, completely stunned, as if the world itself had stopped and she couldn't believe any of this was real.

"What?" Gauri shrugged, tossing her hair back like it was no big deal. "Guilt bhi khatam, mera bhai bhi khush, balance ho jayega, simple maths hai."

Zoya pressed her lips together, half-laughing, half-sobbing, her voice barely a whisper. "Gauri... please. I am not taking your advice because you literally made my brother cry," she said, pausing dramatically, letting her words sink in, reminding Gauri about the way she had completely ignored Zaid when it mattered.

Gauri froze, eyes wide, and then exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging as the reality hit her square in the chest. "Haan... go on, fine, I know I was wrong, okay? Aur main ab aisa nahi karungi," she admitted, the confession tumbling out more like a surrender than a choice.

Zoya stared at her, tears still stubbornly clinging to her lashes, running down her cheeks, her voice soft but dripping with disbelief. "Tum mujhe jail ke trauma ke baad relationship advice de rahi ho, seriously?"

"I'm being practical," Gauri said, straightening a little as if logic could somehow fix the chaos of the universe, "warna itna sab kuch ke baad agar tum dono normal rahe na, that will be the real crime, and honestly, humare pass yeh option nahi hai."

Zoya laughed again, the sound shaking, wet, and uneven, a strange mixture of despair and amusement. "Tum dono... pagal ho," she said, voice breaking through her laughter, because honestly what else could you say when your life felt like a soap opera written by someone with a wicked sense of humour.

"Maybe," Gauri replied airily, tossing her hands up, "but my brother didn't cross this many lines to be ignored, okay? Not happening."

Zoya wiped her face roughly with her dupatta, breath coming in uneven gasps, trying to compose herself but failing spectacularly. "Ya Allah," she whispered, a weak, humourless laugh escaping her lips, "maine kabhi nahi socha tha ki meri zindagi ka sabse emotional, heart-wrecking moment butter chicken se shuru hoga... seriously, butter chicken."

Her lips quirked up despite herself, and then she leaned closer to Gauri, whispering conspiratorially, "Acha, okay, if you date my brother, then I would do it too."

It came out like a challenge, perfectly timed, like a tiny victory lap in the middle of their collective disaster. Her logic was flawless in her own mind: her brother Zaid wouldn't be sad anymore, Vikram would be free, and she wouldn't drown in guilt for the rest of her life. Problem solved.

Gauri's jaw dropped. She stared at Zoya as if she had just revealed plans to launch a rocket from their bedroom.  She hadn't expected Zoya to throw it back at her "Tu... pagal wagal hai kya?" she whispered, voice full of disbelief, because in her mind, doing this was almost physically impossible—religion, society, her father, all of it—like climbing Everest in flip-flops.

Zoya tilted her head, eyes sparkling mischievously despite the tears, and shrugged lightly. "Theek hai, if you won't, then I won't either," she said nonchalantly, as if she had just finalized a stock trade and it had nothing to do with centuries of emotional trauma.

Akshara, who had been quietly observing this whole absurd negotiation, finally let out a laugh that was equal parts horror and disbelief. "Tum dono... pagal wagal ho kya?" she said, her tone flat but her eyebrows shooting into orbit, because there was no other way to respond to this level of chaotic genius.

"I still... still can't believe my brother touched meat," Gauri whispered again, her voice barely above a breath, like saying it louder might somehow make the universe implode or erase the memory of what had just happened.

"Oh God," Akshara hissed, leaning back slightly and rolling her eyes, though there was no real irritation behind it, just disbelief that anyone could still be this hung up on butter chicken, "how many times are you going to say that?"

And then, because apparently the universe liked to mess with them, the three of them just... lost it.

One second they were whispering, shocked, teary, dramatic, and the next second the laughter burst out of them all at once, loud, shaky, and completely uncontrollable, the kind of laughter that made their stomachs hurt, their voices crack, and their tears mix with giggles until they weren't crying or laughing, just flailing in the middle of Zoya's pink-sheeted bed, a chaotic tangle of arms, legs, and hair, collapsing against each other because honestly, at that point, what else could they do but laugh at how absurd their lives had suddenly become—Vikram in jail, butter chicken, dating negotiations, guilt, and the fact that they were somehow surviving all of it at the same time.

Just then, a voice called out from downstairs—it was none other than Zaid.
"Zoya, niche aaja... Ammi bula rahi hai."

The three of them slowly rose to their feet, still reeling from the whirlwind of conversation and laughter. Wiping the remnants of tears from their cheeks, they finally made their way downstairs.

There was absolute Silence outside. Imam and Bharat were back and the expression on their faces already said that they hadn't made any progress in getting Vikram out.

"Kya hua, kuch toh boliye?" Mandakini whispered, her eyes fixed on Bharat, worry finally spilling over because no matter how strong Vikram was, no matter how often he carried things alone, a mother never stopped fearing for her child.

"They said it's a serious violence case," Bharat replied quietly, his voice weighed down as he sighed and rubbed his temples, exhaustion showing for the first time. "The boy was severely bleeding, isliye they're not letting Vikram go just yet."

The words hit like a sudden drop.

Everyone froze, shoulders slumping under the weight of it, but it was Zoya whose eyes filled instantly, tears blurring her vision before she could stop them. "Woh... woh theek toh hai na?" she asked softly, her gaze flickering between Imam and Bharat, as if either of them might give her an answer that eased the tightness in her chest.

Their expressions softened immediately, both men recognising the familiar guilt settling into her features, the quiet certainty that she was already blaming herself for Vikram being behind bars.

"Bache, ro mat," Imam murmured, stepping closer and gently cupping her face, wiping her tears away with his thumb. "Yeh tumhari galti nahi hai. We will get Vikram out."

Something about the touch, the steadiness in his voice, grounded her, and Zoya nodded slowly, swallowing back the rest of her tears.

Akshara stepped forward then, resolve settling into her posture. "Uncle, main apne papa ko bula rahi hoon," she said firmly. "He'll be able to help."

For a moment, everyone went still, because they all knew it was true—Abeer, one of the most influential businessmen in the city, could pull strings others couldn't.

"Beta, tumhe yeh sab karne ki zarurat nahi hai," Bharat said gently, his eyes softening at her effort. "We will manage."

"Let me do it, Uncle," Akshara replied quietly, already pulling out her phone. "Main bhi galat hoon. I agreed to the plan too. Vikram bhai doesn't deserve to be in jail."

She dialled without waiting for permission, her voice dropping as she spoke to her father in hushed tones, and when she finally turned back to them, her expression was calm but determined. "He's in a meeting, but jaise hi free honge, he'll come straight to the police station."

Everyone absorbed the words, nodding slowly.

"We should go back to the police station," Imam said after a moment. "Better that way. Abeer wahin aa jayega."

Bharat nodded in agreement, but before they could move, Zoya spoke up, her voice barely above a whisper. "Abba... hum log bhi aa sakte hain?" Her eyes pleaded with him. "Please."

"Beta, wahan safe nahi hai," he replied gently.

"Please, Baba," Gauri insisted softly. "Hum sab Vikram Bhai ko dekhna chahte hain."

After a brief pause, the kind that held quiet resignation, both Bharat and Imam nodded, understanding that the children needed this as much as Vikram did.

And so they left together, the men and the kids heading out, while the women—Mandakini, Aisha—and the little boys, Zain and Ekansh, stayed back, their laughter faint as they played with Amna, unaware of how heavy the world outside had suddenly become.

In the car, Bharat took the driver's seat with Imam beside him, while the middle seat at the back filled up quickly with Zoya, Akshay, and Akshara, leaving Gauri and Zaid with no choice but to squeeze into the very last seat, already cluttered with bags and things pushed aside just enough to make space for two people who clearly weren't meant to fit there.

Gauri settled in carefully, drawing her knees in, trying to make herself as small as possible, mindful not to take up more space than necessary, and yet, no matter how much she adjusted, her knees brushed against his every now and then, an accidental touch that refused to be avoided in the cramped space.

Zaid froze the first time it happened.

The contact was sudden, unexpected, and far too close, and his breath hitched before he could stop it, because the touch—so small, so unintentional—was something he hadn't realised he'd been craving until it happened, grounding him in a way that caught him completely off guard.

He tried to shift, to create distance, but the car was moving and the space was unforgiving, and every attempt only had him leaning back against her side again, the proximity unavoidable, constant, quietly unsettling in a way he didn't know how to handle.

Up front, Akshay sat beside Akshara in the middle row, staring at her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at, so openly that it didn't go unnoticed for long.

Bharat caught it in the rear-view mirror and chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he teased, "Akshay beta, itna ghoorega toh makhi ghus jaayegi."

Laughter broke out in the car, light and brief, cutting through the tension.

Akshara glanced at Akshay, rolling her eyes in practiced annoyance, but the fondness she tried so hard to hide still lingered there, soft and unmistakable, visible if one looked just a little too closely.

On the back seat, the car suddenly lurched as it hit a bump, sharp and unexpected, and before either of them could react, Gauri lost her balance completely and fell against him.

Zaid caught her instinctively.

His arms came around her waist before his mind even registered what he was doing, muscle memory taking over, reflex faster than thought.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He was touching her.

He was really touching her.

She was pressed against him, close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of her breath, her weight settled into him, his arms firm around her as if letting go wasn't even an option anymore.

God—what was this woman?

Did she have some kind of power over him? Some quiet magic he didn't understand, something that undid him without effort?

Because the truth was, he didn't move.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't complain.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

It was just an accident, he told himself. Nothing intentional. Nothing that meant anything. And yet his heart was pounding so hard it felt almost painful, as if his body was betraying every lie his mind tried to cling to, because that single touch had become everything in that moment.

He shut his eyes briefly, as if that might help, as if darkness would dull the intensity of it.

It didn't.

She was still there. Still against him. Her body pressed into his in a way that made his breath turn shallow, uneven.

And she was close enough now that he could smell her—not perfume, not soap, nothing artificial. Just warmth. Skin. Something unmistakably her.

God... fuck.

This was too much to take.

Gauri was frozen too, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she tried to steady herself, unaware that every small movement, every unconscious grip, was throwing him further off balance.

She might have found her footing, but he was losing his.

God, what was she doing to him?

A voice drifted back from the front—he couldn't even tell if it was Bharat or Imam—soft, concerned. "Bacho, tum theek ho?"

And no.
He wasn't.

How could he be okay after this? After feeling her like this, even by accident? After realising how desperately, how quietly, he had craved something so small without ever admitting it to himself?

It felt unreal. Overwhelming. Like something he wasn't meant to want but couldn't stop wanting the moment it happened.

Ya Allah...
What are You doing to me?

Gauri realised what had happened a second too late.

The jolt, the loss of balance, and then suddenly there was no space at all—only him, solid and warm, his arms around her waist, holding her so instinctively that for a heartbeat she forgot they were in a moving car, forgot where they were going, forgot everything except the way her body had leaned into his without protest.

Her fingers tightened in his shirt, more reflex than choice, because the ground had shifted and he was the only thing steady.

And then it hit her.

Oh.

She was too close.

Close enough to feel his breath against her hair, close enough to register the tension in him, the way his body had gone still around her as if even breathing might undo something fragile. Her heart stuttered, a sharp, confused thud, and heat rushed to her face as awareness flooded in all at once.

She straightened immediately, pulling back just enough to create distance, mortified, flustered. "I— I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible, already retreating into herself, eyes fixed on her lap as if looking up might make things worse.

Hey Shankar what had she just done?

Zaid's arms dropped just as quickly, hands retreating to his sides like he'd been burned, posture stiff, gaze locked straight ahead as if the windshield held answers he desperately needed.

"It's fine," he said, too fast again, voice controlled but strained, the words clipped because anything more might give him away.

Silence rushed in to fill the space they'd left behind.

The kind of silence that remembered.

Beside her, Zaid shifted slightly, creating the smallest sliver of distance possible in that cramped seat, jaw clenched, breath finally evening out, though his chest still felt tight, crowded with thoughts he didn't want to name.

From the front, the road smoothed out, the car settling again, as if nothing had happened at all.

But the space between them stayed charged, heavy with something neither of them was ready to acknowledge, both of them sitting too still now, too aware, carrying the weight of a touch that had lasted only seconds and somehow changed the air entirely.

And ahead of them, the police station loomed closer with every passing minute, reality waiting to crash back in—unaware, indifferent, and completely unconcerned with the quiet storm unfolding in the back seat.

Soon enough, they reached the police station.

Inside the holding area, Vikram stood behind the bars, leaning against them like it was any other wall he'd ever rested his back on, one foot crossed over the other, expression relaxed, almost... bored. There was no anger on his face, no panic, not even irritation—just that familiar calm of his, the kind that made it impossible to tell he was standing inside a jail cell.

The moment his eyes landed on Zoya, his heart stuttered, picking up speed before he could stop it.

And then he saw her tears.

Something dark and sharp flared inside him instantly, his hands tightening around the cold metal bars. He could deal with anything—blood, trouble, accusations—but this? This he couldn't stand.

Akshay and Zaid reached him first, crowding close, eyes scanning him anxiously as if checking for injuries.
"Bhai, tu theek hai na?" Akshay asked in a low voice, slipping his fingers through the narrow gap between the bars.

"Haan bhai," Vikram replied easily, almost amused. "Main toh bilkul first class hoon. Mujhe kya hona hai."
He said it like he was talking about a minor inconvenience, not like he was standing in a lock-up with half the city worried sick outside.

Then his gaze shifted back to Zoya, her head lowered, shoulders drawn in.

"Woh ro kyun rahi hai?" he asked quietly, nodding toward her. His jaw tightened. 

"Subah se ro hi rahi hai," Akshay murmured back, glancing at her. "Tere chakkar mein. She thinks it's her fault you're here."

Vikram exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Yaar... zara usse bol dena," he said, looking at Zaid now, voice softer but firm. "Mere liye rona band kare. Bilkul bakwaas baat hai."

Zaid nodded, still a little dazed from everything, but trying hard to stay present.

And then, as if the moment hadn't already been strange enough, Vikram straightened slightly, leaning his shoulder against the bars with sudden interest.

"Acha, chhodo yeh sab," he said casually. "Meri photo khinch do."

Both Akshay and Zaid stared at him.

"What?" Akshay blurted.

"Kya?" Vikram shrugged. "Roz roz thodi na jail aata hoon. Yaad rakhna hai." He grinned. "Once in a lifetime experience hai, yaar."

They just looked at each other, mouths practically hanging open.

God, this man was unreal.

"Abe aise kya dekh rahe ho?" Vikram snapped, amused now. "Photo khicho na. Main apne bachon ko dikhaunga—bolunga dekho, tumhara baap bhi ek din jail gaya tha."

Akshay rubbed his face, muttering, "Is aadmi ka alag hi scene hai."

Zaid let out a helpless laugh despite himself, already reaching for his phone, because honestly—there was no arguing with Vikram, jail or no jail.

Zaid raised his phone hesitantly, framing Vikram through the bars, still half‑convinced that at any second someone would tap his shoulder, laugh loudly, and announce yeh prank tha, because there was simply no way this level of nonsense could be real. He adjusted the frame again and again, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, like photographing a jailed friend was just another casual Tuesday activity.

"Bhai... thoda seedha khada ho ja," he muttered, tilting the phone. "Angle theek nahi aa raha."

"Abe angle ki kya baat kar raha hai," Vikram whispered back, puffing his chest with the confidence of a man who had never once doubted himself in his entire life. "Tera bhai born model hai."

He shifted his stance deliberately, shoulders back, chin up, like the bars were a fashion accessory and not, you know, bars.

"Yaad hai Reena?" he continued, lowering his voice dramatically, eyes distant like he was revisiting a legendary era. "Third grade. Bachpan mein. Uski birthday party mein she was so fascinated by the way I stand... the way I look." He ran a hand through his hair slowly, almost flipping it, like this was a shampoo ad flashback and not a jail cell.

And then came the deadpan, perfectly timed.

"The only thing she was fascinated by was your watch, bro," Akshay whispered, voice flat, lethal.

God. This man had genuinely spent years believing a girl was mesmerised by his personality, when in reality she'd just been dazzled by a shiny wristwatch that probably lit up and played music.

"Bro, not gonna lie—yeh sach hai," Zaid whispered, shoulders shaking so violently with laughter that the phone wobbled dangerously in his hands.

Akshay leaned even closer, squinting like a highly disappointed art critic. "Nahi nahi, side se le. Front se tu zyada innocent lag raha hai."

"Innocent?" Vikram gasped, deeply offended on a spiritual level. "Arre nahi bhai. Criminal vibes chahiye. Thoda wrong decisions, bad influence, society‑ka‑darr type."

"Bhai," Akshay whispered, eyebrow raised, "tere bache yeh dekh ke inspire kaise honge?"

"Arre bhai, wahi toh best part hai." Vikram leaned closer to the bars, lowering his voice like he was revealing a master plan. "Aise hi toh darr mein rahenge—ki baap jail gaya tha. Humne kuch kiya toh baap hi kuch na kar de."

He said it with zero seriousness, like he wasn't literally standing inside a police station, casually planning lifelong trauma instead of breaking down like people usually do.

"Wah bhai," Zaid whispered, already imagining it. "Tu toh pehle se hi bacho ko trauma dene ka full roadmap bana ke baitha hai."

"Hey Bhagwaan," Akshay whispered dramatically, clasping his hands and glancing upward. "Iske bacho ki raksha karna."

Zaid clicked the picture.

Click.

"Ho gaya," he announced proudly. "But clear bol raha hoon—yeh photo kahin leak hui na, main bolunga AI‑generated hai, deepfake hai, mujhe frame kiya gaya hai."

Zoya, who had been standing quietly till now, finally looked up at the sound of their laughter. Her eyes were still wet, lashes clumped together, confusion written all over her face—torn between wanting to cry, wanting to scold him, and wanting to shake some sense into him.

"Aap pagal ho gaye hai kya?" she asked softly. "Aapko pata hai sab kitna darr gaye the?"

For just a second—barely a breath—Vikram's grin softened. He leaned closer to the bars, voice dropping, gentler, almost careful. "Arre... main hoon na," he said.

And then, as if allergic to sincerity, he immediately ruined it.

"Aur waise bhi, jail ka khana try karna tha life mein."

Akshay's eyes widened instantly. "Tune khaya?"

"Bas ek chamach," Vikram admitted with the seriousness of a man confessing a crime. "Aur bas ek chamach mein hi saare paapon ka realisation ho gaya."

Even Zoya couldn't stop the small laugh that escaped her—shaky, reluctant, but real.

Something warm settled inside Vikram at the sight of it. That smile. That was all he'd wanted. He had been scared—God, genuinely scared—but he refused to let it show in front of her, because he knew she would blame herself, and that was a guilt he would never allow her to carry.

Zaid lifted his phone again.

Click.

"Arre ruk jaa!" Vikram hissed. "Bol toh deta khich raha hai. Maine pose nahi diya, kutte."

Praan jaaye par aesthetic na jaaye.

Akshay rubbed his face slowly, exhausted. "Is aadmi ko sach mein andar rakhna chahiye."

"Bas ek aur," Vikram insisted. "Close‑up. Thoda bars blur mein, main focus mein. Emotional depth chahiye."

That's when a constable cleared his throat loudly from the corner, arms crossed, expression screaming I did not sign up for this.

Vikram looked at him, nodded respectfully. "Sir, bas do minute aur. Emotional photoshoot chal raha hai."

The constable stared at him like he was actively reconsidering every life decision that had led him here. In all his years of service, he had seen criminals cry, scream, beg. He had never seen anyone demand a blur effect.

"Arre koi nahi, sir. Hota hai," Vikram added politely. "Vikram slays everywhere. That's the agenda."

And just like that, Zoya burst out laughing—full, helpless laughter. Gauri and Akshara followed immediately, then Bharat and Imam, the sound spilling through the station like something warm and uncontrollable.

And somehow—somehow—the police station, the bars, the fear, all of it loosened just a little. Because Vikram stood there laughing in a place meant to break people, turning panic into chaos, and chaos into comfort, simply by refusing—stubbornly, foolishly—to take the world seriously for even a second.

Later, once everyone had settled, Akshara's father—Abeer—had already arrived and was speaking with the officer.

Zoya stood by the bars, unsure of what to say, her gaze fixed on the floor. The air felt different now. No laughter. No teasing. Just silence.

Vikram noticed the way her fingers kept twisting the edge of her dupatta, the way she hadn't said a word since they'd come here.
"Aap kuch kehna chahti hain?" he asked softly. His voice was gentle—always had been when it came to her.

Because Zoya was the only thing in his life that had ever made him serious.

She froze, her grip on the bars tightening. Of course she wanted to say something. There was so much sitting heavy in her chest. But after everything she had found out today, the words refused to come.

This was a man who would tear the world apart for her and never look back. That was just who he was.

She nodded, still silent.

The quiet stretched between them until Vikram cleared his throat.
"Zoya," he said, his voice low, steady, "I know you're feeling guilty. You think I'm here because of you. But you didn't do anything wrong."

He paused, swallowing hard. "You were the one who was blackmailed. What Rohan did to you was wrong." His jaw tightened for a moment. "Agar main kar sakta, toh main usse wahi maar deta. Par khud ko dosh dena band karo."

His eyes flicked briefly to where Abeer was speaking to the officer, then returned to her—soft again.
"Aur Abeer uncle mujhe yahan se nikaal lenge. Tum chinta mat karo. Theek hai?"

Zoya didn't know what to say.

How could someone blame her for nothing—not even once—and still be willing to do it all over again for her? She had never imagined someone like this could exist. Someone who would burn the world for her and feel no regret.

She took a deep breath, nodded, and managed a small smile. Before her eyes could betray her again, she turned and walked away.

And, just like that, Vikram felt his heart skip—once more.

Abeer sat there in his Armani suit, his posture rigid, his expression carved into something stern and unmoving as he watched the police officer refuse—again and again—to let Vikram go. Every explanation, every reason, every measured argument he laid out was met with the same response, repeated so often it began to feel deliberate rather than procedural.

Frustration settled in slowly at first, then all at once.

After a moment, Abeer finally spoke, his voice rising—not in anger, but in that same sharp, controlled tone he used in boardrooms when discussions stopped being polite and started becoming final.
"So you're telling me," he said evenly, "that you want to keep a boy arrested who has done nothing except protect a girl and save her dignity. Is that right?"

The officer nodded, though the sudden shift in Abeer's tone had clearly caught him off guard, leaving him both surprised and a little shaken.

From behind, Akshara instinctively reached for her father's arm, gripping it gently but firmly, knowing his temper far too well to ignore the warning signs.
"Papa, shaant ho jaiye, please," she whispered, her hand rubbing his arm in a slow, soothing motion.

Abeer drew in a deep breath, the familiar gesture from his daughter managing to calm him—just enough. He turned to her, carefully removing her hand from his arm before speaking, his voice lower now but no less firm.
"Beta, baat karne de," he said quietly. "Warna yeh log uss bechare ko kabhi jaane nahi denge."

His gaze shifted briefly to Vikram, who stood inside the cell with a calm that almost hurt to look at, considering he had done nothing wrong.

Abeer then pulled out the chair and sat down directly across from the officer, folding his hands together.
"Haan toh, officer," he said, almost casually now, "unhone complaint file ki hai, isliye aap usse jaane nahi de sakte. Sahi samjha maine?"

The officer nodded again, though his unease was obvious now, as if he could sense that whatever was coming next would not be pleasant.

"Haan toh theek hai," Abeer continued without missing a beat. "Complaint file kijiye. Aur main uss ladke—Rohan—ke khilaaf complaint file kar raha hoon, jisne hamari ladki ko harass kiya."

There was no hesitation in his voice, no stutter, no doubt. This was a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He turned slightly and gestured with his hand. "Zoya beta, idhar aao."

Zoya stepped forward, stopping in front of him, confusion written all over her face.
"Uncle... mujhe samajh nahi aa raha—"

"Beta," Abeer said gently but firmly, "inko sab batao jo uss ladke ne kiya." And in that instant, Zoya understood. Vikram was in jail for doing the right thing.

She nodded, took a breath, and then told the officer everything—each word coming out steadier than she felt, the truth spilling out in a way that left no room for misunderstanding. By the time she finished, the officer's expression had completely changed, shock and discomfort settling in as the reality of the situation became clear.

Without another word, he called out to the constable, instructing him to file the report immediately.

Abeer leaned in slightly and added, his voice low but unyielding,
"We are filing a case under Sexual Harassment—Section 354A of the IPC."

No one interrupted him. Bharat and Imam exchanged a brief glance, understanding exactly what Abeer was doing. It wasn't manipulation—it was necessity. He was simply playing by their rules.

"And," Abeer continued after a brief pause, "also under Voyeurism—Section 354C of the IPC."

That did it.

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over the police station like something heavy and unavoidable. Abeer Rajvansh had used their own tactics against them—and won.

Moments later, the officer stood up, nodding respectfully as he looked toward Bharat.
"Aapka beta bohot jald bahar aa jaayega," he said quietly. "Chinta mat kijiye."

Then, already moving toward the door, he called out sharply,
"Singh, gaadi nikaalo. Kaam hai."

And just like that, the police vehicle drove away, carrying with it an officer who had finally understood how wrong he had been.

Akshay watched Abeer from a distance, a mixture of fondness and awe in his eyes. This—this—was the kind of man he wanted to become one day.

And somewhere in that moment, without saying it out loud, he decided that if this was the standard set by his future father-in-law, then he would spend his life trying to live up to it.

Abeer turned toward Bharat, his expression still firm, his voice steady but carrying the weight of certainty.
"Chinta mat kar, Tripathi," he said quietly. "Uss Rohan ke maa-baap ne socha tha ki Vikram ko arrest karwa denge toh sab jeet jaayenge—aur humein chup kara denge. Par ab unka apna beta andar jaayega." His jaw tightened just a fraction. "Tab samajh aayega usse ki usne kitni badi galti ki hai."

Then, almost immediately, something in Abeer's eyes softened. The edge in his posture eased as he lowered his gaze, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, tinged with apology.
"Par... I'm sorry yaar," he said. "Aaj Vikram ko bahar nahi nikaal paaya."

Bharat didn't let the moment linger. He reached out, placing a hand on Abeer's shoulder, grounding him before shaking his head slightly.
"Teri galti nahi hai, yaar, Abeer," he replied.

His eyes shifted toward Vikram, standing behind the bars with that same infuriating calm, and a faint smile tugged at Bharat's lips.
"Aur waise bhi," he added, "mera ladka strong hai. Aur jitna woh life ko unserious leta hai, mujhe poora yakeen hai—yeh sab uske liye ek naya experience hi hoga."

For a second there was silence.

And then, just like that, laughter broke out among them—soft at first, then fuller—cutting through the heaviness, easing the tension, reminding them that despite everything, they were still standing together.

 ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

TRIPATHI NIWAS

Night had fallen before time itself seemed to realise it was late. The moon hung low and unbothered, spilling pale light into the bedroom, stretching shadows along the walls as if they were alive—watching, waiting. From somewhere beyond the window, distant murmurs drifted in from the park below: half-laughter, half-conversations, softened by distance and darkness, the world continuing as if nothing inside this room was breaking.

But inside the room—

A girl lay still on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, eyes open yet unfocused. She had always felt things deeply—too deeply, perhaps—but she had learned early on how to fold emotions neatly, how to tuck them away until they no longer showed.

 Until they no longer interfered. Because emotions were allowed only as long as they didn't smudge the image she carried so carefully: the perfect daughter, the topper, the example people whispered about with approval.

She had worn that image like armour since the day she first understood how proud it made her parents.

Gauri.

It had always been her. From childhood, she had been sharp, disciplined, effortlessly intelligent—everything a desi parent prayed for when they folded their hands before God and asked for a daughter who would never give them a reason to lower their gaze. Teachers praised her, relatives compared their children to her, neighbours spoke her name with admiration that tasted faintly of envy. And Gauri smiled through all of it, because smiling was expected.

She had learned early how love worked in her world.

Love was conditional. Love was fragile. Love stayed as long as you stayed good.

So she grew up measuring every step, every word, every decision against an invisible scale. What will people say? How will this look? Will this make Baba proud—or ashamed? She learned how to want things quietly, how to let desires pass through her without ever reaching her hands. She learned that some dreams were indulgent, some emotions unnecessary, and some truths—dangerous.

Since childhood to now, she had done everything by calculation. Not out of rebellion, never that—but out of responsibility. Because in the society she lived in, there was an unspoken rule carved deeper than any law: whatever a daughter did, it didn't belong to her alone. It travelled. It echoed. It stained or shined an entire family.

And Gauri had taken that burden willingly.

She became the custom her family lived by. The proof they showed the world. The girl who never crossed lines because she never even approached them. The girl who swallowed her fears, her anger, her longing—because a good daughter didn't let such things surface.

Tonight, though, as moonlight traced the outline of her still form and shadows pressed closer to the walls, the silence felt heavier than usual. Not loud. Not dramatic.

In that moment, everything that had happened through the day came crashing back to her at once. She still didn't understand why she had defended him. 

She had never done that before. Gauri had always known where to stand—at a safe distance from anything that could stain her reputation, anything that could invite questions, anything that might end with her father's quiet disapproval. 

All her life, she had lived carefully, deliberately, making sure she never gave him a reason to look at her with disappointment.

And yet today—for the first time in years—she had heard the very words she had spent her life trying to avoid.

"I am disappointed in you, beta."

They echoed in her head, sharp and numbing, as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over her, leaving her breathless and stunned. Even now, lying here in the stillness, she couldn't understand why she had done it. Why she had stepped forward without thinking. Why she had taken the blame so instinctively, so recklessly.

She had known what would happen the moment her father found out who had made the plan. There would be scolding, anger, consequences. She had even seen the shock on her mother's face—because Gauri was not someone who acted on impulse. Gauri thought through every decision a thousand times before making it.

And yet today, she had shattered that image for the first time.

All of it—for him.

Zaid.

Maybe she didn't realise it then. Maybe she didn't yet have the courage to name it. But something unfamiliar had begun to stir in her chest, restless and warm, refusing to be ignored.

Gauri lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over. For the first time in her life, she found herself truly clueless—unable to explain her own actions, unable to answer the simplest question of all.

Why?

Just then, the phone beside her pillow vibrated softly.

She didn’t need to look to know.

Of course—it was a message from Zoya.

“Listen yaar, you better make a decision. Like seriously. If you date my brother, I’ll date yours as well.”

The message was simple. Direct. Too direct.

Gauri sighed, reading it once… then again… and then once more, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier to deal with. She never would have imagined herself even considering something like this. And yet her mind betrayed her, drifting to her brother—who had touched meat, gone against their religion, all for Zoya. She imagined how happy he truly looked around her. How light.

Then her thoughts shifted, unwillingly, to Zaid.

Zaid—who had always been kind to her. Who had looked at her like she mattered. Who she had ignored more times than she could count. Who she had hurt, without meaning to, and watched cry because of her silence.

She thought of how happy he would be.

It wasn’t that she disliked him. She never had. Maybe she had never said it out loud, maybe she had never even admitted it to herself—but somewhere deep down, she had already begun to consider it. Carefully. Quietly. Like everything else in her life.

It wouldn’t be serious anyway, she reasoned. A girl like her—boring, predictable, always studying—how long could she possibly hold someone’s interest? He would get bored. Of course he would. Boys always did. No one stayed fascinated by a nerd for long.

It was probably just his crush talking. And she didn’t see any real harm in dating him.

Yes, it went against her religion. But that would only truly matter if this was something serious.

And she was sure it wouldn’t be.

With a soft sigh, she finally typed back.

“Still thinking about it.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She locked her phone and let it fall beside her, her gaze drifting to the small Shankar placed at the centre of the room—calm, unmoving, eternal.

Her guide.

Her anchor.

Her voice dropped into a whisper.

“Ab toh aap hi mujhe raasta dikha sakte hain, Mahadev.”

 ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess