He heard her cry—
and still, he didn’t move.

Words he never meant
left his lips like truth,
and her silence… stayed.

He could’ve gone after her.
He should’ve.

But hurt held him back,
even as his heart
ran after her anyway.

And somehow—
pushing her away
hurt him more
than losing her.

(ALIGANJ, LUCKNOW)

TRIPATHI NIWAS

POLICE STATION - THANA

The police station in Lucknow stood under a tired yellow streetlight, its fading walls marked with years of dust and stories no one ever spoke about, the kind that clung quietly to corners and refused to leave even in daylight. The night wrapped around it in a heavy, unmoving silence, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional sharp bark of a stray dog echoing through the empty streets. Inside, a lone ceiling fan creaked in slow, uneven circles, pushing around warm, stale air as a half-asleep constable flipped through worn-out files, the smell of old paper and overboiled chai lingering like something forgotten but stubborn.

Vikram sat slumped against the wall, one knee bent, his hands resting loosely over it, his posture careless in a place where most men would feel unease crawling under their skin, but there was nothing in his expression—not anger, not frustration, not even boredom. If anything, there was a strange kind of ease about him, as if this place didn't hold power over him but instead bent quietly around his presence.

He didn't mind the police station. If anything, he liked it.

Because he had always been the kind of man people couldn't read, the kind who didn't react the way they expected, and that made him dangerous in a way loud men could never be.

Nonchalant.

Terrifyingly so.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his gaze settled on the man sitting across from him—Rohan—who looked nothing like the man he had pretended to be outside, all that arrogance stripped away, leaving behind something smaller, something weaker, something that almost made Vikram lose interest... almost.

Rohan had really thought he could twist things, thought he could file a report, play victim, drag Vikram into this place and walk out untouched, as if what he had done to Zoya would simply disappear under clever words and false statements, but karma had a way of circling back, slow and precise, and now he was the one sitting there, caged in by his own actions, an assault report stamped against his name.

Vikram's smirk deepened, not wide, not loud, just enough to show that he was enjoying this far more than he should.

"Tujhe kya laga?" he said quietly, his voice low but edged with something sharp enough to cut, leaning forward just slightly, eyes locked onto Rohan with a calm that felt far more dangerous than anger ever could, "tu report likhwa ke mujhe andar kar dega... aur tere crime ki saza tujhe nahi milegi?"

There was no rush in his tone, no raised voice, just a slow, deliberate weight behind every word that made it worse.

Rohan didn't hesitate, didn't think, didn't even realize the line he was about to cross. "Aisi ladki..." he muttered, voice laced with ugly contempt, "slut jaise usko toh yeh sab milna hi chahiye tha."

And just like that—

he made the mistake. He called his Zoya slut.

Vikram went still. Not loudly, not dramatically, just a pause, a tightening, the kind that came before something snapped.

His jaw clenched, hard enough for the muscle to tick, his eyes flicking for the briefest second toward the officer standing a few feet away, who had very clearly heard every word but said nothing, his expression unreadable, almost indifferent... almost.

And then Vikram stood.

No warning.

No second thought.

His fist connected with Rohan's jaw with a sharp, cracking sound that cut through the silence of the station like a gunshot, sudden and absolute, the force of it sending Rohan stumbling sideways before collapsing onto the floor, a broken cry tearing out of him as his hand flew to his face.

Everything stilled.

For a second, maybe two.

Constables froze mid-step, papers halted mid-air, the slow creak of the fan suddenly too loud in the quiet—but no one moved forward, no one rushed in, no one shouted.

"Every man standing in that police station had a daughter, a sister, a mother waiting at home... and yet, by supporting a man who calls a woman a slut, they were failing every woman they claimed to protect."

Because everyone there knew.

Knew exactly what had just happened.

And why.

Rohan writhed on the ground, clutching his jaw, his voice rising into panicked, pained screams as he looked up at the officers, expecting outrage, expecting action, expecting someone to step in and do their job.

But they didn't.

They simply watched for a moment before turning back, one by one, to their files, their desks, their routine, as if nothing had happened at all.

As if they had seen nothing worth stopping.

As if, for once, the line between right and wrong had been quietly, deliberately ignored.

Vikram stood there, fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling in controlled breaths, every muscle in his body tight like he was still holding himself back from doing more, from ending it right there, right now—but he didn't move again.

He didn't need to.

Because the message had already been delivered.

Rohan, on the other hand, wasn't calm.

He was scrambling now, half on the floor, half trying to get up, his hand clutching his jaw as if holding it together would somehow piece back his shattered pride, his eyes darting wildly between the officers, searching for help that wasn't coming, for authority that suddenly didn't belong to him anymore.

"Yeh—yeh dekha aapne?" he stammered, his voice breaking somewhere between outrage and fear. "Usne mujhe maara—police station ke andar—"

No one answered.

A constable turned a page.

Another lifted his glass of chai, taking a slow sip like this was just another night, another story, nothing worth interrupting.

And that silence—God, that silence said everything.

Vikram let out a quiet breath, almost amused, running his tongue briefly over his teeth before tilting his head slightly, looking down at Rohan not like a man... but like something far less.

"Bol na ab," he said, voice low, almost conversational, as if they were discussing something trivial and not the weight of what had just happened. "Ab bol... kya bola tha tu?"

Rohan's lips parted, but no words came out this time. Because now he understood. There was a difference between saying something in arrogance... and repeating it when you knew the consequences.

Vikram took a slow step forward. Just one. And that was enough to make Rohan instinctively shift back, his body reacting before his mind could catch up, fear settling deep into his bones in a way that no lock-up ever could.

"Zoya ke liye ek aur shabd bola na..." Vikram's voice dropped further, softer, but laced with something lethal, something that didn't need volume to be heard. "Toh yahan se seedha hospital jayega... samjha?"

There was no shouting. No dramatic rage. Just certainty. And that's what made it terrifying.

For a second, it almost looked like Vikram would hit him again—his fingers twitching slightly at his side, the restraint visible but thinning, like a thread about to snap—but then he exhaled, sharp and controlled, stepping back instead, dragging his hand through his hair as if physically pulling himself away from the edge.

Because in that moment he was remembering when Rohan had insulted Zoya first time in the school corridor and she had held onto his wrist maybe scared and her face flashed against him again.

Because this wasn't about losing control.

It never was.

It was about reminding someone exactly where they stood.

Rohan stayed on the floor, breathing uneven, his earlier arrogance stripped down to something small, something pathetic, his eyes avoiding Vikram now, fixed somewhere else, anywhere else.

And around them, life resumed. The fan creaked again. Pages turned. A pen scratched against paper.

But something had shifted. Not loudly, not dramatically—but enough.

Because in that moment, in that worn-out police station under that tired yellow light, justice hadn't come through paperwork or procedure.

It had come through a man who didn't care about consequences—

only about her.

Just then, a constable walked in, a small worn bag hanging loosely from his hand, his steps unhurried as he leaned slightly toward the officer and whispered something under his breath, too low for anyone else to catch, and then—without making a scene—he turned and started walking straight toward Vikram.

Vikram's brows knit faintly, his gaze flickering between the constable and the bag, curiosity slipping in through the cracks of his fading anger, because this—this wasn't usual.

Before he could even ask anything, the constable stopped in front of the bars and extended the bag through the gap, holding it out to him.

"Tumhare liye khaana aaya hai."

For a second, Vikram didn't take it. He just stared. Khaana aaya hai? Who would send him food?

He had already told his mother not to worry, had made it very clear that he didn't need anything, that he'd manage, that this was nothing.

Yet... someone still sent it.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he reached out and took the bag, his fingers brushing against the rough cloth as something unfamiliar settled in his chest, something he didn't immediately understand, and when he opened it—carelessly at first, then with a strange kind of urgency—his eyes landed on the folded note tucked neatly inside.

He paused.

Then picked it up.

Umeed karti hu aapko khana pasand aaye... aur haan, judgement is allowed.
—Zoya

And just like that—

everything stopped.

Vikram froze completely, his breath catching somewhere in his throat as if his body had forgotten what to do next, his heart skipping in a way that felt almost ridiculous for a man like him, and yet it did, it actually did, while a sudden warmth rushed to his face, spreading across his cheeks before he could even control it.

He knew that handwriting. Of course he did. There was no mistaking it.

Zoya. She sent this. No—she made this. At this hour... in the middle of the night... for him.

Without thinking further, he yanked the bag open properly this time, almost impatient now, and the moment he saw what was inside—his favourites, every single one of them—something twisted in his chest so sharply it almost hurt.

Dal Makhani.

Soft naan wrapped carefully.

And tucked to the side... Ras Malai.

His throat tightened unexpectedly, his eyes stinging in a way that caught him off guard, because he wasn't the kind of man who teared up—not for things like this, not ever—but how was he supposed to not feel this?

She remembered.

She cared.

She went out of her way to do this for him.

For him.

He swallowed hard and looked up, almost instinctively, his gaze meeting the constable's, who was watching him now—not with authority, not with indifference, but with something softer, something that felt almost... understanding.

"Khale, beta," the constable said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that didn't belong to just this moment. "Jab khaana aise aata hai na... toh voh sirf khaana nahi hota."

He paused, his eyes flickering away briefly as if pulled by an old memory.

"Voh pyaar hota hai."

For a moment, Vikram didn't respond.

Couldn't.

Because he felt it too.

That it wasn't just food.

Not even close.

He glanced back down, his fingers brushing against the containers again, slower this time, almost careful, and that's when he noticed another small note tucked awkwardly to the side, like it had been shoved in at the last second.

He unfolded it.

Oye saale, zyada Zoya Zoya mat kariyo. Hum sab ne milke banaya hai.

And that was it.

That broke him in a completely different way.

A half-sob, half-chuckle slipped out of his throat before he could stop it, his head dropping slightly as he let out a breath that felt heavier than it should have, because of course—it had to be Akshay.

It couldn't be anyone else.

And in that moment—

nothing else existed.

Not Rohan still lying on the floor, groaning and clutching his jaw.

Not the station. Not the people. Just this.

This quiet, overwhelming reminder that no matter where he ended up, no matter what mess he got himself into—his people were always there.

Always.

And then... Zoya.

His grip tightened slightly around the note, his jaw setting as a different emotion surfaced beneath the warmth, something sharper, something more restless, because he knew why she had done this.

He knew her. She must be blaming herself. Thinking this was her fault. As if she had caused any of this. As if she wasn't the one who had been wronged.

His jaw clenched harder, a flicker of frustration passing through him, not at her—but at the way she carried guilt that never belonged to her in the first place, the way she probably sat somewhere convincing herself she was responsible for his being here.

He hated that. More than anything. He wanted to shake her, make her understand, make her see it clearly—that none of this was on her, that it never was, that she didn't owe anyone guilt for surviving something that wasn't her doing.

And yet...

despite that—

or maybe because of it—

he felt it.

That pull.

Stronger than before.

Deeper than before.

He hadn't expected this from her.

Hadn't expected her to show up like this in his life, quietly, stubbornly, in ways that mattered.

But she did.

And somehow, that made him feel like the luckiest man alive.

The smell of the food reached him again, richer now, grounding him back into the moment, and just like that, whatever restraint he had left disappeared as he sat down and dug in, tearing a piece of naan and dipping it into the dal, not caring how it looked, not caring about anything as he took a bite.

It tasted—

like home.

Like something he didn't even realize he had been missing.

He ate quickly, almost messily, like he hadn't eaten in days, but there was no desperation in it—just something raw, something real, something that settled deep inside him with every bite.

And somewhere, buried beneath all that chaos he carried so effortlessly, a quiet, unfamiliar thought took shape—

that maybe...

just maybe...

a man who never wished for anything in his life would willingly walk into a place like this again—

if it meant being cared for like this.

If it meant... her.

In that moment... he had fallen all over again for her.

Not the kind of falling that comes with stolen glances and shy smiles.

This one was quieter.

Heavier.

A HOUR LATER

An hour later, the police station had sunk even deeper into the night, like it had given up pretending to stay awake. The earlier tension had dissolved into something heavier, something quieter, leaving behind a thick, unmoving silence that clung to the walls. 

The slow ticking of the wall clock grew louder in the stillness, each second dragging its feet, while a flickering tube light buzzed weakly overhead as if it too was on the verge of giving up. The air felt stale, weighed down with the lingering smell of chai, old paper, and exhaustion that had nowhere to go. 

One constable had dozed off at his desk, his head dipping forward as a file slipped from his loose grip, papers spreading slightly across the table, while from somewhere deeper inside the lockup came the faint clink of chains—soft, distant, but enough to remind anyone listening that sleep never truly belonged in a place like this.

And then—

the door burst open.

Not pushed. Not knocked.

Flung open.

The sharp sound cut through the silence like it didn't belong there, and every head that wasn't already too tired to move turned instinctively toward the entrance.

A man stood there, chest rising and falling hard, anger practically radiating off him, his face twisted with the kind of arrogance that came from never being told he was wrong.

Rohan's father.

A man who looked less concerned and more offended—offended that his son had been put behind bars at all, as if the very idea of consequences was beneath them, as if right and wrong were things that only applied to other people.

Because how could he ever believe his son was wrong?

Not when he himself carried the same rot in his thinking.

A man who never respected women could never raise a son who did.

The officer didn't even flinch. Not at the noise. Not at the man. He simply looked up, slow and measured, his expression already set, because he knew this type too well—men who hid behind power, behind entitlement, behind the excuse of being a father while enabling everything their sons became.

And it disgusted him. More than he let show.

Because somewhere behind that desk sat a man who went home to two little girls barely six years old, who tied their hair in the morning, who packed their tiffin, who listened to their stories at night—and every time he saw men like this, it made something twist inside him, something protective, something fierce.

Because to him, women weren't weak.

They weren't something to control.

They were everything that held the world together.

Not just for nine days of Navratri—but every single day.

"Don't you dare shout in my police station," he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the man's rising anger without needing to be loud, his eyes locking onto him with a warning that didn't need repeating.

If he had known the truth yesterday—if he had known that Vikram was the one who had stepped in, who had stopped something far worse from happening—he would have never arrested him in the first place.

But lies had been fed.

Convenient lies.

Spoken by the same man now standing in front of him. 

"Why have you arrested my son?" Rohan's father snapped, his voice sharp, his gaze darting toward the lockup before freezing mid-step as he caught sight of Rohan—sitting there, blood smeared along his jaw, his condition far from the image of a wronged victim.

For a second, something flickered. Not realization. Just shock.

Then it twisted instantly into anger.

"Who the fuck did that to my son?" he growled, turning back, his voice louder now, demanding, like the answer would somehow undo everything.

But the officer didn't move. Didn't react. Didn't soften.

"Your son was the one who hit the other boy first," he said evenly, his tone controlled, almost casual, as if stating a fact that didn't need defending. His eyes shifted briefly, glancing toward Vikram—who now lay on the floor, one arm folded under his head, asleep like the chaos from earlier hadn't even touched him—before looking back. "And of course... he got overpowered."

It was a lie. A clean one. Deliberate.

Because the officer knew exactly what had happened. And he also knew which version of the truth deserved to be written down.

"Your son was out of line." The words landed heavier than they sounded. Rohan's father clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides, his anger still there but now tangled with something else—calculation.

"If you want your son out," the officer continued, leaning back slightly, his fingers resting beneath his chin as if he had all the time in the world, "then you might want to take the report back against that boy—Vikram."

A pause. Just enough to let it sink in. "Then maybe," he added quietly, "they'll take theirs back too. And your son walks out."

Silence followed. Thick. Uncomfortable. 

Rohan's father froze where he stood, the words hitting exactly where they were meant to, his mind running ahead, weighing options, pride clashing with desperation, because for all his arrogance—he wanted his son out.

"No... but you can't—" he started, but the sentence fell apart halfway, because even he knew this wasn't a negotiation he controlled.

Not here. Not tonight. Not with this officer.

His shoulders rose with a sharp inhale before he turned abruptly, frustration pouring out of him in the only way he could manage, his fists clenched tight at his sides as he walked out the same way he came in—fast, angry, but quieter now, like something had been forced down his throat.

The door shut behind him with less force this time.

And just like that—

the station slipped back into its silence.

The officer let out a slow breath, the tension easing from his shoulders as he looked away, already done with the man, already moving on.

"Us ladke ko kapda de do," he said quietly to a nearby constable, nodding faintly toward Rohan without sparing him another glance. "Khoon saaf kar le."

His voice held no sympathy. Just routine.

Then he picked up his pen again, eyes dropping back to the file in front of him, as if nothing significant had happened at all.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, one thing stayed clear, steady, unshaken—

no matter what it took,

he was getting Vikram out.

 ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

TRIPATHI NIWAS

5:00 AM

The early morning arrived quietly, almost like a secret the night hadn't fully let go of, a faint silver light stretching lazily across the sky as if unsure whether it should stay or fade, while the world lingered in that delicate space between sleep and waking. The air felt cooler, untouched, carrying with it the distant call of a lone bird breaking through the silence, and somewhere inside the house, a curtain shifted softly, a kettle began its low hum, and life—slow, unhurried—started slipping back in.

Mandakini had just woken up when she made her way downstairs, her salwar suit rustling faintly with each step, her dupatta slipping carelessly over her shoulder, still caught in the softness of sleep. She walked into the kitchen—and paused.

Bharat stood there. Making chai. Like he used to. Like he always did.

For a moment, she simply watched him, something warm spreading quietly through her chest, because she had almost forgotten what this felt like—this small, ordinary moment—him being home long enough, present enough, to do something as simple as making tea for the two of them. This past year had taken that away, piece by piece, his duty pulling him away more often than not... and yet here he was, like nothing had changed.

Bharat turned slightly, sensing her presence more than hearing it, and when his eyes landed on her—still half-asleep, rubbing her eyes, hair a little messy, dupatta barely in place—he let out a soft chuckle.

"Subah ho gayi, aur madam abhi bhi neend mein hain," he murmured under his breath, shaking his head faintly as he stepped closer.

Before she could react, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering just enough to make her still.

"Here's your chai, jaan," he said softly, sliding the cup toward her along with two biscuits placed exactly the way she liked them—something so small, yet so him.

He remembered. He always did.

Mandakini smiled, a quiet, involuntary smile that reached her eyes, her cheeks warming despite herself as something inside her chest softened completely, and without saying anything, she quickly picked up the cup and turned away, almost rushing out of the kitchen before he could notice the blush creeping up her face.

She made her way to the living room and sat down, bringing the cup to her lips, trying to act normal.

Behind her, Bharat chuckled softly, already having seen everything. Years of marriage—and she still reacted like this.

"Pagal aurat," he muttered to himself, amused, before turning back to clean the stove, a faint smile still lingering on his face.

Just then, the sharp ringing of his phone cut through the calm.

"Jaan, zara dekhna kiska phone hai," he called out casually, not turning around.

Mandakini, still holding her cup, heard both the ring and his voice, and placing the tea aside, she got up and walked back toward the table, picking up the phone.

Her eyes fell on the screen—

and widened instantly.

Police station. For a second, her breath hitched. Vikram. It had to be about Vikram.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she answered the call. "Hello, Mr. Tripathi?" the officer's voice came from the other side.

"Uh... officer ji, main Mandakini hoon... Tripathi ji ki biwi," she said softly, her voice steady but low.

There was a brief pause, followed by a slight chuckle.

"Oh, sorry ma'am," he corrected himself quickly. "Bas yeh batana tha... Rohan ke father ne case wapas le liya hai. Aap kabhi bhi aake apne bete ko le ja sakte hain."

And just like that—

everything inside her stilled.

She could bring her son home. Her Vikram. Back.

For a moment, she couldn't even process it, the words settling slowly, almost unreal, her grip tightening around the phone as her mind struggled to catch up with what her heart had already understood.

"Ma'am? Aap sun rahi hain?" the officer's voice came again, slightly louder this time.

"Haan... haan," she whispered quickly, blinking rapidly as the weight of it finally hit her.

And then—

"BHARAT—!"

Her voice broke through the house, loud, trembling, filled with something that wasn't just urgency—it was relief, it was disbelief, it was everything she had been holding in since the night before.

Bharat rushed in immediately, wiping his hands as he stepped into the living room, only to stop when he saw her—standing there, shaking, one hand clutching the edge of the table, the other still holding the phone like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Before she could even say anything, he pulled her into his arms, instinctively, tucking her face against his neck while his hand moved to her back, rubbing slowly, soothingly.

"Jaan, kya hua?" he asked, his voice softer now, concern slipping in.

Mandakini broke. A sob escaped her, muffled against his chest, her fingers clutching onto him as the tears finally came—not loud, not dramatic, but deep, heavy tears of a mother who had held too much inside, who had watched her son be taken away knowing he hadn't done anything wrong.

"Vo... officer ka phone aaya tha..." she managed between breaths, her voice trembling, uneven.

"It's okay... aaram se," Bharat murmured, his hand still moving gently against her back, letting her take her time.

Slowly, haltingly, she told him everything. And as the words left her, as the meaning settled—

Bharat let out a soft breath, then a small, relieved laugh. "Arre... toh yeh toh khushi ki baat hai, jaan," he said, pulling back slightly to look at her, his thumb wiping away the tears from her cheeks. "Tum ro kyun rahi ho?"

She didn't answer. Because sometimes happiness hurt too when you didn't think it would come to you but it does.

"Bas... ab aur nahi," he whispered gently, brushing away the last of her tears. "Main jaata hoon Vikram ko lene. Tum yahin baitho... chai piyo."

"But mujhe bhi jaana hai... please," she said immediately, her voice softer now but firm in its need, because how could she not go? How could she sit here when her son was out there?

Bharat shook his head, just as firmly. "No, jaan," he said quietly. "Main le aaunga. Tum yahin raho, theek hai?"

He didn't explain it. Didn't say it out loud. But he knew—he didn't know what state Vikram would be in, didn't know what she might see there, and he wasn't ready to let her face that.

She opened her mouth to argue again—

but he cut her off, gently but effectively, leaning in and pressing a soft, brief kiss to her lips, enough to still her words.

"Bas," he murmured, picking up his keys. "Main aata hoon."

And just like that, he turned and walked out. The door closed behind him. Leaving Mandakini standing there, quieter now, steadier—but not fully okay.

After a moment, she slowly sat down again, her gaze drifting to nothing in particular, her thoughts already miles away.

Vikku.

Her firstborn.

Her aankhon ka taara.

She hadn't cried yesterday, hadn't let herself break, because she knew it would only make things harder for him—but that didn't mean she hadn't been terrified, hadn't spent every second worrying about him, about whether he had eaten, whether he had slept, whether he was okay.

Her tea sat untouched in front of her now, forgotten completely. Because nothing mattered more than him.

She clasped her hands together slowly, her eyes closing as her lips moved in a quiet prayer.

"Hey Mahadev... mere Vikku ki raksha karna... please."

It wasn't a grand prayer.

Not a long one.

Just a mother's plea—

simple, desperate, and filled with a love that asked for nothing... except her son's safety.

 ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

ST. MARY SECONDARY SCHOOL

Morning slipped quietly into the school, almost like a secret the night hadn't fully let go of, the corridors still carrying a soft hush that hadn't yet been broken by the usual chaos.

 The faint echo of footsteps travelled through the long hallways, mixing with the gentle scrape of chairs being pulled out, while sunlight filtered in through tall windows, stretching across dusty floors and half-open lockers in warm, golden patches. 

A few early students stood in corners, whispering, laughing under their breath, their voices low like they didn't want to disturb the calm, and somewhere in the air lingered the familiar smell of chalk and fresh notebooks. 

It was that strange, in-between moment—before everything got loud, before everything started moving—when the school felt almost peaceful.

Gauri walked in slowly, her bag resting on her shoulders, her fingers gripping the strap a little tighter than usual as her eyes scanned the corridor, though she wasn't really seeing anything. She had missed school yesterday.

A whole day.

The thought alone felt wrong.

She had never missed a day—not a class, not even for things that actually mattered. Weddings, family functions, endless requests from her parents—she had skipped all of it without a second thought, because somewhere along the way, being perfect had stopped being a choice and had simply become who she was.

And yet yesterday... she hadn't come.

Because her brother had been in jail.

The word still felt heavy.

But now he was back.

That was the only thing that mattered.

This morning, the officer had called. Rohan's father had taken the report back, and Bharat had gone and brought Vikram home. She still remembered how Mandakini had broken down, clutching Vikram like she was afraid he would be taken away again, because what mother could stay strong after seeing her son like that?

"Didu... kaha kho gayi?"

Ekansh's small voice pulled her out of her thoughts as he tugged at her hand, his tiny fingers wrapping around hers, his lips forming a little pout.

Gauri blinked, looking down at him, and for a second, everything softened.

She immediately knelt in front of him, her expression easing. "Sorry, baby... didu bas kuch soch rahi thi," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Ekansh grinned and, copying her, quickly planted a kiss on her cheek before running off, giggling to himself like it was the biggest achievement of his day.

Gauri stayed there for a moment longer than needed. Then slowly stood up again. Reality settling back in.

She knew what was coming.

The looks.

The questions.

In all these years, she had never taken a leave—not once—and now suddenly missing a whole day? People would notice. Of course they would.

Because that was who she had made herself into.

Perfect.

Topper.

Unshakeable.

It wasn't something her parents had forced on her directly—they didn't even realise it—but somewhere along the way, it had seeped into her, settled in her bones, until it became suffocating in ways she couldn't even explain.

Study. Make others proud. Study. Make others proud.

A loop that never ended.

And yet...

the past few days had been anything but perfect.

Sneaking out at night.

Taking the blame for Zaid when her father had asked who planned it.

That moment still felt unreal.

She—Gauri Tripathi—the girl who had never been scolded, who had never stepped out of line, had stood there and taken it all without thinking twice.

For him.

Even now, she didn't fully understand why.

Only Shankar knew.

Maybe it was guilt.

The way she had ignored him.

The way she had hurt him... made him cry.

Something she had never imagined she would do—and yet she had.

Maybe that's why she protected him.

But then again—

why did it matter so much?

The question lingered, unanswered.

And just like that, her thoughts circled back to where it had all begun.

Zoya's voice echoed in her head, clear as a temple bell.

"Acha, okay... if you date my brother, then I would do it too."

The words repeated again and again, refusing to leave.

She had to answer today.

But how was she supposed to?

Her brother—who had done nothing wrong—had gone to jail for Zoya, and still, he held no anger, no bitterness, hiding everything he felt like it didn't matter.

He deserved happiness.

He deserved her.

And if Gauri said yes—

three lives would change.

Vikram would finally be with the girl he had loved quietly for so long.

Zoya would stop blaming herself, would finally breathe without guilt crushing her.

And Zaid...

Zaid would smile again.

Because she knew how deeply he had taken it, how he had convinced himself he wasn't enough for her—that his stutter, his marks, the differences between them made him unworthy.

But that was never true.

Not to her.

She had never thought less of him.

Not for a second.

The only reason she had pulled away was because she never thought what he felt was real—she thought it was just a passing crush, something boys said without meaning.

She hadn't realised it ran deeper.

Until it was too late. Until she saw it in his eyes. And then there was the truth she couldn't ignore.

He was Muslim. And she knew—no matter how close their families were, no matter how strong the friendship between their fathers was—her own father would never accept this.

Not when their worlds were so different. Not when he followed one way of life and she another.

Not when even something as simple as food drew a line between them.

If she said yes—

she would have to hide it.

Completely.

Pretend nothing had changed.

Pretend she hadn't crossed a line she wasn't supposed to.

"Gauri?"

She blinked, her thoughts snapping apart as she turned to see Aditya Shekhawat standing behind her. Head boy. Her equal in every sense. If she was perfection, he was its mirror.

"Adi... is everything okay?" she asked, quickly gathering herself, even though the storm inside her hadn't settled even a little.

He nodded, his expression calm but his eyes searching. "Haan... sab theek hai. But I heard about Vikram... is he okay?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying genuine concern.

Aditya didn't talk to many people. He never had.

But Gauri—

she was different.

Maybe because she understood him without trying. Maybe because she was just as real as he was. She was like his soul sister. Someone who understood him without words.

"Yeah... bhai is fine. Don't worry," she said softly. "Lunch break mein sab bataungi." 

Just then, the bell rang, loud and sharp, breaking the calm that had lingered for too long.

Aditya didn't wait. He reached out and gripped her elbow lightly. "Chal, class mein chalte hain... time ho gaya hai," he said, already pulling her along before she could respond.

Gauri let herself be dragged, her steps moving automatically, but her mind—

her mind was still somewhere else.

Because Aditya had noticed. He had been noticing for days now. The way she got distracted. The way she wasn't fully present anymore. And he wasn't the kind to ignore things like that.

He needed answers.

And sooner or later—

he was going to get them.

Somewhere in the corner, half-hidden behind the line of lockers where the sunlight didn't quite reach, a figure stood still—too still—watching.

Watching everything.

The way Aditya's hand had closed around Gauri's arm so easily, like it belonged there. The way she hadn't pulled away. Hadn't even flinched.

Just walked with him... like it was normal.

Like it meant nothing.

But to him—

it meant everything.

His jaw tightened, fingers curling slowly into fists at his sides as something sharp and unfamiliar twisted deep in his chest, something that felt a lot like anger but burned far worse. It wasn't loud, wasn't explosive—it was quiet, suffocating, the kind that sat heavy in your ribs and refused to leave.

Because he noticed things. The small things. The way she let Aditya stand close. The way she spoke to him without hesitation.

The way there was no distance. And that's when it hit him. Hard.

Not all at once—but in pieces, sinking in slowly, painfully. She was comfortable with him. With Aditya. Comfortable in a way she had never been with him.

And maybe—

maybe she liked it.

That thought alone was enough to make something inside him crack, something fragile that he hadn't even realised he was holding onto until now, and just like that, it slipped. Broke. Again.

His gaze dropped for a second, his breath uneven, as he forced himself to look away, because watching any longer would only make it worse—and yet, even when he turned, the image stayed.

Burned.

Unavoidable.

Because some truths didn't need words.

They showed themselves in the smallest moments.

And this—

this was one of them.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Class – 12 C

The classroom carried that soft, familiar hum of a day just about to begin, not fully alive yet but no longer asleep either, as sunlight slipped in through half-open windows and stretched lazily across wooden desks, each one scratched with names, doodles, and quiet histories of students who had once sat there. The faint smell of chalk lingered in the air, mixing with the rustle of notebooks being opened and the low murmur of voices trying not to be too loud, while chairs scraped lightly against the floor as everyone settled into their places.

Vikram sat in his usual seat beside Akshay, his posture more relaxed than it should've been, one arm resting against the desk while his head leaned slightly to the side, like he hadn't fully caught up with the day yet. He was exhausted—anyone who looked closely could tell. The night had been long, heavier than most, and his body still carried the weight of it, but despite everything... he had still come.

Of course he had.

Because she was here.

Zoya.

She sat a few rows ahead, beside Akshara and Gauri, the three of them bent slightly over their desks, pretending to focus on the class, though every now and then their heads leaned toward each other in quiet whispers. From where he sat, Vikram could see her clearly—too clearly—and that was his problem.

Because once he looked, he couldn't stop.

"Arre yaar, Zaid kahan hai?" Akshay whispered suddenly, glancing around the classroom, his voice carrying a hint of confusion, maybe even a little worry.

Vikram didn't even bother shifting his gaze. "Abe yaar, phukne gaya hoga... aur kya," he muttered under his breath, his eyes still fixed ahead.

Akshay froze for a second, then slowly nodded, because it made sense. Zaid disappearing like that wasn't new—sometimes he just slipped away during class, finding some quiet corner where no one would bother him.

Before either of them could say anything else, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Vikram."

Mrs. Shalini's tone was enough to make half the class stiffen.

"Is there something interesting you see, bacha?"

For a second, there was silence.

Then—

a ripple of laughter broke out across the room.

Because it wasn't hard to see.

The way Vikram sat there, completely uninterested in anything except the direction he was staring in, his attention nowhere near the board, nowhere near the lesson.

Akshay coughed lightly, trying to hide his grin.

Ahead, Akshara leaned slightly toward Zoya and whispered something, and almost immediately, Zoya's lips twitched as she tried to hold it in before finally giving in and glancing back.

Her brown-hazel eyes searched—

and found his.

For a moment, everything else faded.

The noise, the class, the teacher—

none of it mattered.

She covered her mouth quickly, barely holding back her laughter, because of course he had been staring, of course he hadn't even tried to hide it.

Mrs. Shalini sighed, clearly done, and brought the duster down against the desk with a sharp thud.

"Okay, enough for today," she said sternly, before looking straight at him. "Beta, focus on class."

But even then—

Zoya didn't look away.

Her gaze lingered on him longer than it should have, her expression softening just a little as she noticed the details others might have missed.

The dark circles beneath his eyes.

The slight heaviness in the way he sat.

The exhaustion he wasn't even trying to hide.

And still—

he had come.

She exhaled quietly, something pulling at her chest, because she knew why.

Stubborn.

Completely, hopelessly stubborn.

Her thoughts drifted back to the night before, to the food they had sent, to the effort, the worry behind it, and for a second she wondered—did he like it? Did he eat properly? Did it even reach him the way she had hoped it would?

This morning, when she had heard he was back, out of jail, she hadn't even been able to believe it at first. The relief had come suddenly, overwhelming, but along with it—

something had shifted.

The way she looked at him wasn't the same anymore.

She saw him differently now.

Not just as Vikram—

but as someone who would stand in front of anything for her without thinking twice.

And for the first time—

it made her feel... seen. And she was already considering Gauri's words from yesterday that she would date Vikram. There was no harm was it? He was one of the purest soul and he had gone to jail for her. 

Back at his desk, Vikram was still staring. Completely gone. His cheeks had warmed slightly, though he didn't even realise it, his gaze soft in a way that didn't match the rest of him.

God. How could someone look like that? How did someone even become that beautiful?

He had thought about it so many times, tried to put it into words, tried to make sense of it—but every time he did, it felt less, incomplete, like no word in the world could ever come close.

Because she wasn't something you described.

She was something you just... looked at.

The way her hair fell softly along the sides of her face, the neat braid resting over her shoulder, the way the light caught against it just right—

everything about her felt effortless.

And somehow—

that made it worse.

Because no matter how long he looked,

it still didn't feel like enough.

"Okay, class."

Mrs. Shalini clapped her hands once, sharp enough to cut through the scattered whispers and half-attentive minds, and slowly, the room settled, though not completely—there was always that low hum of curiosity that refused to die down.

"This year," she continued, adjusting her glasses slightly as her gaze moved across the room, "the projects are going to be... different."

That word alone was enough to make a few students exchange looks.

"To give everyone a fair chance to grow academically," she went on, her tone calm but leaving no room for argument, "I've paired students in a way where one strong student will work with someone who doesn't perform as well. And it will be the responsibility of the stronger student to ensure that the project is done properly."

For a second—

silence.

Then whispers.

Low at first, then spreading across the room like ripples in water.

Gauri stiffened instantly, her grip tightening around her pen as irritation flickered through her, sharp and immediate.

This was—

annoying.

Working with someone who didn't even care about studies? Someone who wouldn't put in the effort? It felt unfair, almost like punishment for doing well.

Around her, a few voices rose in protest, complaints slipping out before anyone could stop themselves, but Mrs. Shalini didn't even let it build.

"Enough," she said firmly, her voice cutting through everything again as she picked up the list in her hand. "I've already decided."

And just like that—

there was no room left to argue.

She began reading out the names, one by one, her voice steady, indifferent to the reactions that followed each pairing.

"Vikram—you're paired with Zoya for the entire year."

For a second, it didn't register.

Then it did.

She paused briefly, pushing her glasses up again. "And remember, this isn't temporary. This pairing will continue for the whole year."

A few heads turned instantly. Some amused. Some curious. Some... knowing. She continued, calling out other names without pause, the room reacting in small bursts each time.

"Gauri—you're paired with Zaid."

That one—

landed differently.

Gauri froze. Completely. The words echoed in her head, refusing to settle properly, her thoughts stumbling over themselves because of all the people—Zaid?

How was she supposed to do this? How was she even supposed to talk to him after everything?

After the way she had hurt him, ignored him, made him feel like he didn't matter—

and now this?

Mrs. Shalini kept going, unaware or unconcerned.

"Akshay—you're paired with Akshara."

Akshara turned instantly, her expression shifting into a glare so sharp it could've cut through him, like he had personally arranged this just to irritate her.

Akshay, of course, only smirked, leaning back in his chair like this was the most entertaining thing that had happened all day.

Typical.

Around them, reactions varied—some disappointed, some resigned, some already calculating how they were going to survive this.

Zoya, meanwhile, slumped slightly in her seat, her shoulders dropping as the reality of it sank in.

Vikram.

Out of everyone. How was she supposed to face him now that she knew he loved her?

She swallowed, her mind already racing ahead to everything that could go wrong, because studies were not her thing—not even close—and now she was paired with someone like him who was so good at studies?

He would find out. How bad she actually was. How she struggled with things that others found easy. God. He was going to think she was stupid.

Mrs. Shalini's voice continued in the background, explaining the project details, expectations, deadlines—but hardly anyone was actually listening anymore.

Because the real impact had already been made.

Gauri sat there, still processing, her thoughts tangled, her chest tight with a mix of discomfort and something she didn't want to name.

Akshara kept throwing occasional glares at Akshay, who seemed entirely too pleased with himself.

Zoya stared down at her notebook, though she wasn't seeing a single word written on it.

And Vikram—

for once—

wasn't even pretending to focus on anything else.

Because this?

This changed things.

In ways none of them were ready for.

And just like that, a simple school project had done something far more complicated—

it had tied people together who were certain of only one thing.

They didn't belong with each other.

Not like this.

"Okay, you have two months for the project, bachon," Mrs. Shalini said, clapping her hands lightly once more as if to seal the announcement in place, her voice carrying that finality that meant nothing was up for discussion anymore. "I wish you all the best... and remember, the best project will be displayed for the entire year."

That caught attention. Of course it did. Because suddenly it wasn't just about passing—it was about being seen.

And in a class like this, that mattered.

As the murmurs started again, low and restless, Aditya sat where he was, his brows slightly furrowed, something not quite adding up in his mind. He had been listening carefully—he always did—but no matter how many names she had called out, his hadn't come up.

Not once.

He glanced at the list in her hand, then around the room, a faint unease settling in because he didn't see himself working with anyone—and more than that, he didn't know how to.

He never had.

Gauri, sensing the shift behind her, turned slightly in her seat, noticing the confusion on his face almost instantly.

"Adi," she called softly, leaning back just enough to catch his attention, "jaa... ma'am se puch apne partner ke baare mein."

He hesitated for a second.

Then nodded.

Standing up, he walked toward Mrs. Shalini, his steps measured but his thoughts anything but steady, and when he reached her, he spoke quietly, asking what had been bothering him since the announcements began.

She looked at him—

and then let out a small, almost careless "oof," like she had just remembered something she should've said earlier.

"Arre beta, main batana bhool gayi," she said, pulling out the list again and glancing over it before turning it slightly toward him.

His eyes followed.

And stopped.

On a single name.

NOOR.

For a second, he just stared at it, the unfamiliarity of it settling in slowly, his mind trying to place it somewhere and failing.

"Beta, a new student is going to be transferred soon," Mrs. Shalini explained casually, as if this was no big deal at all. "She'll be your partner."

That was it.

No further explanation.

No details.

Nothing.

Before he could even ask anything else, the bell rang, loud and final, and just like that, she gathered her things and walked out of the classroom, leaving behind a room full of reactions—

and one very still Aditya.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the name still lingering in his mind, unfamiliar, distant... unsettling in a way he couldn't quite explain.

A new student.

A stranger.

Someone he would have to work with for two whole months.

He had never done that before.

Never worked with someone he didn't know.

Never tried to understand someone new like this.

Gauri had always been enough.

Safe.

Familiar.

But this—

this was different.

And as he slowly turned back toward his seat, something quiet but real settled in his chest.

Not excitement.

Not curiosity.

Just a faint, uncomfortable uncertainty—

because for the first time in a long while,

Aditya Shekhawat had no idea how this was going to go.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

LUNCH BREAK - PLAYGROUND

The playground burst into life the moment the bell rang, like something had been held back for too long and was finally let loose. Laughter spilled into the open air, voices overlapping in loud, careless chaos as students rushed out in groups, some already opening their tiffins, others running straight toward the field without a second thought. Circles formed under the sun—friends sitting cross-legged, sharing food and secrets—while a few chased each other across the ground, their footsteps kicking up dust that hung briefly in the air before settling again. The smell of homemade food mixed with the warmth of the afternoon, and for a little while, everything felt lighter, freer—like nothing really mattered beyond this moment.

Zoya walked into the playground beside Akshara, both of them holding their lunch boxes and notebooks, though neither of them looked particularly interested in eating. There was a certain stiffness in their steps, a shared irritation simmering quietly between them, because of course—out of everyone—they had been paired with them.

Akshay.

And Vikram.

As if that wasn't enough already.

Their eyes scanned the ground until they found them—right there, in the middle of the field, completely absorbed in a cricket match, laughing, shouting, playing like nothing else existed, like they didn't have a project hanging over their heads at all.

And just like that—

the irritation turned into something sharper.

Anger.

Without saying a word to each other, they started walking toward them, their pace quickening with every step, until it wasn't just walking anymore—it was almost storming.

Zoya didn't even pause. Didn't think. She walked straight onto the field, right toward Vikram, who was just about to take his position to bat, his shirt slightly untucked, damp with sweat, hair a mess from running around, completely at ease in his element.

He saw her at the last second. His eyes widened—just for a fraction of a moment—before instinct took over, his hand shooting out to catch the ball that came flying toward her face, stopping it barely inches away.

For a second, everything stilled. Then he looked over his shoulder at the bowler. "Bhai, aaram se khelo... lag jaati," he said, his tone casual but edged with a warning.

The others exchanged confused looks, because they all knew it wasn't exactly their fault—but still, they nodded, letting it go.

Zoya stood there, unmoving, her eyes fixed on him, anger clear in the way her brows had drawn together, in the way her lips pressed into a thin line.

Vikram raised an eyebrow, slightly amused despite himself, because he had never seen her look at him like this before.

God.

She looked—

adorable.

He shook his head faintly, glancing back at the others. "Yaar tum log khelo... main zara aata hoon."

And just like that, he dropped the bat and followed her as she turned and walked off, not even checking if he was coming or not, her steps quick and sharp until they reached a quieter corner of the ground, away from most of the noise.

"Kya hua, Zoya?" he asked, his tone as nonchalant as ever, like nothing about this situation felt urgent to him.

Because honestly—

how was she supposed to scare him looking like that?

She looked more like a kitten trying to be angry than anything else.

"Kya hua?" she repeated, her voice lower but laced with frustration, her eyes widening as she looked at him. "Aapko samajh nahi aata? We are supposed to work together. At least think about the project instead of doing... this."

Vikram let out a quiet chuckle, lowering himself onto the grass like he had all the time in the world, wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand before looking up at her.

"Zoya," he said softly, almost lazily, ''aap mujhe yeh batane ke liye yahan aayi ho?"

"I know project hai... aur do mahine hain," he added with a shrug. "We've got plenty of time." He said it because it was easy for him he could do the project in one hour before the submission

Her eyes widened again, disbelief mixing with her anger now. 

"Aap samajhte kyun nahi hain?" she said, her voice rising slightly as she looked down at him, clearly frustrated. "We should at least start discussing it... kuch toh plan karein. Aur aap—classes ke baad seedha yahan aa gaye."

She crossed her arms over her chest, the gesture sharp, defensive, her whole posture screaming how much she disliked how lightly he was taking this.

Vikram watched her for a second. And then stood up. Slowly.

His height alone was enough to shift the dynamic, his presence suddenly closer, heavier, even though he wasn't doing anything deliberately, his arms folding across his chest as he tilted his head slightly.

"Acha, maate," he said, a faint teasing edge in his voice, "toh samjha do."

His eyes locked onto hers, steady, unflinching—

and intense in a way that made it hard to ignore.

For a moment, she froze. Because it was difficult to think—really think—when he looked at her like that, like he was seeing more than she wanted him to.

And then she noticed it. That hint of a smile on his face. And something inside her snapped.

Was he—

enjoying this?

Actually enjoying this?

"Aap aise dekhna band karenge?" she said, her voice rising before she could stop herself, louder than she had ever spoken to him, louder than she usually spoke at all.

A few heads turned. People glanced at them briefly before looking away again, uninterested in getting involved.

Vikram stilled. Not startled. Not offended. Just... paused. Because he had never seen her like this before. Never heard her raise her voice. And for the first time, something shifted in his expression—not amusement, not teasing—

but curiosity.

Because now he actually wanted to know—

what had gotten her this angry.

For a second, Vikram just stood there, looking at her like he had discovered something new, something unexpectedly interesting, his head tilting ever so slightly as if he was trying to understand whether this was real or he was still half-asleep from the night before.

Then—

a slow grin spread across his face. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just... amused.

"Arre waah," he let out softly, dragging the words just enough to make it worse, "Zoya ji gussa bhi karti hain."

Her eyes narrowed instantly. Wrong move. Very wrong move.

"Aap mazaak samajh rahe hain?" she snapped, taking a step closer, her grip tightening around the notebook she was still holding like she might actually throw it at him if he didn't fix his attitude.

Vikram raised both his hands slightly in surrender—but the smile didn't leave. "Bilkul nahi," he said, though his tone clearly said otherwise. "Main toh bahut serious hoon."

She stared at him. Unimpressed. Completely. And that—God—that only made it harder for him to keep a straight face.

"Zoya," he added, this time a little softer, though the teasing still lingered underneath, "aapne kabhi cricket khela hai?"

That—

was not the direction she was expecting.

"What?" she blinked, thrown off for a second.

"Cricket," he repeated patiently, nodding toward the field behind him. "Game chal raha tha. Aadmi aadha century pe tha... aur aapne seedha pitch pe aa gayi."

"Ball lag jaati toh?" he added, raising an eyebrow now.  But there was concern. Of course it was always there.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

Because the audacity.

"Aap seriously—" she started, almost at a loss for words now, "—aap mujhe hi blame kar rahe hain?"

"Main blame nahi kar raha," he said quickly, biting back a laugh, "bas bol raha hoon... entry thodi dramatic thi."

That did it.

"OH MY GOD," she threw her hands up, pacing a step away before turning back to him. "Main project ki baat kar rahi hoon aur aapko DRAMA dikh raha hai?"

Vikram couldn't help it. He laughed. Actually laughed. Not loud, not over the top—but enough.

And that—

that made her even more furious.

"Aapko hasi aa rahi hai?" she demanded, pointing a finger at him now.

"Thodi si," he admitted shamelessly, nodding.

She stared at him like she was seconds away from walking off and never speaking to him again.

And maybe she would have—

if he hadn't suddenly stepped a little closer, his laughter fading just enough, his expression softening in a way that didn't match his words before.

"Theek hai," he said, raising his hands again, this time properly. "Sun raha hoon. Boliye."

That caught her off guard.

Because just a second ago, he wasn't taking this seriously at all.

And now—

he was.

Or at least... pretending to.

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then straightened slightly, regaining whatever composure she could.

"We need to start planning," she said, this time more controlled, though the frustration hadn't completely left her voice. "Topic decide karna hai, kaise karenge decide karna hai... aur aap—"

She gestured vaguely toward the field.

"—yahan cricket khel rahe hain."

Vikram listened. Actually listened. Nodding slowly like he was considering every word very deeply.

Then after a pause—

"Hmm."

She waited. Suspicious.

"Valid point hai," he admitted finally.

Her eyes widened a fraction.

Oh?

Oh.

Progress.

"Isliye," he continued, completely serious now—

or at least pretending very well—

"tum kal se mere saath practice pe aa jaana."

Silence.

Pure.

Dead.

Silence.

"...kya?" she blinked.

"Teamwork seekhne ke liye," he explained like it made perfect sense. "Project bhi teamwork hai. Cricket bhi teamwork hai. Same hi baat hai."

For a full three seconds—

she just stared at him.

Processing.

Reprocessing.

Rejecting.

"AAP—" she stopped mid-sentence, exhaling sharply as she pressed her fingers to her forehead. "Aap impossible hain."

Vikram smiled again, softer this time, almost pleased.

"Thank you."

"That was not a compliment!"

"Mujhe laga tha hai," he shrugged.

She turned away, taking a few steps like she was done, completely done with this conversation, with him, with everything—

But then, before she could take another step away, Vikram reached out and caught her wrist—softly, not forcefully, just enough to stop her.

And just like that—

both of them stilled.

Because this... this was the first time.

The first time he had touched her like this.

Not by accident. Not in passing.

On purpose.

For a second, neither of them moved, the moment stretching quietly between them, something unspoken settling in the air, before Vikram gently tugged her along, guiding her away from the noise of the playground toward the back of the building, where the voices faded and silence took over.

Zoya tried to resist, pulling back slightly, muttering protests under her breath—but he didn't stop. Didn't let go either. Not until they reached a quiet corner where no one would disturb them.

Only then did he loosen his grip. But he didn't step away.

"Gussa kyun ho?" he asked, his voice softer now, stripped of the teasing from before, his expression serious in a way that didn't show itself often—at least not to anyone else.

Only her.

He leaned down slightly, lowering himself just enough so that his eyes met hers directly, holding her gaze steady, like he actually wanted an answer this time.

And maybe—on any other day—that alone would've been enough to make her forget what she was angry about.

But not today.

Not right now.

Zoya kept her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips pressed together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

Silence.

Vikram watched her for a second, then exhaled lightly.

"Acha, maate... sorry," he said quietly, lifting his hand to his head in that half-serious, half-playful promise gesture. "Ab nahi hasunga. Pakka."

Still—

nothing.

No response.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her face, thinking, trying to figure out what would break through this wall she had built up—and then, slowly, a grin began to form, like he had just found the answer.

Without warning, he shifted closer. One hand came up beside her, resting against the wall, effectively boxing her in just enough to make her aware of how little space there was between them now.

"Pata hai... jail mein sabse best cheez kya thi?" he asked, his voice dropping just a little, like he already knew this would get her attention.

And it did.

Zoya froze. The sudden change in topic catching her completely off guard, her heart picking up its pace before she could stop it, because the word jail alone was enough to pull her focus away from everything else.

Her anger faltered. Just slightly.

Slowly, almost despite herself, she looked up at him—and that's when she noticed it.

How close they were.

Too close.

One small movement and their noses would brush.

Her breath caught for a second.

God—

why did he have to look like this?

His hair slightly damp from sweat, falling messily over his forehead, his face still carrying traces of the game, of the sun, of everything that made him... him.

And for one fleeting, dangerous second—

she wanted to reach out.

Run her fingers through his hair.

Like she had a right to.

The thought hit her so suddenly that she froze, her eyes widening just a fraction.

What was she even thinking?

"Ya Allah..." she whispered under her breath before she could stop herself.

Of course—

he heard it.

Vikram's smirk returned instantly, slow and knowing as he looked at her. "Maate... aisa kya bol diya maine ki seedha upar wale ko yaad karna pad gaya?" he murmured, amusement laced through every word.

She stiffened. Shit.

Before she could recover, he leaned in just a little more, his voice dropping into something quieter, teasing.

"Kahin... mere baare mein toh nahi soch rahi thi?"

Her head snapped up, glare returning in full force as she forced herself back into control.

"Aap na bohot hi—" she started, then stopped, completely lost for words, because honestly—how did one even deal with him?

A frustrated "ugh" escaped her instead.

Vikram raised both his hands in surrender immediately.

"Acha maate, sorry," he said again, this time more genuinely, the teasing fading just enough for her to notice.

She studied his face for a moment, searching for any hint of mischief—

but found none. At least not this time. Her shoulders relaxed just a little.

"Theek hai," she muttered, uncrossing her arms and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, still not fully calm—but no longer on the verge of snapping either.

Then she looked back at him, a faint frown knitting her brows.

“Aur yeh ‘maate maate’ kya laga rakha hai?” she asked, her tone laced with clear disapproval.

“Arre… it’s a nickname,” he murmured, almost too casually, as if it wasn’t the very thing testing her patience—while secretly, he seemed to enjoy it far too much.

“Theek hai…” she sighed under her breath, pushing the irritation aside, reminding herself why she’d even stopped him in the first place.

A brief pause.

“Kal… free ho aap school ke baad?” she asked, quieter this time—almost hesitant, like the question itself weighed more than she wanted to admit.

Vikram blinked. Just once.

Because that—

he wasn't expecting.

Then slowly, a small, knowing smile returned. "aapke liye?" he said, tilting his head slightly. "Hamesha."

Because now he wasn't hiding what he felt for her. He wasn't nervous she had found out that he loved her that he would do anything for her. He had heard it from Akshay he had told him about everything

She rolled her eyes instantly. "Project ke liye," she corrected.

"Same baat hai," he replied without missing a beat.

And just like that—

she turned and walked off again.

But this time—

her steps weren't as angry.

And behind her—

Vikram stood there, watching, that same quiet smile still on his face. ''Acha waise dal mein namak kam tha.'' he whispers knowing the affect his words will have on her.

Because somehow—

between her anger, her scolding, and his nonsense—

they had actually decided something.

And more importantly—

he had just found a new favorite thing.

Annoying her.

And in that moment, as he watched her scowl, arms crossed, cheeks flushed, and that fiery spark in her eyes that seemed to demand the world and then some, Vikram felt his chest tighten in a way he hadn't expected, realizing, almost painfully, that he had fallen in love with her all over again, because there was something unbearably, irresistibly... cute about the way she was over-demanding, the way her voice wavered between frustration and indignation, the way she tried so hard to seem in control yet couldn't hide the way her lips trembled slightly or the way her eyes kept darting to him even as she glared, and for the first time in a long while, he wanted nothing else but to make her laugh, to tease her, to see that exact spark again and again, because God, she was infuriating and adorable all at once, and he didn't think he could ever get enough of it.

He had always seen her so calm and silent atleast in front of him but now seeing this side of her he loved it more than anything in this world.

On the ground, Akshara had been looking for Akshay for the past few minutes, scanning the field, the benches, even near the canteen, but he was nowhere to be found, and just when she was about to give up, her eyes landed on the far corner—and there he was.

Talking.

Not just talking—

laughing.

With her.

Meher.

Of course it had to be Meher, the so-called social butterfly of the school, always perfectly dressed, always perfectly loud, always perfectly everywhere, like she owned every space she walked into, and God, Akshara couldn't stand her—the way she spoke, the way she smiled at everyone like she was doing them a favour, the way everything about her felt so... rehearsed.

And this idiot—

this absolute idiot—

was standing there like he had all the time in the world, smiling, nodding, actually entertaining her.

Something inside Akshara snapped.

Just like that.

No second thought, no pause, no trying to be rational—she simply turned and stormed toward them, her steps sharp, fast, purposeful, like she had already decided this conversation was ending whether he liked it or not.

"Akshay—!"

His name came out louder than she intended, almost a shout, cutting straight through whatever Meher had been saying, and before he could even react properly, she reached him and grabbed his arm, pulling him away from her without giving him the chance to process what was happening.

Akshay blinked, completely caught off guard, the cricket ball still in his hand from the match he had stepped out of for a break, his conversation with Meher interrupted mid-sentence as he stumbled a step back with the force of Akshara's pull.

He hadn't even been doing anything. He had just been standing there when Meher came up to him, started talking—random things, pointless things—and he had responded the way anyone would.

It wasn't like she was poison.

But now—

now, looking at Akshara's face, the tightness in her jaw, the fire in her eyes, the way she was practically dragging him away like he had committed some unforgivable crime—

yeah.

Maybe she was poison.

He let himself be dragged for a few steps, more out of sheer surprise than anything else, his grip tightening instinctively around the ball so it wouldn't slip from his hand, brows knitting together as he finally steadied himself and tugged his arm back just enough to slow her down.

"Arre— kya kar rahi hai yaar?" he muttered, confusion laced with a hint of amusement, trying to catch her eye, but she refused to look at him, her face turned away, jaw clenched so tightly it almost looked painful.

She didn't answer. Didn't stop.

Not until they were far away from Meher.
Far enough that her voice couldn't reach them.
Far enough that it was just the two of them, tucked away in a quiet corner where the noise of the playground blurred into the background.

Only then did she loosen her grip on his wrist.

He exhaled, watching her carefully.

"Akshara..." he said again, softer this time, quieter, like he was testing the weight of her name on his tongue, trying to understand what had set her off like this because he had never— not once— seen her this angry.

She still didn't respond.

Just stood there, shoulders stiff, chest rising and falling a little too fast, like she was holding something in that might explode any second.

"Bol bhi do ab... kya problem hai?" he said, crossing his arms over his chest, the ball still tucked in one hand, his tone deliberately light—but his eyes weren't. They were sharp, observant, fixed entirely on her.

That did it.

She snapped her head toward him, finally meeting his gaze, and God— the look on her face could have made anyone take a step back.

Anyone except him.

"Kya problem hai?" she repeated, almost mocking him, disbelief written all over her face as if she couldn't decide whether to be angry or just insulted by his stupidity.

What the hell was wrong with this man?

"YOU are my problem," she shot back, her voice low but burning, each word landing harder than the last. "Everything you do irritates me. Everything. Aur woh smirk—" she let out a frustrated breath, shaking her head, "I swear, ek din tod dungi main."

Akshay didn't laugh. Didn't smirk either. Instead, he leaned forward—slowly, deliberately—until she was almost caged between him and the wall behind her, his presence suddenly overwhelming in a way that made it impossible to ignore him.

"That's a phase of love, darling," he said softly, like he had already figured her out. "I knew you were feeling it."

And that— that only made it worse.

"Pyaar?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost dramatic. "Oh please."

Her hand came up, pushing against his chest, but he didn't move. Not even an inch.

"You are the last person I would ever fall in love with," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, like saying it louder would somehow make it less true.

He didn't react immediately. Just stood there. Looking at her. Really looking at her— like he was seeing something beneath the anger, beneath the irritation, something she herself hadn't realised yet. Like he could see right through the cracks in her armour.

And then— slowly, dangerously— he smiled.

Not teasing.

Not mocking.

Confident.

Certain.

The kind of smile that said he already knew how this would end.

She frowned, completely thrown off. "Why are you smiling?" she snapped, smacking her hand lightly against his chest, more frustrated than she wanted to admit. "Pagal ho gaye ho kya?"

"Haan," he said without missing a beat, his voice dropping just enough to make it land, "tere pyaar mein."

He didn't even try to hide the shamelessness in it. Didn't soften it. Didn't take it back.

Because he wouldn't—no matter how many times she asked.

"Dekho, tum yeh bakwaas band karo ab," she said, jabbing a finger against his chest, glaring up at him, trying to hold on to her anger because that felt safer than whatever this was turning into.

"Konsi bakwaas?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, like he genuinely didn't understand, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed him.

"Yeh jo tum time waste kar rahe ho na," she said, dragging in a breath to steady herself, "yeh playground mein faltu ghoomna, bakwaas karna— we are supposed to be working on the project."

"Ae," he straightened a little, placing a hand over his chest in mock hurt, "mere emotions ko hurt mat kar. Gulchare main sirf tere saath udaata hoon."

She rolled her eyes again, sharper this time.

"Tum na meri baat suno—" she grabbed his collar suddenly, frustration spilling over, pulling him down just enough so he had no choice but to listen.

His eyebrows lifted, but instead of pulling away, he leaned in even closer, letting her hold onto him, completely unfazed.

“Arre…” he murmured, his voice dipping low—amused, almost pleased. “Ab hui na conversation…”

Before she could even react, his fingers closed around her wrists, lifting her hands and pressing them against his collar, tightening them there.

“You know what… tu mujhe manhandle kar sakti hai,” he said lightly, far too casually for the words he was saying. “Main bol dunga—I was asking for it.”

Akshara froze.

What the hell was wrong with this man?

“Ugh—” she exhaled sharply, cutting herself off mid-sentence, already exhausted. God, she couldn’t deal with him. Not with that stupid, infuriating smile on his face.

“You know what? I’m done.” she muttered, pulling her hands back, ready to walk away—

—but the moment she did, something in him shifted.

His grip returned instantly, firmer this time, dragging her hands back against his collar. The amusement was gone.

Now he was just… looking at her.

Serious. Searching.

Her breath hitched.

His expression softened, just slightly, as he stepped closer—too close—caging her between himself and the wall, until there was nowhere left for her to go. Their noses brushed, barely, but enough to send her thoughts scattering.

Akshara stilled completely.

Her body refused to move, refused to push him away.

“Acha… sorry,” he said quietly, the words softer now, stripped of all teasing.

Then, gentler—almost careful—

“Bata… what made you so angry?”

She froze. What could she even say? That she hated him? Or worse—that she hated the way Meher stood so close to him… talked to him… laughed with him?

That something inside her twisted at the sight of it? That she had no right—no right at all—to feel this way over a boy who was nothing but an annoying, insufferable part of her life?

“Akshara…” he warned, his voice still soft, but his eyes steady—unmoving. “Bata mujhe. Kya hua?”

And she knew. He wasn’t going to let this go. Not this time. Not until he heard it from her.

The words sat heavy on her tongue, stubborn, embarrassing—impossible. But he kept looking at her like that. And she broke.

“I don’t like you talking to that Meher,” she whispered.

Just like that. Simple. Like that was explanation enough. Like that was everything.

Because for him it was everything. If she didn't like something he wouldn't do it. If he didn't like someone he would never talk to them.

That made him pause. Just for a second.

Because now—

this didn't feel like just irritation.

He looked at her properly this time, the way her fingers curled slightly into fists at her sides, the way her breathing was uneven, the way she kept looking at him like he had done something bigger than just talking to someone.

And something in his expression shifted. Slightly. "Tujhe problem hai," he said slowly, not even phrasing it as a question anymore.

She didn't deny it this time. Didn't argue. Just looked away, her jaw tightening again. She herself didn't understand what was wrong with her.

"Woh ladki fake hai," she muttered after a moment, her voice lower now, but still edged. "Har kisi ke saath chipak ke ghoomti rehti hai... aur tum bhi—"

She stopped herself. Too late.

"Aur main bhi?" he picked up immediately, one eyebrow raising as he stepped closer again, this time slower, more deliberate.

She exhaled sharply, frustrated with herself now more than him. "tum samajh nahi paoge," she said, trying to brush it off, but the words lacked the same fire as before.

"Try toh kar sakta hoon," he replied quietly. That made her look up.

And for a second—

neither of them spoke.

Because the air had changed. It wasn't loud anymore. Wasn't angry in the same way. It was... something else. Unsteady. "Tujhe pasand nahi hai main usse baat karu," he said finally, softer now, like he was stating something obvious.

She hesitated.

Then—

"Pasand nahi hai," she admitted, barely above a whisper, like the words had slipped out before she could stop them.

Silence.

Akshay stared at her.

And then slowly—

a grin returned. Not as loud. Not as teasing.

But definitely there.

"Acha..." he dragged the word, nodding slightly like he had just confirmed something important. "Toh problem ladki se nahi hai."

Her eyes narrowed instantly. "Matlab?"

He leaned in just a little, lowering his voice enough that it stayed between them.

"Problem mujhse hai."

Her breath caught.

"What?" she frowned.

"Tujhe problem hai... ki main kisi aur se baat kar raha tha," he clarified, his tone annoyingly calm, like he was solving a very simple equation.

She opened her mouth to argue—

but nothing came out.

Because for a second—

it sounded right.

Too right.

"Galat soch rahe ho tum," she said quickly, a little too quickly, shaking her head as she stepped back. "Main aisi nahi hoon." Because since when did she care who he talked to and why was this affecting her so much.

"Kaisi ho phir?" he asked, following her one step, not letting the distance settle again.

She faltered.

Because what exactly was she supposed to say?

Possessive?

Jealous?

No.

Never.

"I just—" she started, then stopped, pressing her lips together as frustration crept back in. "Bas nahi pasand."

Akshay watched her struggle for words, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, before he let out a small sigh. "Theek hai," he said simply. That surprised her.

"Main nahi karunga baat," he added, shrugging lightly like it wasn't a big deal. But it was a big deal if he didn't like someone he would never talk to that person ever again.

She blinked. "Sach?" she asked before she could stop herself.

And the moment the word left her mouth—

she realized. Shit. Akshay caught it. Of course he did. His grin returned instantly—this time sharper, slower... knowing.

"Tere liye?" he asked, tilting his head just a little.

"Haan."

She glared at him again—

but this time, it didn't land the same way.

Because somewhere between the anger, the argument, and that one stupid "sach?"... something had shifted.

Soft. Dangerous. Unsaid.

And the worst part?

Both of them felt it.

Akshara straightened abruptly, like she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. Her expression snapped back into irritation, quick and practiced.

"Haan waise bhi," she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes, "I am just looking out for you."

A beat.

"Saving you from such girls."

The words came out casual—dismissive even—but her fingers curled slightly at her sides, betraying the storm she refused to show.

And just like that, she turned.

Walked away.

Fast enough to not let him see her face.

But not before her voice slipped back—quieter this time, softer, like it wasn't meant to reach him at all—

"...acha... aur kal lunch mein library mein milna."

A pause.

Then she added, almost as an afterthought—

"Mat aana late."

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, a quiet obedience lacing his tone—

but the smile that curved onto his lips? That he didn’t even try to hide.

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t teasing.

It was genuine… soft, almost boyish—like he’d just been handed something he didn’t even know he’d been waiting for.

And somehow, that made it worse.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

2:00 PM 

Gauri had been roaming around the entire school for what felt like forever, moving from one corridor to another, peeking into half-empty classrooms, the library, even the back staircase where hardly anyone went—yet there was still no sign of Zaid, and the frustration was slowly turning into something heavier, something closer to worry, because this wasn't just about a project, even though that alone was enough to stress her out.

A whole year. A whole year of working with someone who clearly didn't care.

Which meant she would have to make him care... drag him through it if needed... and somehow still manage everything else.

"Hey Mahadev... kya aap mujhe saza de rahe hai?" she murmured under her breath, her fingers instinctively moving to the rudraksha beads wrapped around her wrist, rubbing them slowly the way she always did when her thoughts refused to settle, "jo maine unhe hurt kiya uske liye..."

Her voice softened even more.

"Zaid... aap kaha chale gaye..."

The hallway answered with silence. She exhaled, turning around almost helplessly—and that's when she spotted them.

Vikram and Akshay, walking side by side, lost in their own conversation, completely unaware of the storm brewing in her chest.

"Bhaiya!" she called out, rushing toward them so suddenly that both of them stopped mid-step, their expressions shifting the moment they noticed her face.

"Gauri, kya hua?" Vikram asked immediately, his tone dropping, gentle but alert.

"Aap logo ne Zaid ko dekha hai?" she asked in one breath, barely pausing, her words tumbling over each other, "main itni der se unhe dhundh rahi hu, mil hi nahi rahe..."

She hesitated, her voice lowering just a little, uncertainty slipping through.

"Dekhiye... mujhe unke baare mein zyada pata nahi hai, bhaiya... but... does he skip classes like this?"

For a second, Vikram and Akshay exchanged a look—one of those silent, understanding ones that said more than words ever could.

Then Vikram nodded.

"Haan, Gauri... you know," he said, almost matter-of-fact, "na usse classes ki parwah hai, na grades ki... kabhi thi hi nahi."

"And the only reason he even took PCB," Akshay added, shrugging lightly, "was because his father wanted it."

Gauri went quiet. The words settled somewhere deep, heavier than she expected.

"So... he doesn't want it?" she asked softly, almost to herself.

Both of them nodded again. This time, Vikram reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, grounding her.

"Tu sun," he said gently, "Champ ko leke ghar jaa, late ho raha hai... hum log Zaid ko dhoondh lenge."

She opened her mouth to argue—of course she did—but the words didn't come out the way she intended.

"Thik hai... bhaiya," she said instead, quieter than before.

She turned to leave. Took a step. Then stopped. Something inside her refusing to let her walk away just like that.

She turned back slowly, looking at both of them again—and this time, the tears didn't wait.

"Bhaiya... I know maine galat kiya," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it, her gaze dropping to the floor as her fingers gripped the hem of her skirt, twisting the fabric restlessly, "mujhe unse baat karni chahiye thi... mera approach better hona chahiye tha..."

Her breath hitched.

"But I didn't mean to hurt him."

And that was it.

The tears came all at once, uncontrollable, her hands flying up to cover her face as her shoulders shook with quiet sobs she could no longer hold back.

For a moment, Vikram and Akshay just stood there—caught off guard, not expecting her to break like this.

Then, almost instinctively, they pulled her in.

"Ae... ro mat, Gauri... main hoon na," Vikram murmured, his hand moving over her hair in slow, soothing strokes.

"Aur main bhi hoon," Akshay added softly, pressing a quick, comforting kiss to her forehead, "sun... itna stress mat le yaar, yeh toh Zaid ka roz ka hai... aur woh tere wajah se classes skip nahi kar raha, so just... relax."

It took her a moment, but eventually she pulled back, wiping her face quickly, already feeling embarrassed by how vulnerable she must have looked.

"Bas... mujhe..." she paused, trying to steady her voice, "I just want to talk to him."

This time, neither of them joked.

Neither of them dismissed it.

They just nodded.

"And you will," Vikram said quietly, reassuring in a way that didn't need more words, "chal... ghar jaa. Usse hum dhoondh lenge."

And somehow, that was enough.

The weight in her chest didn't disappear—but it loosened, just a little.

So she nodded, took a small breath, and finally walked away.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

BACK OF THE SCHOOL BUILDING

At the back of the school building, far from the noise of classrooms and the constant rush of footsteps, the space opened into something quieter—almost hidden, like a place not many knew about. A narrow, slightly worn path led past the last row of classrooms and curved gently toward a small pond tucked behind old trees, their branches leaning over the water as if trying to guard it.

The pond itself wasn't large, but it was beautiful in a quiet, unassuming way—the surface often still, reflecting the sky and the leaves above, only breaking when a soft breeze passed or a ripple formed near the edges. Wild grass grew unevenly around it, dotted with tiny white and yellow flowers, and a few flat stones lay scattered nearby, as if someone had once sat there and never really left.

It was the kind of place where the world felt slower. Cooler.

Where voices softened without meaning to.

And for a school that was always loud, always full—

this little corner somehow stayed untouched.

And right there, by the edge of that quiet pond, sat Zaid Iqbal.

This had always been his place—the one he came to when things got too loud inside his head, when anger or frustration needed somewhere to go—but today, it wasn't just heavy.

It was suffocating.

Used cigarettes lay scattered around him, some half-burnt, some crushed into the ground without thought, the faint smell of smoke clinging to the air as if even it refused to leave him alone. He didn't know how many he had gone through, didn't care either—his fingers just kept reaching for another, his lungs burning, his chest tight, but none of it enough to quiet what was running inside him.

He hadn't attended a single class. Didn't even try to.

Because every time he closed his eyes, or worse—every time he opened them—he saw the same thing.

Gauri. And Aditya.

The way she stood with him, so at ease, like it was natural... like she belonged there. The way he had held her arm so casually, like it was nothing.

Like she was nothing to be careful with.

Zaid let out a hollow laugh that didn't sound like him at all.

"Yah Allah... kya main itna bura hoon?" he whispered, his voice cracking as he stared at nothing, at everything, at the emptiness in front of him that somehow felt easier than looking within.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, slow and unguarded.

"Why...?" he breathed, more broken with each word. "Why couldn't she look at me like that...?"

His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists.

"Am I that pathetic...? Is it because he's a topper... and I'm not...?"

The questions didn't stop. They just kept piling up, heavier and heavier, until even breathing felt like effort.

And for the first time in his life—

a boy who had never cared about what anyone thought of him...

was breaking under the weight of someone's opinion.

Of her silence.

Another cigarette found its way between his lips, his hands trembling slightly as he lit it, the flame flickering for a second before steadying—unlike him.

Hours had passed. No one had stopped him. No one had been there.

Until—

"Zaid!"

The voice cut through the quiet, sharp, urgent. He didn't react. Didn't even look up.

By the time Vikram and Akshay reached him, the sight in front of them hit harder than anything they had expected.

Zaid didn't look like himself. He looked... wrecked.

Vikram didn't waste a second. He dropped down beside him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him in, almost forcefully, as he snatched the cigarette away and threw it aside. Vikram was scared by the sight in front of him. God, what had this boy done.

"Zaid... kya hua? Kuch toh bol," he said, his voice low but strained, his hands moving to cup Zaid's face, trying to get him to focus.

But Zaid just stared.

Right through him.

Eyes hollow. Empty. Like he wasn't fully there.

"Oye!" Akshay crouched down in front of him, panic slipping through his usual composure as he shook him lightly. "Kya hua yaar? Bol na!"

No response.

Just that same distant look.

The silence stretched a second too long.

Akshay's jaw clenched. He stood up abruptly, grabbed a bottle nearby, and without thinking twice, splashed water across Zaid's face.

"Tu saale ab bolega ya—" his voice dropped, tight with desperation, "warna thappad maarunga."

That did it. Zaid blinked, the world snapping back into place all at once—too loud, too real.

His gaze shifted.

Vikram.

Akshay.

And then—

he broke.

A choked sob escaped him as he leaned forward, burying his face into Vikram's chest, his fingers clutching onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Shhh... it's okay," Vikram whispered immediately, his hand moving over Zaid's back in slow, steady motions, holding him tighter as if he could shield him from whatever this was.

Akshay exhaled shakily before moving closer, wrapping an arm around both of them, pulling him in without a word.

They didn't rush him. Didn't ask anything. They just stayed.

Holding him through every shaky breath, every broken sob, until the storm slowly settled into quiet sniffles and uneven breathing.

"Chal... ab bata," Vikram said softly after a while, pulling back just enough to look at him, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on Zaid's face.

Akshay's hand remained on his back, grounding, steady.

And this time—

Zaid spoke. Halting at first, then all at once, the words spilling out—everything he had seen, everything he had felt, every thought that had been tearing him apart from the inside.

By the end of it, his voice had gone quiet again. Small.

"Yaar... tu pagal hai kya?" Vikram muttered, running a hand through his hair, equal parts frustrated and concerned, "Aditya... aisa nahi hai."

Zaid stiffened instantly, pulling back, hurt flashing across his face again. "Tu usse support kar raha hai?" he asked, his voice cracking, fresh tears threatening to fall.

"Nahi, yaar—sun toh sahi—" Vikram tried, but the damage was already done.

Akshay watched the shift, the way Zaid's expression shut down again, and he knew—

this wasn't the time.

Not today.

Not like this.

He stood up slowly, then reached down, helping Zaid to his feet with a firm but gentle grip.

"Chal," he said quietly, steady in a way Zaid needed, "main tujhe ghar chhod deta hoon... tu aaram kar. Kal baat karenge."

Because sometimes better than sorting out things right at the moment was to let the person go and give them time.

Zaid didn't argue. Didn't have the energy to. He just nodded faintly.

Akshay glanced at Vikram, a silent understanding passing between them—later. They'd handle this later.

As they began to walk away, Vikram lingered behind for a moment, his eyes falling on the scattered cigarettes, the mess Zaid had left behind without even realizing.

With a quiet sigh, he bent down, picking them up one by one, his chest tightening at what they represented.

Then he straightened.

And followed them out.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Later that evening, Gauri stood outside the Iqbal residence, dressed in a simple suit salwar, her dupatta resting carefully around her shoulders as if even that small detail could somehow steady her nerves, but nothing really helped because the uneasiness sitting in her chest refused to go away, growing heavier with every passing second.

Something wasn't right. She could feel it.

And that feeling alone was enough to bring her here.

Before she could overthink any further, the door opened—and Imam stood there, his face instantly softening the moment he saw her.

"Gauri beta, tum?" he smiled warmly, lifting a hand to pat her head in that familiar, affectionate way. "Andar aa."

She stepped in quietly.

"Beta, Zoya toh apni Badi Ammi ke saath masjid gayi hai abhi," he added, almost casually, as if assuming the obvious.

Gauri nodded, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her dupatta as she tried to find the right words, but they didn't come easily.

"Woh... actually uncle..." she hesitated, her voice softer now, unsure, "main... Zaid se milne aayi thi."

Imam's brows furrowed ever so slightly, confusion flickering across his face, though he didn't question her.

"Hume ek project mila hai," she continued quickly, almost explaining herself before he could ask anything, "toh... baat karni thi unse."

There was a brief pause. Then he nodded.

"Haan beta, woh upar apne kamre mein hai."

Relief mixed with nervousness in her chest.

"Jao... main kuch snacks bhijwata hoon," he said gently, patting her head once again before stepping away.

Gauri stood there for a moment, alone now, her eyes slowly lifting toward the staircase.

"Mahadev... mujhe shakti dena," she whispered under her breath, almost like a quiet prayer, before finally gathering herself and walking upstairs.

Each step felt heavier than the last. When she reached his door, she paused. Knocked lightly. No response. She waited.

Then knocked again—this time a little firmer.

Because today, she wasn't leaving. Not until she spoke to him. Not until she fixed what she had broken.

"Kaun hai?" his voice came from inside—rough, edged in a way she had never heard before.

It made her freeze. That didn't sound like him. Not the Zaid she knew. Still, she pushed the door open slowly.

And the moment she stepped in—

she stopped.

Zaid stood by the window, bare-chested, a cigarette between his fingers, the faint curl of smoke rising around him like it belonged there, like it had been there for a long time.

Her breath caught. Her cheeks flushed instantly, and she turned away just as quickly, her hand gripping her dupatta tightly.

"I—I am sorry... maaf kijiye... Mahadev ki kasam, pata nahi tha ki aap... aise..." her words stumbled over each other, her voice dropping into embarrassment as she struggled to even finish the sentence.

Zaid turned at the sound of her voice. For a second, he just stared.

He couldn't see her face—but he didn't need to.

He knew. Of course he knew. Gauri.

Standing in his room.

For a moment, everything else—every thought, every hurt—just... stopped.

Like none of it mattered.

Like it had never mattered.

Then reality slipped back in.

Quietly.

He reached for a shirt lying nearby, pulling it on quickly, almost clumsily, before crushing the cigarette and tossing it away, grabbing the room freshener and spraying it once, twice.

"Aap mudh sakti hain," he said finally, his voice lower now.

She turned slowly.

And then she saw him.

Properly.

Her gaze moved up—and stopped at his eyes.

Red. Puffy.

Like he hadn't just been crying—

but like he had been breaking.

"Aap ro rahe the," she said softly.

Not a question.

A realization.

Zaid stilled.

For a second, something vulnerable flickered in his expression—something he didn't want her to see.

Not her.

But just as quickly, it was gone.

Replaced.

Hardened.

"Aap yahan kya kar rahi hain?" his voice came out sharper than intended, rough enough to make her flinch slightly.

He noticed. Of course he did. But he didn't soften. Couldn't.

Because looking at her right now—

only made everything worse. Gauri exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "Aapne class kyun attend nahi ki?" she asked, her tone gentle, careful, like she was testing the ground between them.

"Mann nahi tha," he replied, almost immediately, like that was explanation enough.

Like that was all he was willing to give. She nodded faintly, though it didn't satisfy her.

"Kahan the aap?" she asked again, a little more quietly this time.

"Gauri..." he interrupted, his voice dropping, tired now more than anything else, "I don't want to talk... please aap chali jaaiye."

That made her freeze. The finality in his tone. The distance. But she didn't step back.

Didn't move.

"Par... aapko toh baat karni thi... kya hua?" she asked, confusion slipping through, because this didn't make sense to her—he was the one who had wanted to talk before... so what changed?

Zaid let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting again, steadier now, colder.

"Uske liye... bohot late ho gaya hai."

The words landed heavier than he intended. And Gauri felt it.

Not just the meaning—

but the hurt behind it.

Too late. Not just for a conversation. But for the way things should have been said... earlier.

In that moment, something inside Gauri sank—quietly, completely—because it wasn't just his words, it was the way he said them, like he was holding himself back from something, like staying in the same room as her was costing him more than he could afford.

Shame settled heavy in her chest.

She had done this.

To him.

To whatever this was between them.

And now he didn't even want to look at her.

Didn't want to talk.

Because it hurt.

Because she had hurt him.

"Please, Gauri..." his voice came again, lower this time, strained, his hands clenching at his sides like he was forcing the words out, "aap chali jaaiye."

That was it.

She nodded—though he probably didn't even see it—and before the tears could fall, before her voice could betray her, she turned and walked out, almost too quickly, her steps uneven as she rushed downstairs, her vision already blurring.

Imam had just stepped into the hallway, a tray of snacks in his hands, a soft smile ready on his face—but it faded the moment he saw her.

"Gauri beta—" he called, confused, concerned.

But she didn't stop. Didn't trust herself to. She rushed past him, barely managing a small, broken "sorry," before stepping out of the house, the evening air hitting her face as the first tear finally slipped free.

And then another. And another.

Upstairs, the door hadn't even fully settled shut when Zaid's composure broke. The strength he had been holding onto, the distance he had forced into his voice—it all gave way at once.

He stepped back, his legs giving in as he slid down against the wall, the weight of everything crashing down on him all over again.

His hands came up to his face, pressing hard against his eyes as if he could stop it—but he couldn't.

"Yah Allah..." his voice came out broken, barely a whisper, "maine kya kar diya..."

The words echoed in the silence of the room. Because he knew. He had seen it. The way she looked at him. The way she had stayed.

And still—

he had pushed her away.

Too harshly.

Too completely.

A shaky breath left him as his head dropped forward, his shoulders trembling under something that felt heavier than before.

Not just hurt anymore.

Regret.

And somewhere in between all of it—

the quiet, unbearable realization that maybe...

he had hurt her just as much.

2 hours later 

Gauri found Akshara and Zoya at the park, and the moment she saw them, whatever little strength she had left just… gave out. She collapsed into their arms, clutching onto them as if that was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

The words came out broken, uneven, drowned in tears. She told them everything—every last bit of it—and they didn’t interrupt, didn’t question. They just held her.

Zoya wrapped her arms tightly around her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, murmuring soft reassurances, while Akshara stayed close, rubbing slow, steady circles against her back, grounding her the only way she could.

“Saari meri galti hai… aur ab woh mujhse baat bhi nahi karna chahte…” Gauri whispered, her voice laced with a kind of self-loathing that didn’t belong on her.

Gauri Tripathi—perfect, composed, always knowing what to say, what to do. And yet, she had hurt someone so deeply that he didn’t even want to see her anymore.

“Shhh…” Zoya hushed gently, her voice soft but firm. “Gauri, tujhe pata nahi tha aisa kuch ho jayega.”

Akshara nodded in agreement, her touch just as gentle. “It’s not your fault, baby,” she said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Gauri’s head. “Sun… tu abhi ghar ja. Tu bohot tired hai.”

For once, Gauri didn’t argue. Didn’t insist she was fine. She just nodded faintly and pulled away, her steps slow and heavy as she walked toward home—just two blocks away, but it felt much longer today.

For the first time in her life, she felt… small.

Useless. Pathetic. And the worst part? She didn’t know how to fix it.

A few steps behind her, Akshara and Zoya followed quietly. They could see it—the way her shoulders had slumped, the way she looked like she was carrying something far too heavy for herself. They knew she had handled things wrong, but this wasn’t the moment to tell her that.

Right now, she didn’t need the truth. She just needed to not be alone.

So they didn’t call out to her, didn’t stop her—just made sure she reached home safely before turning back.

The house was quieter than usual when Gauri stepped in. Ekansh sat at the dining table, hunched over his homework, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. From the kitchen, the faint sounds of utensils clinking told her that her father was cooking dinner.

Everything was normal. Too normal.

Gauri didn’t have the energy for it.

She walked in without a word and dropped onto the sofa, curling into herself, knees pulled close like she was trying to disappear into the cushions.

Ekansh noticed almost immediately.

He frowned, tilting his head in confusion before pushing his chair back and padding over to her. “Didu?” he called softly, reaching out to touch her forehead—

and then his eyes widened.

“Mama!” he shouted, panic rising in his small voice. “Mama!”

Within seconds, Mandakini rushed out of the kitchen, Bharat right behind her. The moment she saw Gauri, something in her expression changed. She hurried over, sitting beside her and gently pulling Gauri’s head into her lap, her hand instinctively moving to her forehead.

“Hey Shankar....meri bachi ko kya hogaya?” she whispered, worry seeping into every word.

Bharat didn’t waste a second. Without saying anything, he bent down and carefully lifted Gauri into his arms, holding her like she weighed nothing at all, already moving toward the stairs.

Mandakini followed quickly, grabbing a bowl of cold water and a towel along the way. By the time they reached her room, Gauri stirred faintly in his arms.

“Baba…” she murmured, her voice barely there.

Bharat’s expression softened despite the tension in his jaw. He laid her down gently on the bed and leaned down, pressing a kiss to her burning forehead.

“Shh, bacha… sab theek ho jayega,” he said quietly. And that was it. That was all it took.

Because the moment he said those words, her tears slipped out—silent this time, but heavier than before.

Nothing felt like it would ever be okay again. She had always been the composed one, the perfect daughter, the one who had everything under control.

But now… everything felt like it was slipping through her fingers. Mandakini entered just then, placing the cold, damp cloth on Gauri’s forehead, her eyes meeting Bharat’s in silent worry.

The door burst open a moment later. Vikram. He stopped in his tracks the second he saw her. For a second, he just stood there, staring.

He had never seen his sister like this. Gauri—who barely even caught a cold, who took care of herself like it was second nature—and now she looked… fragile.

Breakable. His mind flashed back to the last thing he remembered. She had gone to meet Zaid.

And now this.

His jaw tightened.

What the hell was wrong with those two?

Behind him, Ekansh let out a small, shaky whimper, clearly frightened by the sight of his sister like this.

Vikram blinked, snapping out of it, and turned back. Without a word, he bent down and picked the little boy up, holding him close.

“Chal, Champ” he muttered softly, carrying him away from the room.

Some things didn’t need to be seen.

Atleast not by a child.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

AT NIGHT

Zaid lay with his head in Amna’s lap, holding onto the only kind of comfort that didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t stop him. Didn’t tell him to quiet down or pull himself together. She just let him cry—let it come out, all of it—because she knew some pain needed to be felt before it could be eased.

Her fingers moved gently through his hair, slow and soothing, pausing every now and then to press a soft kiss against his head. The familiarity of it, the warmth, the quiet presence—it settled something restless inside him, even if only a little.

After a while, his sobs quieted.

He shifted slightly and looked up at her, his eyes still heavy, his voice smaller than it had any right to be.

“Badi Ammi…?”

Amna looked down at him, her expression softening even more. “Haan, mere bache… bolo.”

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how to put it into words. “Does Allah… like it when we’re rude to someone?” he asked quietly, the question fragile, almost afraid of the answer.

—"just because we are hurt?"

His voice faltered at the end, fragile... like a child asking a question he already feared the answer to. Amna's hand stilled for a moment in his hair. Her heart clenched.

She looked down at him—really looked this time. At the redness in his eyes, the way his lashes were still wet, the way he had curled into her like he used to as a little boy after scraping his knee.

A soft sigh left her lips.

"Na, mere bache..." she whispered, her thumb brushing gently against his temple, wiping away a tear that had escaped again. "Allah ko takleef hoti hai jab hum kisi ka dil dukhate hain... chahe hum khud kitne bhi dukhi kyun na ho."

Zaid's gaze dropped instantly. Guilt. It settled heavy in his chest.

Amna noticed. Of course she did.

She tilted his chin up ever so gently, forcing him to meet her eyes again—eyes that held no anger, no disappointment... only warmth.

"Par..." she added softly, her voice wrapping around him like a blanket, "Allah yeh bhi jaante hain ke insaan kamzor hota hai. Dard mein kabhi kabhi alfaaz teekhe ho jaate hain."

A pause. Her fingers resumed threading through his hair.

"Galti karna gunaah nahi hai, Zaid..." she murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead, "galti par qayam rehna gunaah hai."

His lips trembled.

"Matlab...?" he whispered.

"Matlab yeh, mere bache..." she smiled faintly, though her eyes were gentle and serious, "agar tumne kisi ka dil dukhaya hai... toh usse theek karne ki zimmedaari bhi tumhari hai."

Silence filled the room. Heavy... yet soft. Zaid's grip tightened slightly on her dupatta.

" She did come to talk and I pushed her away harshly.'' he admitted, voice barely there, almost ashamed of its own existence.

Amna didn't rush to answer. She just kept holding him. Just like before.

Zaid shut his eyes. Another tear slipped out. This time, he didn't try to hide it.

" ek baat yaad rakhna..." she whispered, her voice steady, certain—like something he could hold onto when everything else slipped away—

"Sachcha pachtawa... aur sacchi koshish... kabhi zaya nahi jaati."

Her hand found his again, squeezing it softly.

"And Allah..." she smiled gently, "un logon ko pasand karte hain jo toot kar bhi theek karna chahte hain... na ke tod kar chal dena."

Zaid let out a shaky breath.

For the first time since everything fell apart—

his sobs didn't feel as heavy.

Just... tired.

Just... human

In that moment, it settled inside him—heavy, undeniable.

He had been wrong.

Completely, painfully wrong.

And he knew, without a shred of doubt, that he would apologise to Gauri tomorrow… no matter what it took. No matter how she reacted, no matter if she refused to even look at him—he would still stand there and say it.

Because he owed her that.

God knew what had gotten into him—what kind of anger, what kind of hurt had made him say something as cruel as not wanting to talk to her.

It wasn’t true.

It had never been true.

The truth was far simpler, far more terrifying—

he wouldn’t survive not talking to her.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because despite everything, despite the hurt and the distance and the words he couldn’t take back…

Zaid was still, hopelessly, desperately in love with Gauri.

And he knew—

he always would be.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess