The evening was quiet, but not peaceful.
A gentle breeze slipped through the cracked window, rustling the sheer curtains of Shehnaaz’s bedroom. The fading sunlight spilled like molten gold across the room, casting long shadows that stretched and flickered with a soft melancholy. The suitcase lay half-packed on the edge of the bed, its unzipped mouth gaping wide, spilling out a tangle of clothes and restless thoughts. Her hands hovered over a folded shawl, fingers trembling slightly as if trying to hold onto something intangible. But her gaze was fixed—not on the luggage, but on the worn photo frame resting on the bedside table.
Zorawar.
The name was delicately etched in silver script at the corner of the frame. Her fingertips traced the cold glass, hesitating before brushing lightly over the smiling face of a baby—laughing, toothless, frozen forever in an innocent moment of joy.
“If you were here today,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, “you would’ve been six and a half. You’d have your father’s eyes… and maybe my stubbornness.”
Her lips quivered, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss onto the glass, as if trying to seal the memory against the passing time.
“I love you, baby… every day, every breath.”
A shiver ran down her spine, a phantom touch as if his spirit had brushed past her. The room felt impossibly still, yet alive with the echo of absence.
Her phone suddenly vibrated on the bedside table, slicing through the fragile silence. The screen lit up: Unknown Number.
She blinked, hesitation curling in her chest like a cold knot. Slowly, her trembling fingers reached out and answered.
“Hello?”
There was nothing on the other end—no voice, no sound. Only a heavy, suffocating silence. It felt like the pause between heartbeats, a breath held too long in the dark.
“Hello?” she repeated, a crease forming between her brows. “Anyone there?”
Still, only that faint, uneven sound of shaky breathing, distant, unsure, fragile as a whisper.
She frowned and ended the call.
Strange.
But the silence left behind felt almost intimate—like a forgotten echo, trying desperately to find its way back home.
In Delhi :
Sidharth sat on the edge of his bed, shrouded in near darkness. The only light came from a sliver of orange street lamp glow slicing across his unshaven jaw and the wet sheen of his glassy eyes.
The call had ended, but her voice, the faintest sound of “Hello” reverberated inside him, haunting and alive, like a ghost who finally found the courage to return.
His fingers clenched around the phone as if it were her hand, fragile and slipping away.
“I missed you, Shehnaaz,” he murmured, voice cracking and unraveling. “I’ve missed you every single day.”
He looked down, and a single tear slipped silently onto his knuckles, cold and sharp as a shard.
“You think I stopped loving you… you really believe I forgot?” He laughed bitterly, hollow and broken. “You have no idea how wrong you are.”
He exhaled shakily, chest tightening as if the memories inside were squeezing the life from him.
And then, unbidden, unwelcome, but impossible to deny, one memory flooded back. The one night he both treasured and feared, the night he still lived in.
YOU ARE READING
can you mend the broken✓(Editing)
Fanfiction•°•°•★Cover by: @AmreenShaikh6 Sidharth Shukla married Shehnaaz Gill After one week of marriage, he left the city due to some important work at his office. When he came back after 6 months, he found his wife living like a corpse. From the doctor, h...
