My Mr. Artist

Chapter 21

Kiyah

I just stared at him, whereas his gaze stayed fixed on the floor. My mind drifted back to his childhood. I envisioned a small, quiet boy left alone to deal with his own problems. I could never imagine what it must have felt like to grow up in such a toxic environment called family.

My family was small, not well-off or rich like his, but my parents had a love marriage. They were genuinely happy with what little they earned and always prioritized their children, never burdening us with their struggles.

I had always known that Ansh was sensitive about family matters. I still remember inviting him to dinner when my parents and brother were visiting me in City M. At that time, we had just started dating, and I introduced him as a friend, mainly emphasizing that he was an artist, since my parents, especially my dad, really appreciated talent. They looked at him in awe, and when I showed them some of his work, they genuinely praised him. But when I looked at him, he seemed uncomfortable. His eyes were slightly red, and he spoke very little. When I asked if he was okay, he just smiled and, before leaving, said softly, "You have a beautiful family."

That was the first and probably the last time he met my parents. He would often encourage me to stay connected with them, and whenever he did, I would subconsciously ask about his family—only for the conversation to end abruptly. I was young and afraid of upsetting him, so naturally, I avoided the topic altogether.

"Did you ever want to tell me about your past—or never?" My voice came out as a soft whisper, surprising even me, but my focus remained on him.

"I was going to tell you everything upon my return and was..." He looked up at me and spoke in the same low tone, but his words trailed off as he turned his gaze away.

The silence that followed was deafening. But what I was about to ask next would be even more painful. Even so, I had to ask—because maybe this was the only way to end this chapter of my life with clarity and closure. It would hurt, yes—but perhaps it would also heal, someday. Taking a deep breath, I finally voiced the question that had kept me awake for countless nights.

"Was marrying her so important that you had to leave everything behind—your career, your passion, your love? If you ever really loved me..." I paused, got up, and turned around because I couldn't face him anymore. Then I continued, my voice trembling, "Was I not worthy of Saransh Awasthi?"

"Kiyah, don't talk like that!" Saransh got up and moved toward me. He sounded distressed and a little angry, but I didn't turn around. I could feel him close behind me—his presence, his warmth—and it distracted me for a moment, but still, I didn't face him.

"I'm the one who's not worthy of you," he said after a long pause. "You were right—I'm a coward, Ki. I was in a major dilemma. I got a call from home after so many years, just when I was returning home—to you..."

I stayed silent as he began to speak, about the turn of events that had led us to where we were now.

_

Three years ago

Saransh stood in the art gallery of his teacher, Mr. George, looking at a new display of portraits, lost in thought. He had been there for over a month, almost done with all his work, and was finally ready to return to India earlier than planned—to his sweet home. Tomorrow was his flight, and he wanted to meet his teacher before leaving.

"How have you been, my boy?" came a cheerful voice from behind. He turned with a smile to see his teacher approaching, paint stains covering his clothes.