"Don't... come... near me..." she whispered, her voice trembling with fear, her eyes tightly shut.
"Blossom, listen to me," Yash said softly, holding her close, gently tapping her cheeks. "It's just a nightmare. Open your eyes, love. Try to come bac...
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When he inquired about my Mama and Papa, it felt like someone was tugging at the very core of my heart. I tried to maintain my composure, but I could feel the familiar weight of sadness returning. It’s a question I get often—especially when people don’t see my parents around—and yet, every time, it feels as painful as the first. Like being that five-year-old lost in a fair, frantically searching for her parents, de sperate for answers I couldn’t find.
I blinked, trying to suppress the tears welling up in my eyes, but my vision blurred. Am I crying? Yes, I am. I hate this part of myself, this vulnerability that always seems to catch me off guard. I don’t want to be this fragile, especially in front of my soon-to-be fiancé.
To stop the tears, I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The sting was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my heart. I forced myself to meet his gaze, and through the haze of my tears, I could see the concern etched on his face.
For a moment, I thought to myself, Don’t worry, Hukum sa. If God wasn’t concerned for me back then, there’s no reason for you to be concerned now.
“No, she passed away in an accident,” I finally said, when he asked if my parents had divorced.
After that, silence hung in the air. Just then, Badi Mama’s voice broke through the tension, calling us back outside.
“Chalein?” I suggested softly, hoping to move past the painful moment.
“Hmm,” he hummed, his voice low, as if he too wanted to escape the awkwardness.
I stood up, and he followed suit. As I reached for the door, ready to leave, his voice stopped me.
“Rukiye,” he said, and I turned to see his hand extended, offering me a handkerchief.
“Hame maaf kar dijiyega. Hamara aapko thes pahunchane ka koi iraada nahi tha,” he apologized, his voice sincere.
(Please forgive me. I had no intention of hurting you.)
For a moment, I stood still, surprised by his words. No one ever apologized for asking about my parents. Most people offered superficial condolences, but his words felt different. Genuine. His apology felt like a balm, softening the edges of my pain.
I took the handkerchief from his hand and whispered, “Aap bahut ache hain.”
(You’re very kind.)
And I meant it. He was nice—not just because he apologized, but because he cared enough to offer me something as simple as a handkerchief. No one had ever done that for me before. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to touch my heart.
Just as I said that, I noticed a brief flicker of surprise cross his face, but before either of us could say anything more, Badi Mama’s voice called again from the other side of the door.
