Tangled souls: a tale of love, loss, reunion

Ch 1 FIRST ENCOUNTER

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Amaira’s POV

“Amu, you’ve got to stop living in the past. It’s been two years! How long are you going to punish yourself?” My best friend’s voice was a mix of frustration and deep concern as we sat across from each other in a cozy café.

Her words felt like echoes in a vast, empty space—space that once held warmth and love but was now a cold void.

Love. What was once the most magical, all-encompassing force in my life had become nothing more than a painful memory.

It used to feel like a warm blanket on a cold winter night, wrapping me up, making everything in life seem brighter and more beautiful.

Love made the world make sense, as if I was invincible, walking on clouds.

But now, that warmth was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness I couldn’t escape.

“Amu, are you even listening to me?” Her exasperated voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

I nodded, but it was half-hearted. I knew she could see right through me.

“I’m sorry, but I just... I need to stay busy.”

“Busy?” She threw up her hands.

“You’re burying yourself in work to avoid facing your pain. That’s not healthy, Amu.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted, though my voice was devoid of conviction.

She sighed, her disappointment palpable.

“Fine. Let’s go. It’s clear you don’t want to talk.”

We left the café in a silence that was heavy, almost suffocating. The drive back to the hospital where I worked was equally quiet, with tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed my father talking to a man I didn’t recognize.

He was tall, commanding, with an air of authority that made me curious. His presence seemed to dominate the space around him.

My father turned as I approached, his face lighting up.

“Amu! Come meet an old friend of mine, Rajat Malhotra. He’s the owner of Malhotra Industries.”

I forced a polite smile, though my mind was elsewhere.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Malhotra.”

“My son had a little accident this morning,” Mr. Malhotra explained.

“Fell down the stairs and fractured his left hand. Your father suggested you could give him something for the pain?”

“Of course,” I agreed, already heading inside to prepare the medication.

As I walked towards the patient’s room, the painful memories began to resurface—the ones I kept trying to bury under layers of work and routine.

I pushed the memory away, focusing on the task at hand. I gathered the medicine and entered the room, where a man lay on the bed, his left arm in a sling.