Sayesha got Rohan

6. Visiting home

POV : ROHAN

I don't know how Sayesha felt about going on a bike ride with me, but for me? It was utter bliss.

If I try to be honest, no woman has ever sat on the back seat of my bike other than my sister. I've had a lot of flings after I became doctor, but letting them sit on the backseat of my bike? No chance.

I don't know, I just wanted Sayesha to sit with me. Her hands around my waist. I loved how her body was flushed against me. It felt romantic when I know it wasn't at all romantic.

I just wanted to start a conversation with her other than just our funny banters.

She is tough. Downright tough. She is tougher than me. You can't directly cross the metal walls that she has built around her heart and read it out easily.

I tried my best method to gain the deeper side of her — I gave a piece of my darkest side to her, I gave her a snap of my past life, expecting she'll give it back to me. But she didn't. It was completely clear that she has went through something that no normal woman or man can go through.

She has those wounds deeper inside her skin. I swear it killed me when she almost was on the verge of start crying loudly. Thank God, she didn't. It felt like she was piercing my heart into several pieces.

I doubt — am I capable to feeling those things, for a woman, when I know that I can never be serious in the matter of love. Never. I despise the concept of loving someone. Love makes you do things that ruins your surrounding and also the people around you.  Love is congenital disease which slowly eats everyone who dares to stay around it.

Love is the only reason my mother could never get over my sick father. Love is the reason my sister and I suffered. Love is the reason I never got to feel that love.

It's so messed up.

I dropped Sayesha at Hotel and I just reached to my home. My house actually. My home isn't here. Whenever I come to India, I prefer residing in the flat I bought two years back. Just for me. There's no disturbance. Just peace. And it feels like home to me.

As soon as I press the door bell, I hear the footsteps of my sister approaching towards me and see opens the door with a big grin on her face.

Her eyes falls on me and she hugs me tightly, "Rohan !! God. Thank God, you came."

I smile and hug her back, "I had to, my sister wanted to meet me."

We broke our hug and I placed a kiss on her temple, "How are you di?"

She smiled, "I'm good. Come in na."

I hesitantly step inside the house and it hits me like a punch to the gut. It's all the same—the faded wallpaper, the creak of the floorboards, the smell of jasmine incense that my mother used to burn—but it feels different, like a ghost of what it once was. Every inch of this place is soaked in memories, memories I've spent years trying to outrun.

The living room is the worst. I can almost hear my father's voice echoing off the walls, the faint sound of arguments that never really ended. My mother's shadow lingers by the kitchen, her back always turned, lost in her thoughts, never really seeing me. It's like time has stopped here, frozen in those painful moments when we were all together, yet so far apart.

I glance up the stairs, and my stomach twists. My old room is up there, the one with the peeling paint and the bed that never felt warm enough. That's where it started—those endless nights staring at the ceiling, wide awake, feeling every bit of the silence that filled the house after he left. It's like the walls know my secrets, holding onto every tear, every sleepless night, every whisper of a broken family.