𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒
𝐉𝐀𝐘 & 𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀
In a world where pain and heartbreak seem insurmountable, fate has a way of bringing together the most unlikely souls.
Smera, scarred by a past that has made her wary of men, finds he...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The room was almost too warm, with soft light filtering through the blinds. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with titles on healing, trauma, and self-discovery, all too familiar to me after years of occasional visits. A few plants dotted the room, their green leaves offering a contrast to the neutral tones that seemed to swallow everything in a calming embrace. The room was meant to feel safe, but I felt anything but.
I sat on the edge of the plush couch, my posture rigid, every muscle in my body coiled tight. My eyes bore into the faded spot on the carpet as if I could burn a hole through it with my gaze. My fingers dug into the hem of my kurti, nails biting into the fabric.
Dr. Mehra, sitting across from me in that too-soft chair, observed me with the same infuriating patience he always had. His gaze was steady, but not in a way that felt intimidating—just watchful, careful. It was the kind of patience that made me want to scream. I hated the pity, the understanding that never seemed to reach the core of my rage.
"You've been quiet for a while," Dr. Mehra said, his voice a soft lull that only added fuel to the fire inside. "How are you feeling today?"
My jaw clenched. The words I wanted to say were too sharp, too bitter to be spoken. But they were there, just beneath the surface, clawing at my insides.
"I'm...here," I finally forced out, my voice flat, cold. The truth was, I didn't want to be here. Not in this room, not on this day.
He nodded as if that one word was enough to unravel everything inside me. It wasn't. "You come here every year, on this day. You don't come any other time. Why today?"
My hands gripped the couch harder, knuckles white. I didn't want to answer, didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he understood anything about me. But the words spilled out anyway, like poison.
"Because it's the only day I remember."
A long silence followed the kind that made my skin prickle with irritation. Dr. Mehra's quiet presence felt like a provocation, a silent challenge to open up, to bleed out my pain in front of someone who could never truly understand.
"What do you remember?" he asked, leaning in slightly, his voice gentle, probing.
I almost laughed, a bitter sound that died in my throat. What did I remember? Everything. And I hated it.
"I remember...the bottle," I said, my voice laced with venom. "The glass shattered on my head, and I felt the blood running down, warm and sticky." My hand involuntarily moved to my scalp, as if I could still feel the sting of the glass cutting into my skin. "His hands... so strong, so sure. And his eyes..." My words faltered, but the rage didn't. "They were empty like he wasn't there anymore."
The room seemed to close in around me, suffocating me with its false calm. I wrapped my arms around myself, not for comfort, but to keep from lashing out, from breaking something—anything.
