Ishan

Part 7

Ishan stood frozen at the entrance of Shubman’s small apartment building, his body trembling as the voices in his head grew louder.

The memories, the guilt, the pain—all of it came rushing back, colliding violently in his mind.

"Ishan... I didn’t do anything... Please... my mom..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, covering his ears with trembling hands, trying desperately to block out the haunting words.

But no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn’t go away. It was as if the past wouldn’t let him breathe, wouldn’t let him move forward.

He looked up at the building again. The soft glow from Shubman’s window was the only light in the dark, quiet street.

His heart pounded in his chest, screaming at him to go inside, to knock on that door, to ask for help—beg for help, if that’s what it took.

He knew it was wrong. After everything that had happened, after the bitterness, the betrayal, the way Shubman had laughed at him earlier that night, how could he possibly stand there, debating whether to ask him for anything?

But his heart was louder than his reason, and it was hurting. Shattered. And right now, all it wanted was someone familiar, someone who knew him, who knew his pain—even if that someone hated him now.

Ishan swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost choking him. His feet were heavy, cemented to the ground, but he forced himself to take a step forward. Then another.

"Heart wants what it wants, right?" he thought bitterly.

But at what cost?

With every step toward the door, his mind screamed at him to turn around, to stop, to save what little dignity he had left.

But he couldn’t. His hand reached for the doorbell, hovering in the air, trembling as the internal battle raged on.

What would Shubman say? Would he laugh again? Would he even let him in?

Or worse—what if he turned him away, leaving Ishan alone with his shattered heart and the reality of his husband’s betrayal?

A tear slipped down Ishan’s cheek, but he quickly wiped it away. He had no other choice. He was already too deep into this pain.

He couldn’t go back now. He pressed the doorbell, a faint hope clinging to the thought that maybe, just maybe, Shubman would understand.

Or at least, he wouldn’t shut the door in his face.

Shubman groaned, running a hand through his messy hair as he sat up in bed. The faint sound of the doorbell echoed again.

"Who the hell comes this early?" he muttered to himself, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

He pulled on the underwear that was tossed on the floor and trudged toward the door, his frustration building with every step.

When he opened the door, his eyes widened.

There, standing in the dim light of the early morning, was Ishan.

His face was pale, his eyes red and puffy, a broken expression etched across his features. For a moment, Shubman felt his breath hitch.

The vulnerability radiating from Ishan was so raw, so overwhelming that it tugged at something deep inside of him. He looked fragile, shattered—and in that moment,

beautiful in his brokenness.

Shubman blinked hard, slapping the thought out of his mind. Get a grip,he told himself.