The Rathore's Family

"Bed"

Drishti," he called out softly, eyes locked on her motionless form under the blanket. No response.

He sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "Drishti," he repeated, a bit louder this time, but she remained silent.

Frustration and hesitation collided within him. Taking a slow, tentative step toward the bed, he stopped on the opposite side, facing her. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, unsure of what to say next. "I think... we can share the bed tonight," he suggested, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

Drishti didn’t move. Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. But as he gingerly lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, she suddenly flung the blanket off, sitting up abruptly. The sharpness of her reaction startled him, and he instinctively stepped back, hands raised in surrender.

"No, we can't share," she snapped, her voice firm, but there was something fragile beneath the surface.

He looked at her, confused, his eyebrows furrowing. "Why?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were grasping at the last thread of hope.

"You come home late," she started, her hands gripping the blanket tightly, knuckles white with frustration. "And even when you do come home, you’re always off to your so-called work." She raised two fingers, making air quotes, her eyes flashing with irritation. "You don't want to sleep, but I do. I wait for you, I sleep on that sofa... but you never come. The bed stays empty, so yeah, the bed’s mine now." She spoke in one breath, her chest heaving slightly, her voice cracking at the end.

He stood there, feeling the weight of her words, his gaze softening. He gestured toward the glass of water on the bedside table. "Pani pi lo," he offered quietly, his tone more gentle now.

Drishti ignored the glass and stared at him, her large eyes still filled with a mix of anger and hurt. He could see the exhaustion behind them, the disappointment she tried so hard to mask.

"Main keh raha hoon na... let’s share. The bed is too big, we can both fit." He tried again, his voice softer, almost pleading.

"No," she replied flatly, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

He let out a small, resigned sigh. "Maine to nahi kaha tha tumse us par sone ko." His voice held a faint note of apology.

She raised an eyebrow, her voice sharp. "Haan, lekin aapne ye bhi nahi kaha tha ki bed par so sakti hoon."

"Par maine mana bhi toh nahi kiya," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"Par kaha bhi toh nahi," she shot back.

He realized then that there was no winning this argument. She had built walls around herself, and he wasn’t sure how to break them down anymore. He knew his way of comforting her was flawed, but the past couldn’t be undone. All they could do now was try—if she’d let him.

He turned, heading toward the door with a sense of defeat hanging in the air.

"Where... where are you going?" Her voice wavered this time, and something vulnerable slipped through. She shifted slightly, as if ready to get up.

"It’s already dawn," he said, his hand resting on the doorknob. "I don’t think I should sleep now."

Her eyes darted toward the clock, realizing it was true. She sighed, sinking back onto the bed.

"Don’t sleep then," she muttered under her breath. "Kaun sa sunte hain aap... akdu." She curled up in the blanket again, as if shielding herself from the conversation.