TILL INFINITIES END

53. AARUSHI

I sit on the swing, the soft creak of it blending with the quiet night. My eyes are lost in the sky, each star a distant light, much like Tia right now. How is she doing? Will she be okay? I wonder if she's eaten, or if she's still crying over Sam and this episode, trying to hide her pain as always. The ache of not knowing mocks at me, twisting in my chest.

Then, I feel the shift.

Someone sits beside me, and instinctively, I look. It's Varun. My heart flushes with an odd warmth — something between warmth and surprise. He doesn't say a word, just sits there, and the silence hangs heavy, stretching between us. It's strange, almost unfamiliar, this feeling of him being close yet distant.

Varun has been kind today. He showed up for Tia, for me, and then he made dinner too, something he hasn't done in a while. I turn my gaze back to the sky, but the silence is pressing. I need to fill it, to break the tension, so I ask, "Should I call Tia?"

"No," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "Let her be."

I hesitate, not quite ready to let go of my worry.

"Message, then?" I push, almost hoping for his permission.

He looks at me, his expression saying everything before his words even reach me — it's a no. I feel guilt. Varun has always been better at giving Tia the space she needs, where I struggle. I worry too much, want to fix everything immediately. He's the patient one. But who's put to blame, mothers are mothers.

A sigh escapes my lips, and Varun finally speaks, "She'll be fine... we raised a strong daughter."

His words feel like a small comfort, but my heart doesn't fully believe it. Tears prick my eyes, and before I can stop them, one escapes down my cheek.

"Yeah," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Strong enough to hide everything and suffer alone when her parents are still alive."

It hurts, saying it out loud. The image of Tia's tear-streaked face at the airport keeps flashing before me. How did we let it get this far? Where did we go wrong? How could I have failed her like this?

Varun makes a soft sound, a tchh, as if scolding me gently. "Stop taking that guilt, Aarushi. What happened—happened."

He's right, logically. But as her mother, I can't let go of the feeling that I should have protected her better, loved her more openly, noticed her pain sooner.

There's a silence between us again, but this time it feels more reflective than awkward. Then, he breaks it. "I was thinking, maybe we should..." he trails off, leaving me to finish the sentence in my head.

I look at him, waiting, trying to guess what he's about to say.

"To... consult Anika," he says finally, his voice careful. "You know, about how to deal with her."

Anika. Of course.

My friend, the teen psychologist.

"Why?" I ask, not accusingly, just genuinely confused.

"Why?" he repeats, his eyebrows coming together slightly, "To know how to help her, Aarushi. To ease her pain. She knows this stuff better than us."

He's right.

I know he's right. But the thought feels invalid at some point. We're her parents — shouldn't we know how to handle our own child? Shouldn't we be the ones to guide her through this? Yet here we are, feeling helpless and looking to someone else for answers. (It's a bitter pill to swallow.)

"Just tell her everything," Varun continues. "And ask her what we should do now. She's a professional; she'll understand."

I see the exhaustion in his eyes. This weight has been too much for both of us, and we're sinking under it. "Y-yeah," I manage to say. "I will."

He stands up quietly and heads back inside. I watch him go, the door closing softly behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I sit there for a long while, the night air cool against my skin. My mind swirls with everything — the day, Tia's sadness, my own guilt. How did we get here? How did we drift so far from each other, from our daughter?

Finally, I take out my phone and send Anika a message, asking her to call me whenever she's free. It's all I can do for now.