When they're rivals in academics, leadership, sports, EVERYTHING and she asks
"Why is it me? Why do you always single me out?"
And He replies:
"Because you're the only person worth paying attention to"
***********************************************...
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As I cried uncontrollably, the words that had been bottled up inside me spilled out, a raw and vulnerable question directed at both Aryan and my deceased mother.
"Why is it me?" I managed to choke out through my sobs, my voice barely recognizable. "Why is it always me? Why do you always single me out?"
As the words leave my lips, I can sense a shift in Aryan's demeanor. His rigid stance softens slightly, and the anger in his eyes is replaced by a hint of guilt. I catch a glimpse of his pained expression, knowing that my words have cut through his anger and touched a raw nerve.
A moment later, Aryan steps closer to me, his movements tentative and uncertain, as if he's debating whether or not to console me.
Aryan's voice is soft, filled with sincerity and vulnerability.
"It's because you're the only one worth paying attention to," he says, his eyes locked on mine, the anger replaced by a mix of tenderness and concern.
The softness in my eyes betrays my surprise at Aryan's words. I stare at him, a mix of disbelief and vulnerability on my face, as his confession sinks in.
Aryan, the Yuvraj Arora, just said that I was the one worth paying attention to.
Aryan reaches out, his hands gentle, and slowly wipes away the tears that stream down my face. His movements are careful, as if he's handling something fragile.
The act itself feels almost intimate, his touch leaving warmth in its wake, the gesture filled with comfort and tenderness.
With my hand in his, Aryan gently encouraged me to stand up and get ready for my mother's funeral. His voice is quiet and reassuring, a stark contrast to the earlier anger.
"We should get ready," he says softly. "We need to pay our respects to your mother."
As we reach the room, I suddenly realize the lack of appropriate attire to wear to the funeral. I hesitate for a moment before turning to Aryan.
"What am I going to wear?" I ask, worry evident in my voice.
Aryan's response takes me by surprise, easing the worry in my mind.
"I've already ordered a dress for you," he says, a reassuring smile on his face. "Don't concern yourself with it."
Despite the circumstances, seeing my genuine smile seems to warm Aryan's heart. He returns my smile with one of his own, a soft, tender expression that belies the usual sternness in his eyes.
"That's better," he murmurs, his voice gentle.
The dress arrived...it was a white kurti with embroidery all over well at least he still respects the Indian tradition, he was too wearing a white kurta.
Aryan and I arrive at the funeral venue, the atmosphere somber and heavy. We walk through the somber crowd, our footsteps silent on the carpeted path, the air filled with a sense of collective grief.
