Here After!

32. Echoes of His Words

Just when I started to feel like everything was finally settling into place, things took an unexpected turn. Lately, I'd noticed that Giri seemed more stressed than usual. He barely responded to my messages, and some nights he didn't even seem to realize I was there beside him. Mom mentioned that he'd been leaving for the office early and coming back late, with hardly any time for her to check in on him. I didn't press him about it; I knew these were busy, demanding days for him, and I figured he'd talk about it when he was ready.

This weekend was already going to be different. Right after my Friday shift, instead of coming home, I'd have to leave straight for an office trip that had been planned for weeks. I'd packed my bags, knowing I'd be away until Monday afternoon, and then it would be straight back to work. No time for rest—just the office trip and then right back to my usual routine.

While discussing the trip with Giri and Mom, they'd both teased me about it, saying the office was "robbing" us of our weekend. They joked about how unfair it was to go straight back to work after a draining trip. Even though it was just lighthearted teasing, I couldn't help but feel a little pang of sadness. Weekends were the only real-time Giri and I had to ourselves, the days we could reconnect and relax together. I knew I'd miss that this time around.

Friday morning, I reached home after my night shift, feeling the weight of exhaustion as I began collecting things to pack for the weekend trip. Moving around half-asleep, I didn't notice the chair leg right in front of me and tripped. Instinctively, I grabbed the chair to steady myself, but in the process, I knocked over a jug of water, which fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Before I could react, I saw Giri sit up, startled by the noise, looking directly at me. I was ready to flash him an apologetic smile, hoping he'd brush off my clumsiness. But what happened next caught me completely off guard. Giri's face twisted in frustration, and he began shouting at me. The raised voice alone would've been understandable—it was my mistake, after all—but the words he used... those hit me like a punch to the gut. They were harsh, cutting deeper than I ever could have anticipated.

I stood there, stunned, unable to process the weight of his words, struggling to reconcile this moment with the Giri I thought I knew.I was at a loss for words. I muttered a quick apology and tried to explain how it happened, but he didn't even let me finish. His frustration poured out in a rush of sharp, hurtful words. I was completely stunned—how could he say I'd been disturbing him all these days? The sting of his words cut deeper than I could have imagined, and I felt shattered, standing there with nothing left to say.

Choking back my tears, I managed a hasty apology and turned, leaving the room as quickly as I could. I was still reeling when I walked out and found Mom standing in the hallway, watching me with a sympathetic smile. She didn't ask what happened; instead, she gently suggested that I get some rest in the other room. I nodded, avoiding her eyes, and slipped away, letting the quiet of the empty room offer me a space to process the hurt and confusion twisting inside me.

I closed the door behind me in the other room and sat down on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling slightly as I tried to keep my emotions in check. The silence around me only made the weight of Giri's words feel heavier. I took a deep breath, hoping to calm myself, but my mind kept replaying the moment—the anger in his voice, the frustration in his eyes. I'd known he was stressed, but I'd never expected him to lash out like this. It hurt, more than I wanted to admit.

I glanced at my packed bag, lying half-finished on the floor. This trip was meant to be a change of pace, a break from routine, but now I couldn't shake the feeling that I was leaving things unsettled. As much as I wanted to ignore it, my heart ached, torn between wanting to reach out to him and feeling the sting of his words.