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"What are you doing here?" he asks me, his eyes raking over my drenched body and widening. Instantly, he opens the door further, allowing me to slip inside and grab a towel from somewhere, handing it to me.
My sobs may have taken a backseat f...
AN: happy 300k, you guyss!!!! cannot be happier and couldn’t have done it without you guyss!! tysmm🤍🤍🤍 (heres a chp you guys will love!! i think!!)
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The morning light filters through the flimsy curtain, faint and golden. I blink at the ceiling, the plaster chipped and uneven, and for a fleeting moment, I pretend I’m home. My real home. Where sunlight hit the bedroom wall at the perfect angle and Aayansh would kiss my forehead before heading for work, whispering something poetic, something soft.
But the illusion breaks the moment I shift. This isn’t our home. There’s no lingering scent of his cologne, no echo of his laugh. Just the whir of the ceiling fan above me and the occasional honk from the street below.
I sit up slowly, the cheap bedsheet clinging to my legs. My throat feels dry. My heart heavier.
I can’t stop thinking about last night.
His voice, broken and pleading, still hums inside me. And I hate that it soothes me.
Because I’m furious. Blindingly, bone-deep furious.
How could he?
How could he switch those drugs, trick me so convincingly, play me like I meant nothing?
I drag myself into the bathroom, switching on the tiny geyser that takes forever to heat. I brush my teeth mechanically, staring at my reflection. My eyes are puffy, my lips chapped, my skin pale. I look like a stranger.
I strip out of the old kurta I wore last night, stepping into the cold water until it warms, letting it hit my back like punishment. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I should’ve known.
I remember the way he looked at me when we saw the drugs for the first time. So panicked. So disturbed.
And yet, he was fooling me the entire time.
I clench my jaw, forcing the water off, wrapping myself in the towel Bharat Kaka’s daughter left for me. Her name’s Tara. She was still at work when I came here yesterday so I haven’t seen her yet.
I change into a white oversized shirt and black sweatpants that fit surprisingly well. Tara must be around my size. Or maybe the universe wanted me to feel slightly comfortable in this unfamiliar world.
The room itself is small—walls yellowing, paint cracking. There’s a single bed, an old desk pushed to the corner with an old family computer sitting on top. On the walls hang tiny photo frames—Tara as a baby, Bharat Kaka in his old security guard uniform, their family at Juhu Beach. There’s a shelf stacked with books, most of them worn and bent. A tiny cupboard with a missing handle. But the bedsheets are bright—orange and pink—and the pillows have mismatched covers, one of which has a family photo printed on it.
It’s humble. Cramped. But there’s something here that I once felt too and now only serves as a reminder of what’s ripped away from me.
