ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll

29:** Chapter Twenty-Nine**

The early morning light spilled quietly through the curtains, soft golden beams casting a hazy glow across the room. The world outside stirred gently, as if even the wind understood that it should tread lightly this morning.

Rohan stirred faintly, a low groan leaving his throat as he blinked awake, his body still sore and heavy from the emotional storm of the night before. The pain in his knuckles throbbed dully, a reminder of the shattered glass and the chaos he had unleashed—but for a moment, he simply lay there, still caught between sleep and waking.

And then he felt it.
A presence.

He turned his head, slowly, cautiously—as though he was afraid it would be just a dream.

But it wasn't.

There she was.

Meher.

Still.
Silent.
Barely inches away.

She lay on her side, facing him, her body curled slightly as if protecting some secret. One arm was tucked beneath her head, the other folded gently across her chest, fingers curled inward like petals at rest. Her breathing came in slow, steady waves—so soft he found himself matching the rhythm without meaning to.

The morning light spilled in through the half-drawn curtains, catching in her hair and scattering gold across her skin. It kissed the line of her cheekbone, the gentle slope of her nose, the soft dip just above her lips. Her face—so familiar, yet endlessly captivating—was still, unguarded.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the faint flutter of her lashes, the curve of her lips that seemed caught between peace and something unsaid. It struck him then, not for the first time, how rare it was to see her like this—unmasked, untouched by the weight of the world or the walls she built when awake.

To him, she looked like art. Like something no one else would ever understand the way he did..

For a long moment, he didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He was afraid that even the smallest motion would shatter this fragile, impossible moment.
Because he hadn't expected her to stay.
Not after everything.

Yet here she was.

There was no anger on her face now. No sharp edge in her brows, no storm in her eyes. Only calm. Only quiet. Only the haunting contrast of a girl who had every reason to walk away, but didn't.

He remembered how her fingers had brushed his skin last night, cautious but caring. How she had cleaned the wounds on his hands without saying a word. How her silence had spoken more than anger ever could. It hadn't been forgiveness—but it hadn't been hatred either.
It was something in between.
Something fragile, trembling between two cliffs.

His eyes lowered to her hands—those same hands that had once pushed him away, written his name in disgust on the walls of her pain—and now, they had cradled his wounds.

Guilt rose in his chest like a tide, choking and unrelenting.

"What did I do to her?" he thought. "How much did I break her... to deserve even this much kindness and no more?"

He shifted slightly, drawing the thin sheet over himself as if that would somehow shield him from the shame pulsing through him.

Then, as if pulled by something invisible, he reached out—his hand hovering near hers, stopping just short of touching her. His fingers trembled in mid-air, torn between the desperate ache to feel her skin again and the truth that he no longer had the right.

Instead, he let his hand fall onto the mattress beside her, the gesture incomplete.

His eyes wandered back to her face. And in that stillness, that early morning hush, he allowed himself—just for a second—to wonder what it would've been like... if he had never hurt her.
He swallowed, his throat dry.