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It's been a week and my arm has healed enough to move without much pain. Jay had booked tickets for this weekend to return to India, but before that... I have to execute my plan. I can't delay the truth anymore.
I know the storm it will bring. I know Jayveer uncle will twist every word, every shadow of my past, and try every possible way to make me the villain in Jay's eyes.
But I can't run anymore. If Jay has the right to fight for me, then I have the responsibility to fight for the truth.
I was lost in my thoughts when the house help entered and called me for dinner. Pushing everything aside, I followed her to the dining table, where Randhir and Jay were already seated, busy talking to Maa on the video call.
After that night, we had barely spoken about anything beyond my health. The silence between us had grown thick, like something we were all avoiding to touch.
Randhir noticed me and quickly turned the tablet so Maa could see my face. I smiled faintly and exchanged a few words with her, assuring her I was doing fine. She hung up soon after, leaving the table heavier than before.
"What happened in the court?" I asked after taking a bite.
"They were proved guilty and would face life imprisonment," Randhir answered while Mrityunjay ate silently, his focus never leaving the plate.
"Good for them," I murmured.
The table fell into silence again until Randhir, almost too cheerfully, began talking about a business podcast episode. "You should go for that podcast, Bhai."
Something clicked inside me at that very moment. I knew-I'd never be able to confess anything to him while looking into his eyes. Akshita's words echoed in my mind. I needed him away, at least for a while, so I could leave everything behind. Facing him would tear me apart; I might die before him, and I couldn't let that happen.
"Yes, you should," I pressed, my tone firmer than usual. For the first time in days, he lifted his gaze from his plate and looked at us.
"I don't want to," he said flatly.
"Why?" I pushed.
"I don't think it's the right time for some podcast," he reasoned.
"It is the high time. Everyone should know what you really are. And the podcaster is Indian-you should go for it." My insistence carried both desperation and finality.
He didn't argue further. Like always, in the end, he agreed. . . . After preparing everything for tomorrow, I craved a quiet moment with myself. It was almost midnight-silence hung heavy in the house. I knew everyone must have been asleep, so I slipped out of my room carefully, not wanting to disturb Mrityunjay, who was resting in the hall.
I poured myself a cup of tea and settled quietly near his feet. That's when I noticed it-a small diary pressed against his chest, his hand loosely resting over it. Something inside me pulled, urging me closer. I set the cup on the table and gently slid the diary out of his grip. He didn't stir; his sleep was deep, untroubled.
