Her Soft Hearted Psycho Husband

Flash back one

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Flashback )

Eight companies.
Eight rejections.
Eight doors slammed shut on his dreams.

He sat on the side of his narrow hostel bed that morning, staring at the cracked ceiling. A ceiling he had memorized like a chapter-because disappointment had become his daily companion. Without parents, without guidance, without anyone to tell him "You're doing well, don't give up," he felt like a single candle fighting against a storm.

But even storms didn't spare him.
Society had laughed at him, humiliated him, questioned his worth.
Yet his dreams still flickered in his eyes.

Today was the ninth interview.

He walked into the building. He answered every question, showed every certificate, spoke about every sleepless night he'd spent trying to build a future. And still... rejection. Not even a reason.

He left the gate numb.

He still had five more interviews that day-but he had no heart left to offer. He felt like a body moving without a soul. Like a robot performing pre-programmed tasks.

Still, he got up.
Still, he got ready.
Still, he went.

He ate a simple breakfast at a roadside tiffin shop-one idli, one vada, one coffee. That was all he could afford.

The wind was unusually heavy that morning, almost as if the world was sighing with him. His shirt flapped, his tie loosened. He walked toward NAZOMI TECH, his mind blank.

Just as he stepped closer to the entrance, a scooter zoomed in from the corner-

WHACK.

Pain shot through his hand. His file slipped, and the papers-his certificates, his resume, his everything-flew like hopeless birds scattered in the air.

He didn't chase them.
He didn't even look back.
He simply walked to a stone bench and sat down, shoulders dropped, heart drained.

The scooter screeched to a halt.
A girl jumped off, panic written across her face.

"Oh no, no, no-are you okay?!"
She saw the papers flying and ran behind them, grabbing every sheet she could.
People stared, but she didn't care.

She gathered them all and rushed toward him. He was sitting still, like someone who had endured too much and finally stopped caring.

When she got close, she saw blood trickling down his hand.

Her breath hitched.
"Security! First aid! NOW!" she yelled.

Then she turned to him, panic overflowing.

"I'm so, so, so sorry! I didn't see you. Please drink water. Let's clean the wound. I didn't do it intentionally..."

She kept apologizing as she cleaned his hand gently, carefully. Her hands trembled, but her touch was soft. For him-someone who grew up hearing only:

"It's okay. Go work. Don't complain."

-this was something new. Something foreign. Something warm.

She finished dressing the wound and asked,
"What are you here for?"

"An interview," he said quietly.

"For which post?"

"CEO."

Her eyes widened.
"Oh! You're one of the six candidates?"

"I don't know how many there are," he said, staring at the bandage. He tried to remove it.
"It's fine," he muttered.