MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

REPOSE STEPS

It did not begin with intention.

It began with paths crossing too often to be coincidence and too gently to be questioned.

Arjuna noticed it first in the mornings. The palace corridors were quieter then, sunlight slanting through carved windows, servants moving softly as if the walls themselves were still half-asleep.

Duryodhana walked those corridors alone more often than not — sometimes with Lakshman running ahead, sometimes without.

Arjuna adjusted his steps without thinking.

Not to intercept.
Just to align.

"Good morning" he said once, easy, unguarded.

Duryodhana looked up, surprised — then nodded "Good morning"

Nothing more.

No weight clung to it. No memory pressed behind the words. They simply walked for a few moments side by side before their paths diverged.

The next time, Arjuna asked about Lakshman.

Not carefully. Not cautiously. Just — "Did he sleep well?"

Duryodhana paused, just a fraction. Then answered.

"Yes"

That was it.
But something loosened.

Arjuna told himself he stayed because he wanted to.

That was the comfort of it — choice.

No duty compelled him, no promise bound him, no oath forced his feet toward the same corridors where Duryodhana now walked. He could leave whenever he wished. Could turn away. Could decide this was none of his concern.

And yet, every morning, he found himself adjusting his path slightly — not enough to be obvious, just enough to cross Duryodhana's.

It felt harmless.

He greeted him easily, smiled when spoken to, spoke when there was space for speech. He never lingered too long, never hovered. He had learned restraint early in life — the art of stepping back without disappearing.

That was his gift.

Unlike Bhima’s weight or Yudhishthira’s gravity, Arjuna’s presence did not demand.

It invited

When Duryodhana spoke, Arjuna listened with attention that did not interrogate. When silence fell, he did not rush to fill it. He let moments breathe — let them stretch into something comfortable.

That was how trust grew.

He noticed it first in the small things.
Duryodhana no longer stiffened when he approached. His shoulders did not tighten; his gaze did not sharpen. Sometimes, when Arjuna spoke, Duryodhana turned fully toward him — a courtesy he did not grant easily.

It warmed something in Arjuna’s chest.

Not triumph.
Not possession.

Recognition.

He sees me, Arjuna thought — and immediately softened the thought, gentled it. He doesn’t mind me.

That was safer.

During walks through the palace gardens, Arjuna matched Duryodhana’s pace instinctively. When Duryodhana slowed, Arjuna slowed. When he stopped, Arjuna stopped — never asking why, never insisting on movement.

He did not protect.
He did not guide.

He simply accompanied.

It felt honest.

And dangerous.

Because each shared silence fed the quiet hope Arjuna refused to name.

He watched Duryodhana with an admiration that bordered on reverence — the way he carried grief without letting it bow him, the way his attention fractured only when his son was involved, the way his pride had not softened despite loss.

Strength like that drew Arjuna the way flame drew air.

He told himself it was respect.

But sometimes — when Duryodhana laughed softly at something Arjuna said, when his eyes crinkled just slightly at the edges — Arjuna felt the familiar pull of wanting to be chosen.

Not by law.
Not by duty.
But by preference.

He knew that hunger well. He had felt it on battlefields, in archery contests, in his brothers’ shadows.

This was no different.
Or so he told himself.

One afternoon, Lakshman ran ahead of them in the courtyard, turning back to grin at Arjuna before racing off again. Duryodhana smiled at his son — real, unguarded — and Arjuna felt something shift.

He imagined himself here longer.
Imagined being part of this orbit — not central, not claimed — just present enough to matter.

The thought startled him.

This is how it begins, a distant voice warned.

So he did what he always did when desire threatened to sharpen: he made it beautiful instead of dangerous.

He framed it as loyalty.

If Duryodhana needed a companion — Arjuna would be there.
If he needed a listener — Arjuna would stay.
If he needed space — Arjuna would give it without resentment.

He would not press.
He would not ask.
He would not force the world to bend.
He would simply remain — visible, willing, open.

And one day, perhaps, Duryodhana would turn to him not because he had to……but because he wanted to.

That was the lie Arjuna lived inside.

Because even now, even as he convinced himself of patience, he was quietly shaping a truth where Duryodhana’s comfort became associated with his presence.

Safety with his voice.
Ease with his nearness.
Relief with his smile.

Arjuna did not see it as manipulation.

He saw it as offering himself honestly.

And when Duryodhana thanked him once — quietly, almost absentmindedly — Arjuna felt the words settle into his bones like a vow he had not spoken aloud.

I will stay.

Not because I must.
Not because I am owed.

But because I choose you.

And choice, Arjuna believed, could never be a crime.

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