Wounded Heart ✔

Chapter - 10

The night sky hung heavy with stars, each one burning silently as if carrying the weight of unspoken truths. The terrace, bathed in pale moonlight, was quiet except for the faint creak of the swing and the occasional whisper of the breeze. Amira sat alone, her hot chocolate untouched, her eyes fixed on nothing and everything all at once. The ghosts of her nightmare lingered, merging with memories she could neither embrace nor escape.

She didn't notice when Abhishek joined her. His presence was steady, silent—like a shadow that had always been there, watching. For a long while, neither spoke. The gulf between them was not filled by words but by years of mistrust, pain, and broken faith. And yet, tonight, under the weight of silence, something fragile stirred—an old familiarity, the faint echo of what once was.

Amira was lost in her thoughts, unaware of her brother's presence. The nightmare still gnawed at her, pulling her back into the darkness she had barely escaped. Her throat ached with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. To cry was to surrender, and she had long since learned that surrender gave nothing back.

The faint sound of someone clearing their throat broke her reverie. She lifted her gaze and found Abhishek beside her, leaning back against the railing, his eyes trained on the stars. He sipped from the mug in his hand, his silence heavy, deliberate.

They sat like that for several minutes—two siblings bound by blood, divided by history—unsure if conversation would heal or reopen wounds.

"It has been years, hasn't it?" Abhishek finally said, his tone even, almost detached.

Amira blinked, her confusion evident. "What do you mean?"

He did not look at her when he answered. "Peace. Everyone's hearts are lighter now, especially Mom and Dad. Tonight I saw something in their eyes I haven't seen in a long time—calm. When you came home from the office, it reminded me of the old days. Back when they used to panic if you were late coming from school."

Her lips parted in surprise. "I didn't expect you to speak to me. And yet, here you are, telling me this." Her voice was flat, stripped of warmth.

"I only thought you should know." His words carried no softness, only fact. "So you won't repeat it. They wait for you—especially Mom. Don't make them worry again. That's all."

She studied him, the edges of concern buried deep in his tone, but she let the silence stretch between them. Her gaze returned to the sky. "Tell them not to wait for me. I've learned to live alone. For years, my life has revolved around work and nothing else. Loneliness becomes a habit. You can't unlearn it overnight. I'm here because Aashi asked me to be. But don't expect me to get attached. I won't let my heart break at your hands again."

His jaw tightened, his words cutting like steel when he spoke. "That loneliness—you chose it. You did something that forced distance between us. And I don't regret stepping back. I raised you with love, with more care than even Mom and Dad. I cherished you as my first child. And in return, you gave us betrayal. Pain. Regret. You broke them, Amira. You almost killed Aashi with grief. I didn't want you here now either, but Aashi insisted, and none of us could deny her. Don't mistake this for forgiveness. I don't trust you. And as long as you're here, I'll watch you. Don't make us regret letting you back, even for a short time."

His voice was measured, emotionless, but the bitterness in it was sharp.

Amira looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she rose, the swing groaning in her absence. At the edge of the terrace, she paused. Her voice was soft when it came—so soft it startled him.

"Bhaiyu."

It had been years since she called him that. The word struck him like a ghost of the past, rooting him where he stood.