Wounded Heart ✔

Chapter- 14

The house settled into silence, the kind that presses against your chest, heavy and suffocating. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine that seemed almost mournful in the moonlight.

Amira lay beneath the duvet, her body still, her breaths slow but uneven, a faint tremor still running through her hands. The glow of her phone screen reflected off her pale face, shadows carving lines of exhaustion and pain across her features. It was a side of her few had ever seen, a raw vulnerability she hid behind smiles, sarcasm, and quiet strength.

Maan lingered near the doorway, arms folded, gaze sharp yet unreadable. His mind was a storm of thoughts—Azaan, the nightmare, and the fragile weight of Amira's heart—and yet he knew better than to disturb her. Some battles, some pains, she had to navigate on her own.

"What triggered the memories of Azaan after so long?" he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible over the hum of the night. His words carried no accusation, only a cold, analytical concern.

Adira, standing close by, watched the girl they all cherished more than life itself. Her hand rested gently against the doorframe, as if grounding herself against the tide of emotions that Amira's fragile state evoked. "Maan," she said softly, "she will not wake for the rest of the night. Let her be. We need sleep. I'll stay here with her."

"No," Maan's voice cut through the quiet, measured and firm. "She won't want us seeing her like this. You know her—she will act as if nothing happened. We leave now. Let her have this space. We'll talk when she's ready, about Azaan, the nightmare... everything."

Adira's eyes softened with understanding, and after a brief nod, she allowed herself to step aside. One by one, the others moved out of the room, their footsteps hushed, the air thick with unspoken guilt, love, and fear.

Her parents, Arnav and Khushi, remained at the threshold, frozen. Their hearts ached with the silent torment of witnessing their daughter's pain, the bitter taste of helplessness sharp in their mouths. Each shadow cast by the dim hallway light seemed to echo the weight of the nights they had lost, the truths they had ignored, and the innocence that had been burdened far too early.

No one spoke. No one moved. They simply watched—guardians of a fragile soul, knowing that the night was hers alone, that the storm inside her mind was not theirs to calm. And yet, beneath their stoic exteriors, each of them carried the same unrelenting thought: they would endure anything to protect her, to let her rise again from the echoes of a past that refused to die.

The house fell silent once more, save for the soft, irregular rise and fall of Amira's chest—the fragile rhythm of a heart still tethered to hope, love, and memory.

The morning sunlight spilled into the living room, but it did nothing to soften the air around Amira. She descended the stairs with her usual composed grace, hair perfectly in place, expression unreadable, as if the night's turmoil had never touched her. Her friends exchanged subtle glances, shaking their heads in quiet exasperation at her stubbornness.

Her family, meanwhile, remained frozen, unsure whether to speak, comfort, or simply stand in reverent silence. The weight of the previous night—the nightmares, the memories, the raw vulnerability—hung unspoken between them.

"Good morning, all of you," Amira greeted, voice steady, controlled.

"Good morning, Ami... Amira," came the unified response, soft, cautious.

Maan broke the silence, his tone careful but probing. "So, Amira, do you have any plans for today?"

"Yeah. Meetings. Back-to-back. Conferences," she replied crisply, eyes scanning the room as though measuring each presence. There was no warmth in her voice, only the faint steel of someone erecting barriers.