[][] Sunakshi's POV [][]
Sleep refused to come.
I lay awake, staring into the darkness that had swallowed my room, willing my mind to quiet down. Every time I closed my eyes, another memory surfaced. Another sentence. Another image.
I turned onto my left side.
Then onto my right.
I fluffed my pillow for what had to be the tenth time before burying my face in it, hoping exhaustion would finally win.
It didn't.
The silence around me only made my thoughts louder.
Kalki's voice echoed through my mind with painful clarity.
"She lives in an isolated room."
"Food is passed through a machine."
"She trusts machines more than people."
My chest tightened until breathing itself felt difficult.
I opened my eyes again.
The ceiling above me disappeared into the darkness, but somehow I continued staring at it as though it held answers to questions no one could answer.
Noor.
The name alone felt foreign now.
For years, she had been nothing more than a quiet girl in the background. Soft-spoken. Polite. Someone who blushed whenever attention fell on her and lowered her eyes whenever conversations became uncomfortable.
If someone had asked me yesterday to describe her, I would have called her shy.
Gentle.
Harmless.
Now every memory of her felt stained.
How much of it had been real?
How much had simply been another carefully crafted mask?
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
People always say the loudest monsters are the easiest to recognize.
No.
Sometimes monsters smile.
Sometimes they speak softly.
Sometimes they earn your trust before they destroy someone else's life.
I shut my eyes again, but Ayesha's face appeared instead.
Or rather...
The absence of it.
She hadn't even looked at us.
Not once.
She had simply sat there, her face lowered toward the floor as though making eye contact with another human being required more courage than she possessed.
Her hands had trembled.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for someone unfamiliar to notice.
But I had seen it.
Tiny, almost invisible tremors.
The kind left behind after years of fear.
The image refused to leave me.
A lump formed in my throat.
What kind of pain teaches a person to fear kindness?
What kind of nightmare convinces someone that silence is safer than speaking?
I pulled the blanket closer around myself.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Not because of the night.
Because of the thoughts filling it.
Kalki hadn't exaggerated.
If anything...
He hadn't told me enough.
I remembered the way his expression had changed while speaking about her.
Kalki rarely showed emotions so openly.
He joked.
He teased.
He hid serious things behind sarcasm and smiles.
But tonight...
There had been no mask.
Only anger.
Only helplessness.
Only guilt.
As though he blamed himself for something I still couldn't understand.
I pressed my palms against my eyes.
"Stop thinking," I whispered to myself.
My own voice sounded unfamiliar in the darkness.
It changed nothing.
The questions only multiplied.
Why?
Why Ayesha?
Why would anyone target someone like her?
What possible satisfaction could Noor have found in destroying another person's life?
No answer came.
Only more silence.
Outside, the wind brushed against the trees, making the leaves rustle softly.
Usually I loved that sound.
Tonight it reminded me of whispers.
Of secrets.
Of truths people refused to speak aloud.
I let out a long, shaky breath.
The part that disturbed me the most wasn't Noor anymore.
It was Ayesha's parents.
I remembered asking Kalki about them earlier.
The change in his expression had been immediate.
His shoulders had stiffened.
His jaw had clenched.
And for a brief second...
I had seen disappointment far deeper than anger.
Then he had told me.
"They chose money."
Just three words.
Yet they carried enough weight to crush someone's soul.
Money.
Over their daughter.
Over her safety.
Over her future.
I couldn't understand it.
I didn't want to.
Parents were supposed to be a child's safest place.
The people who stood between their children and the cruelty of the world.
They were supposed to believe them.
Protect them.
Fight for them.
Even when everyone else turned away.
But Ayesha's parents had done the opposite.
They had looked at their frightened daughter...
And chosen comfort instead.
How?
How could anyone do that?
Didn't they hear the desperation in her voice?
Didn't they notice the fear in her eyes?
Didn't they stop for even one second and ask themselves—
What if she's telling the truth?
A tear slid silently down my cheek.
I wiped it away almost immediately.
I wasn't crying because I pitied Ayesha.
She wouldn't want pity.
No one would.l
I was crying because no child should ever have to wonder whether the people who brought them into this world would stand beside them when it mattered most.
No child should have to beg to be believed.
Another memory surfaced without warning.
Not Ayesha's.
Mine.
I stared at the ceiling again.
Maybe that was why her story hurt so much.
Because somewhere inside me...
There was still a little girl waiting.
Waiting for footsteps that never came.
Waiting for voices she could barely remember.
Waiting for parents who had disappeared from her life long before she understood why.
The circumstances were different.
Nothing like Ayesha's.
No betrayal.
No lies.
No cruelty like the one she had endured.
But absence leaves its own kind of wound.
One that doesn't bleed.
One that quietly follows you through every stage of life.
People often assume that pain fades with time.
They're wrong.
It changes.
It grows quieter.
It becomes easier to hide.
But it never truly leaves.
Even now, after all these years, there were moments when I found myself wondering what it would have felt like to have a mother braid my hair before school.
To have a father proudly clap after a performance.
To hear someone say—
"I'm here."
"You'll always have us."
I smiled sadly.
Funny how the heart keeps longing for things logic already knows it will never receive.
My gaze drifted toward the family photographs hanging on the opposite wall.
The moonlight spilling through the curtains painted silver lines across the frames.
There was Avi.
Laughing.
Covered in birthday cake.
Another photograph showed him sitting on Dad's shoulders during a family picnic.
In another, Dad was pretending to steal his ice cream while Avi laughed so hard his entire face had turned red.
I couldn't help smiling.
Everyone loved Avi.
Openly.
Fearlessly.
No one ever made him question it.
Sometimes I caught myself wondering what that certainty felt like.
To know that no matter what happened...
Someone would always choose you.
Not because you earned it.
Not because you deserved it.
Simply because you were theirs.
A dull ache settled inside my chest.
Not jealousy.
Never jealousy.
I adored Avi.
If anything, seeing him loved so completely made me happy.
Children deserved that kind of security.
Every single one of them.
I only wished every child received it.
Including Ayesha.
Including the younger version of me.
My eyes wandered to another photograph.
Dylan Bhai stood beside me with one arm resting protectively around my shoulders.
I smiled despite myself.
He never treated me like an obligation.
If anything, he spoiled me far too much.
Half the things in my room had appeared because he had randomly decided—
"This reminded me of you."
Or—
"You'll like this."
Even when I insisted I didn't need anything.
He never listened.
Then there was Rajveer Bhai.
I laughed quietly into the silence.
That man possessed an almost supernatural ability to know exactly what I wanted before I did.
Whenever I had a bad day, he somehow appeared carrying my favorite coffee or a novel I had mentioned only once weeks earlier.
Sometimes he would simply sit beside me without asking questions until I felt ready to speak.
And Dadi...
I smiled more warmly this time.
She would deny it until her last breath, but she loved through actions instead of words.
Extra rotis mysteriously appeared on my plate whenever I skipped lunch.
She complained whenever I stayed out late, only to wait awake until I returned safely.
Every scolding hid concern.
Every complaint concealed affection.
I had been loved.
Deeply.
Unconditionally.
Just... differently.
For that, I would remain grateful for the rest of my life.
Yet there are some places in the human heart that only parents can fill.
No matter how much love surrounds you, a small corner continues waiting for the people who first taught you what home was supposed to feel like.
Maybe that corner never disappears.
Maybe we simply learn to live around it.
A fresh tear escaped before I noticed it.
I didn't bother wiping it away this time.
The room remained silent.
Only my uneven breathing disturbed the stillness.
Outside, the horizon slowly began to lighten.
The darkest shades of night softened into deep blue.
Morning.
I hadn't slept for even a minute.
With a tired sigh, I threw the blanket aside and sat on the edge of the bed.
There was no point trying anymore.
Sleep had abandoned me long ago.
I slipped my feet into my slippers and walked toward the balcony.
The cool morning breeze greeted me the moment I opened the glass door.
Usually, mornings brought peace.
Today, they brought none.
I rested my hands against the railing and looked down at the quiet street below.
The world was only beginning to wake.
A milkman cycled past, humming an old tune.
A stray dog stretched lazily before settling beneath a tree.
Somewhere nearby, birds welcomed the sunrise with cheerful songs that felt strangely out of place against the heaviness inside me.
Life continued.
As if nothing had happened.
As if somewhere, hidden behind locked doors and silent walls, a girl wasn't trying to convince herself that breathing was still worth the effort.
I closed my eyes.
"Ayesha..." I whispered into the wind.
The name lingered on my lips.
Along with a silent promise I didn't yet know how to keep.
If there was even the smallest thing I could do to help her...
I would.
No matter what it took.
I had no idea that before this morning ended, fate would place me directly in her path.
And once it did...
None of our lives would ever be the same again.
The shrill cry of a car horn drifted through the quiet morning.
Sunakshi looked up from the balcony, her fingers tightening around the cold iron railing. Dawn had only just broken. The sky wore soft shades of lavender and gold, while the streets below were still wrapped in the lazy calm that came before the city truly woke.
A sleek black SUV rolled to a stop outside the mansion.
Her heartbeat faltered.
Kalki stepped out.
Even from the second floor, she could tell something was wrong.
His usually neat hair was disheveled, as though he'd run his hands through it a hundred times. His white shirt was creased, the sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. Dark shadows rested beneath his eyes, making him look years older than he had the previous evening.
He didn't look tired.
He looked... haunted.
As though sleep had abandoned him just as completely as it had abandoned her.
Almost sensing her presence, he lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them smiled.
Neither of them waved.
For several seconds, they simply looked at one another.
There were questions in her eyes.
There was hesitation in his.
And beneath both...
An unspoken understanding.
Something had happened.
Without thinking, Sunakshi hurried inside.
She barely noticed her own reflection as she rushed past the hallway mirror, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house.
The mansion was unusually still.
Even the servants hadn't begun moving about yet.
She reached the front door just as the bell rang.
Taking a steadying breath, she opened it.
Kalki stood on the other side.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Up close, he looked even worse.
His eyes were bloodshot.
His jaw carried the shadow of a sleepless night.
Yet despite the exhaustion etched across his face, there was an odd gentleness in the way he looked at her.
"You didn't sleep," Sunakshi said quietly.
His lips curved into the faintest smile.
"I was about to ask you the same thing."
She gave a tired laugh.
"I guess we both know the answer."
His smile disappeared.
Silence settled between them again.
This one wasn't awkward.
It was heavy.
Like both of them were carrying thoughts too large to fit into words.
Finally, Kalki spoken
"I want you to meet someone."
There was something in his voice that made her pulse quicken.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
More like... reluctance.
As though he wished he never had to ask this of her.
"Who?"
He inhaled slowly.
"Ayesha"
The name stole the air from her lungs.
For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.
The girl whose story had haunted her all night.
The girl whose silence echoed louder than screams.
"Why me?"
"Because I trust your heart."
The answer came so simply that she didn't know what to say.
He wasn't asking because she could fix anything.
He wasn't asking because she had answers.
He was asking because he believed she would see Ayesha as a person instead of a tragedy.
"I'll wait."
The drive began in silence.
The city slowly disappeared behind them, replaced by quiet roads lined with old trees whose branches intertwined overhead.
Sunakshi watched the scenery blur past.
Every few minutes, she glanced sideways.
Kalki hadn't turned on the radio.
His hands remained fixed on the steering wheel.
Too tight.
The veins on the back of his hands stood out beneath his skin.
He looked as though he were preparing for battle.
"Kalki?
"Can I ask you something?"
"You always do."
She managed a faint smile.
"Are you scared?"
He didn't answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost lost beneath the hum of the engine.
"Terrified."
She stared at him.
"You?"
He nodded.
"I've walked through war zones."
"I've seen things no one should ever see."
"But every time I visit her..."
His grip tightened.
"...I'm afraid she'll have given up."
The words settled heavily between them.
Sunakshi looked out of the window again.
For the first time, she understood.
This wasn't simply someone Kalki felt responsible for.
This was someone he had failed to save in time.
That guilt had become a permanent part of him.
After several more minutes, she asked quietly,
"Does she ever speak?"
"Sometimes."
"What does she say?"
He smiled sadly.
"Usually one word."
"What word?"
"No."
The answer shattered something inside her.
No.
Such a small word.
Yet how many times had that word been ignored before she stopped believing it had any meaning?
Another silence stretched between them.
This one was gentler.
Not empty.
Thoughtful.
Eventually, the road narrowed before opening onto an isolated property surrounded by tall stone walls.
Security cameras lined the perimeter.
Heavy iron gates blocked the entrance.
It looked less like a home...
And more like a sanctuary built to keep the world outside.
Or perhaps...
To keep one broken soul safe from it.
The gates opened after a guard recognized Kalki's car.
As they drove inside, Sunakshi noticed carefully maintained gardens, quiet walking paths, and large trees that cast cool shadows over the grounds.
Everything felt peaceful.
Deliberately peaceful.
As if the entire place had been designed to whisper,
"You're safe here."
Kalki parked beside the main building.
Neither of them moved immediately.
He rested both hands against the steering wheel and closed his eyes for several seconds.
"Every time," he murmured.
"What?"
"I tell myself today will be different."
Sunakshi looked at him.
"Is it?"
A tired smile crossed his face.
"No."
He climbed out before she could reply.
—
The building smelled faintly of antiseptic, fresh flowers, and coffee.
Soft instrumental music played somewhere in the distance.
Nothing about the place felt clinical.
Instead, it felt...
Gentle.
Intentional.
Like every detail existed to comfort people who had forgotten what comfort felt like.
A woman in her late fifties approached them.
Silver streaks ran through her neatly tied hair, and kindness softened every line on her face.
The moment she saw Kalki, she smiled warmly.
"You came."
"I said I would."
"You always do."
There was affection in her voice.
The kind shared between people who had walked through difficult years together.
"How is she?" Kalki asked.
The woman's smile faded.
"She ate breakfast."
He released a quiet breath.
"And?"
"She slept for nearly five hours."
"That's... better."
"It is."
Only then did she notice Sunakshi.
"And who is this?"
Kalki glanced toward her.
"This is Sunakshi."
The woman waited.
He continued,
"She's someone Ayesha might be able to trust."
The woman studied Sunakshi for a long moment.
Not suspiciously.
Carefully.
As though trying to decide whether another stranger entering Ayesha's world would heal something...
Or break it further.
Finally, she smiled.
"I'm Meera."
Sunakshi folded her hands politely.
"It's nice to meet you."
"I wish it were under happier circumstances."
Meera gestured for them to follow.
"Come."
They walked through quiet corridors painted in warm shades of cream and pale blue.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows.
Paintings covered the walls.
Not expensive artwork.
Simple landscapes.
Children flying kites.
Fields of sunflowers.
Ocean waves beneath clear skies.
Pictures chosen to remind frightened people that beauty still existed somewhere beyond pain.
Their footsteps echoed softly.
No one spoke.
At the end of the hallway, Meera stopped before a white wooden door.
"When we go inside..."
His voice was calm.
"...don't look at her as someone broken."
Sunakshi nodded.
"Look at her as someone who survived."
He reached for the doorknob.
The corridor fell completely silent.
The door opened.
And beyond it waited a young woman whose silence carried the weight of a thousand unspoken cries.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun.
Everything about the room spoke of comfort.
Everything except the girl sitting on the floor.
Ayesha sat with her knees pulled tightly against her chest, her forehead resting lightly on them. Long strands of dark hair hid most of her face, creating a curtain between herself and the rest of the world.
She didn't look up.
She didn't acknowledge the sound of the door opening.
She didn't even seem surprised that someone had entered.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Sunakshi found herself unable to breathe.
This...
This was Ayesha.
Not the version whispered about in conversations.
Not the girl people pitied from afar.
This was the person whose life had been torn apart piece by piece.
And she looked...
Small.
Painfully small.
Not because of her height or build.
But because grief had somehow made her shrink into herself.
As though she was trying to occupy as little space in the world as possible.
Beside her, Kalki remained still.
He didn't call her name.
He didn't rush toward her.
He simply waited.
Sunakshi looked at him in confusion.
He gave the slightest shake of his head.
Wait.
Several quiet moments passed.
Then...
Without lifting her head, Ayesha spoke.
"...You're late."
Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.
Hoarse.
Fragile.
As though she hadn't used it in days.
A faint smile tugged at Kalki's lips.
"There was traffic."
"There wasn't."
"No?"
"You always say that when you're late."
For the first time since entering the room, something warm flickered across Kalki's face.
"I've officially run out of excuses."
A tiny silence followed.
Not uncomfortable.
Familiar.
Comfortable enough that it told Sunakshi this conversation had happened before.
Many times.
Kalki slowly crouched a few feet away from her instead of sitting beside her.
He left enough distance that she wouldn't feel cornered.
"I brought someone today."
The words hung in the air.
Ayesha's fingers tightened around the sleeves of her sweater.
Her breathing became just a little faster.
Sunakshi noticed immediately.
Kalki noticed too.
"You don't have to look at her," he said gently.
"You don't have to talk to her."
"If you want us to leave..."
"We'll leave."
Silence.
The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock mounted on the wall.
Nearly a minute passed.
Finally...
Ayesha gave the smallest shake of her head.
"No."
Sunakshi released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Kalki looked toward her.
"Come."
His voice was soft enough that it almost blended into the silence.
Sunakshi walked forward carefully, stopping several feet away.
She didn't sit immediately.
She looked at Kalki uncertainly.
He nodded once.
She lowered herself onto the floor instead of taking the empty chair.
The floor felt cold beneath her.
It didn't matter.
For several minutes...
Nothing happened.
No introductions.
No questions.
No awkward attempts to fill the silence.
Sunakshi simply sat there.
Waiting.
She remembered what Kalki had told her.
Don't pity her.
Just be present.
So she did exactly that.
The silence stretched until it no longer felt strange.
Outside, birds chirped somewhere in the garden.
The wind stirred the curtains again.
Ayesha's breathing gradually slowed.
Then...
Very slowly...
She lifted her head.
Only a little.
Not enough to reveal her whole face.
Just enough for one cautious eye to peek through the strands of hair.
Blue.
Sunakshi froze.
They were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.
And the saddest.
They weren't empty.
They were exhausted.
Eyes that had spent too many nights searching for someone who never came.
The moment their gazes met, Ayesha immediately lowered her head again.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Sunakshi frowned.
"...For what?"
Ayesha didn't answer.
Instead, her fingers tightened around the fabric of her sweater.
Kalki spoke quietly.
"She apologizes whenever she looks at someone."
Sunakshi felt her heart crack.
She turned toward Ayesha.
"You don't have to apologize to me."
No response.
"You haven't done anything wrong."
Still nothing.
"I don't know everything that happened to you."
Sunakshi paused.
"But I know enough to understand that none of it was your fault."
The room became impossibly still.
Ayesha stopped breathing for a heartbeat.
Then she whispered something so softly that Sunakshi almost missed it.
"...Everyone says that."
Sunakshi looked at her.
"But they leave."
The words weren't spoken with anger.
Or resentment.
Only certainty.
Like someone stating an undeniable fact.
A painful lump formed in Sunakshi's throat.
She looked at Kalki.
His eyes remained fixed on Ayesha.
He had heard those words before.
Many times.
Sunakshi swallowed.
"I can't promise what tomorrow will look like."
She spoke honestly.
"I don't know what life has planned for either of us."
She drew a slow breath.
"But I can promise one thing."
Ayesha remained motionless.
"If I ever leave..."
Sunakshi smiled sadly.
"...it won't be because you weren't worth staying for."
For the first time...
Ayesha looked up properly.
Only for a second.
Just one.
Their eyes met.
There were no tears.
No smiles.
No dramatic breakthrough.
Only recognition.
As though Ayesha was silently asking,
Can I believe you?
Sunakshi didn't look away.
She didn't try to convince her.
She simply stayed.
Sometimes trust doesn't begin with words.
Sometimes it begins with someone choosing not to leave.
Minutes later, Meera entered carrying another tray.
"There are fresh strawberry pastries today," she said cheerfully.
She placed the plate on the table before looking toward Ayesha.
"Would you like one?"
Ayesha hesitated.
Then, to everyone's surprise, she glanced—not at the pastries—
But at Sunakshi.
It was a tiny movement.
Barely noticeable.
Yet Kalki saw it.
Meera saw it.
Sunakshi saw it.
She was asking without speaking.
Is it okay?
Sunakshi smiled gently.
"They smell delicious."
"I think I'd like one too."
Ayesha looked at the pastries again.
After several hesitant seconds, she slowly reached out and picked one up.
Her hand trembled.
But she didn't pull back.
It was the smallest gesture imaginable.
To anyone else, it meant nothing.
To Kalki...
It meant everything.
As they sat together in the quiet room, watching sunlight spill across the wooden floor, Kalki realized something he hadn't allowed himself to hope for in a very long time.
For the first time in months...
Ayesha hadn't hidden from a stranger.
She had looked at one.
And sometimes...
The first step toward healing is no bigger than a single glance.