-SOHINI-
I didn't knock. I didn't breathe.
I barged into the Khanna house like a storm—desperate, angry, heartbroken. My chest was tight, my hands shaking.
"Where is Vedant?" I yelled at the maid who happened to pass by. Her tray rattled in her hand, eyes wide with fear. She just pointed upstairs, toward his room.
I took the stairs two at a time, fury pushing me forward like fire under my feet.
I didn't think. I didn't pause. I kicked open his bedroom door.
"VEDANT!"
He turned. Slowly. Like he already knew I was coming. Like he'd been waiting.
His face—
It was ruined. A thick bandage across his nose. A red gash on his forehead. Swollen lip.
He looked like someone who had gone to war. Except the war was my home.
"You really did it?" My voice cracked, my throat already tightening. "You really broke my father's leg?"
His silence was louder than any scream.
"Yes," he said finally. "I didn't mean for it. It was a mistake, Sohini—"
I took one step forward. My voice turned cold, bitter.
"It's not a mistake, Vedant. You're the mistake."
And then my hand rose before I could stop myself, before my conscience could grab my wrist—I slapped him. Hard.
His head turned with the force, but he didn't raise a hand. Didn't even flinch.
"I trusted you," I whispered, teeth clenched, my eyes stinging.
He slowly turned back to look at me. Blood on his lip now. His eyes were red—tired or guilty, I couldn't tell. Maybe both.
"Sohini," he began, gently, "I swear, I never meant to hurt your father. He pushed me first—he said things that—"
"I don't care!" I screamed. "You think that justifies it? You think any of this is forgivable?"
I spun around to leave. I couldn't stay in this room. Couldn't look at him and not fall apart.
But then he grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Not forceful. But I hated it. I hated that it still felt familiar. That it still felt like him.
"Let go," I said quietly.
"No." His voice broke. "Please, Sohini. Just listen. I know you're hurting, but don't do this. Don't throw us away."
He pulled me into a hug.
And I hated that my body still knew the shape of him. He ran his hand down my back, gently.
"I know it's hard right now. For you. For me. For everyone. But we love each other. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"
I pushed him away.
"I don't even know what that means anymore," I whispered. "Because I can't love someone who made my mother cry herself to sleep. Who put my father in a hospital bed."
"Sohini—" he stepped forward.
"I said no," I snapped. "I can't marry you. I won't."
His face crumbled.
"I've convinced my parents. I'll do whatever it takes. I'll convince yours too. Please, just give me time."
I laughed then. A broken, bitter sound. It didn't even sound like me.
"Convince them of what, Vedant? That the unemployed, divorced man who assaulted my father is a dream husband?"
He flinched like I stabbed him.
"You're better than this," he whispered. "I know you're just saying all this to push me away."
"No, I'm saying it because it's true."
"You don't mean any of this," he said, desperately. "You love me."
"No. I don't." I smiled cruelly, even though it tore me up inside. "I never did. You were just—fun."
His mouth opened slightly, confused. Like his brain was trying to process words that didn't make sense in our story.
"I just wanted to have sex, Vedant. That's all you were. A distraction. Something new to taste."
His hands fell to his sides like he'd been shot.
"You're lying," he whispered. "You're lying because you're scared. This isn't you."
"It is me." I shrugged. "It's the real me. The slut you fell in love with."
"Sohini, stop—please, stop." He looked like a child now. A man too broken to even stand tall.
"I mean, come on. Look at you." I laughed, though it hurt. "Old. Jobless. A broken divorcee. What did you think this was? A fairy tale?"
His jaw clenched. "Say it to my eyes. If you really mean it—say it again and look at me."
And I did. Even though it killed me.
"I never loved you, Vedant Khanna," I said, locking eyes with him. "I just used you. And now I'm done."
He said nothing. He didn't even breathe.
"Leave," he whispered.
I gave him one last look. And then I ran.
Across the street. Into my house. Into my room. Slammed the door. Collapsed on the bed.
And I broke.
I broke in a way I didn't think was possible. I sobbed until I couldn't breathe. Until my throat ached and my pillow was soaked. Until there was nothing left inside me except guilt, shame, and the echo of his broken voice.
I blocked him. From everywhere.
I burned the pages of poetry I had written about him. Tore the Polaroids. Threw away the books he gifted me.
Because this—us—was killing everything good I had left.
Love? It's a lie. A beautifully packaged curse. And I had fallen for it.
I thought that pushing Vedant away would fix everything.
That if I hurt him badly enough, the damage would reverse. That my parents would forgive me. That society would forget. That the shame would dissolve.
But I was wrong.
My mother hasn't looked me in the eye since that day. She walks past me like I'm a shadow she never gave birth to. My brother, once my partner in crime, now avoids me like I carry a disease. My father—he still won't even glance in my direction. As if I'm a ghost haunting the house.
And outside?
Outside, it's worse.
People stare. Not the curious kind of stare—the kind that strips you bare. They whisper like I'm deaf, their eyes laughing while their mouths pretend to be hushed.
But nothing stung like that day on the street.
I was walking home alone from college, books clutched to my chest, trying to pretend the world was still normal. Then I heard the bike. Laughter. Whistles. My stomach dropped.
"How much for a night, miss?"
The voice was greasy, mocking. I turned—and there they were. Two boys from our locality. Sharma ji's son. Mishra ji's heir. Familiar faces turned strangers.
"I'd pay double for that figure," one of them sneered, laughing, stopping the bike right in front of me.
My hand curled into a fist. Rage. Humiliation. I wanted to slap the smirk off their faces.
"What do you want?" I said through gritted teeth.
"Sex," they laughed.
I froze. The kind of freeze where your soul leaves your body for a moment because reality is too ugly.
Before I could respond, a voice cut through the chaos.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
It was Chinu. My baby brother.
He was still in his school uniform—bag slung on one shoulder, fists clenched. He looked small, but he stood tall.
"You better leave, or I'll call your fathers," he shouted. No stutter. No fear.
They paused. Then scoffed. And rode away.
I stood there, shaking. I hadn't even realized I was crying until Chinu looked at me.
I hugged him. I needed to. I needed to feel someone who didn't see me as filth.
But he pulled away.
"This is all your fault," he muttered, brushing past me.
And I followed. Wordless. Hollow.
"Mamma and Papa—they've suffered a lot. No one talks to them anymore. Papa's stopped jogging. Mamma doesn't sit with the aunties for gossip. Nobody plays with me in the park anymore." He didn't look at me when he spoke.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, in a small voice, he added:
"We're leaving. This week. I heard them talking at night."
My throat closed up. "Why are you telling me this?"
"If you want to marry Vedant—" he looked at me, his eyes not angry—just tired. "Then you only have seven days."
He turned and left.
And I just stood there—at the cross-section of the road—stuck. Seven days. That's all I had. But for what?
To choose? To lose?
To betray the family that gave me everything for a man who once held my heart?
Was it love or just rebellion?
The days passed. The house I had lived in for fifteen years—where I'd danced on Diwali, cried after exam results, learned how to ride a bicycle—was slowly being emptied. The photos were taken down. The furniture packed. It was no longer a home. Just a shell.
"We'll be leaving in a few hours," my mother said, not looking at me. Her voice was flat. She hadn't addressed me directly in weeks.
"Just going to finalise some paperwork," Papa said before stepping out.
Maa disappeared into her room.
Chinu sat on the stairs with his phone, playing some game. The screen reflected in his eyes.
"Don't you want to see your boyfriend one last time?" he asked, not looking up.
"He's not my boyfriend," I said, too quickly. Too bitterly.
"Whatever," he muttered.
I hesitated. "I—I just—"
"You want to see him," he said without blinking. "Just go. I won't tell anyone."
And I ran.
To the house across the street. My heartbeat loud. My palms sweaty.
I rang the bell like my life depended on it. I didn't know what I'd say. Maybe I'd apologize. Maybe I'd tell him I loved him. Maybe I'd ask him to wait.
The maid opened the door.
"Yes?"
"Vedant?" I asked, breathless.
She looked at me with sympathy. "They left the city. A week ago."
My heart fell. "Can you—tell him I came?"
She nodded. And shut the door. Just like that. He was gone. No goodbye. No message. No effort.
I had burned everything for him, and he didn't even look back.
I waited. For a day. Then a week. Then a month.
But he never called. Never texted. Never tried. He disappeared.
And I stayed.
With the pain. With the shame. With the silence of a house I no longer recognized, and the weight of a decision that gave me nothing in return.
I don't know if he ever loved me. But I loved him.
Two months had passed in the new house, and silence had become routine.
Every wall here echoed unfamiliarity. No childhood scribbles on the corners, no memories etched into the cracks. Just a sterile quietness that wrapped itself around me like a punishment.
That morning, Maa asked me to prepare tea.
It was the first time she'd asked me to do anything since we moved. Her voice was neutral. Not kind. Not cruel. Just—distant.
"Who's coming?" I asked, curious. No one had visited us in all this time. We'd become untouchables—socially quarantined after my scandal.
"Your father's friend," she replied, chopping coriander with slow precision. "Banerjee. He's bringing his son."
I nodded. Turned to the stove. Started boiling water. The smell of cardamom and tea leaves rose, mixing with an uneasiness I couldn't explain.
Then she said it.
"They're coming to see you."
I blinked. Slowly. "See me? For what?"
She didn't even look up from the samosas.
"For marriage."
The words landed like a slap.
"Maa—" I whispered, stunned.
"I can't—I'm still in college. I have a year left. This makes no sense."
"You can continue studying after marriage," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
"No, Maa, please." My voice cracked. My eyes burned.
She finally looked at me. Her face unreadable. Her eyes tired, not just from age, but from months of carrying disappointment like a wound.
"Sohini, please. This is what your father wants. Don't disappoint him again."
Then softly—almost pleading—
"Just behave well."
The doorbell rang before I could say another word.
"They're here," she said flatly, smoothing her sari, already moving toward the door.
I stood frozen.
Teacups rattling in the tray. My fingers trembling.
My eyes locked on the door, chest rising in shallow breaths.
I wasn't ready. Not to be seen. Not to be chosen.
And definitely, not to be married.