Siri's POV :
It was the headache that woke me.
Not the kind that tiptoes into your mind gently like a whisper, golden and slow, coaxing you awake with the promise of a soft morning. No—this was sharp, brutal. Like a blade of light slicing through the thin veil of my eyelids, splitting my head in two.
I winced, rolling onto my side, pulling the sheet up over my head like it could protect me from the day. But it was too late.
The damage was already done.
A dull, insistent pounding started behind my eyes—steady and merciless, like someone hammering from the inside of my skull. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, dry and coarse, as if I had swallowed dust, or ash, or something worse. My stomach churned, not just from the alcohol, but from something far deeper.
Something was off.
No.
Everything was off.
My fingers twitched as I stretched, hoping to shake off the fog.
And froze.
My hand met bare skin. Not warm cotton. Not pajamas. Skin.
My own.
My breath caught. A wave of cold sweat broke across my back.
I yanked the blanket closer, clutching it to my chest as a tremor racked through me. Panic bloomed in my throat like wildfire. I didn't even need to look yet. My body already knew.
Beneath the blanket, I was naked.
And suddenly, I was awake.
Wide awake.
I sat up with a jolt, the world spinning like a carousel gone rogue. My vision blurred as I blinked against the morning light, the room tilting and jerking. I kept my eyes squeezed shut for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to calm the storm inside me.
But the silence was deafening. And then—soft breathing.
I forced myself to look.
And there he was.
Bhargav.
Lying on his side, back to me. Bare. The blanket half covering him, one arm thrown lazily over the pillow. His face was relaxed, still deep in sleep, his mouth slightly parted. He looked... peaceful.
Peaceful, while I was unraveling.
A sob formed in my chest but I swallowed it, fast and hard, pressing my palm to my lips. No. No, no, no. This couldn't be real.
But it was. The pieces started coming back, jagged and blinding.
Abhi.
His lips on someone else. That woman's laugh. The smugness on his face when I caught him. The disbelief. The betrayal. The rage.
The bitter sting of alcohol burning down my throat. My vision spinning. My voice breaking. And then—
Bhargav's voice.
"Siri, come on. You're drunk. Let's go."
His hand around my wrist, trying to steady me. My tears soaking his shirt. The porch lights flickering in the background. That kiss—sudden, angry, electric.
The way I grabbed his hand, pulled him into my house, slammed the door behind us.
How he tried to pull away.
"Siri—wait. Think about this. You're not okay."
And I had whispered, "Neither are you."
How I had kissed him again.
Desperate. Frantic. Heat over pain. Want over reason. I had been drowning and he was the only thing within reach. And he let me hold on.
I stared at the scattered trail of clothes on the floor. His shirt. My bra. Jeans. The wrappers from a drawer I barely remembered opening. Proof of what we'd done.
No.
What I did.
I pulled my knees up to my chest, curling into myself, the blanket a fragile shield against the crushing weight of shame. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over in hot, furious streams.
"I'm such an idiot," I whispered, choking on the words.
Bhargav stirred, murmuring something incoherent before shifting onto his back, his brows knitting slightly.
I sat frozen, afraid even to breathe.
This was about me. My own collapse.
I had shattered every boundary I believed in, every line I told myself I would never cross. And not with a stranger or someone irrelevant—but with him.
Bhargav.
My best friend's older brother. The one who teased me, irritated me, argued with me. The one I claimed to hate. The one I swore I'd never even like.
And now he had seen me in the most vulnerable, most intimate, most destroyed version of myself.
No, I had let him.
How could I have used him like that? How could I let this happen?
I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear.
But I just sat there, trembling, the blanket wrapped around me like it could undo the damage, erase the night. It couldn't. Nothing could.
I hated the version of myself that had wanted to feel wanted—just for one night. I hated the girl who had craved warmth when the world felt so cold. I hated her, but she was me.
And I didn't know how to live with that.
Bhargav's POV:
When I woke up, it felt like I was underwater.
There was a strange haze in my head—thick and disorienting—the kind that blurs the edges of dreams and reality until you can't tell what's true. My limbs were heavy, the air in my lungs felt stale, and I wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.
Then I shifted. The sheet moved against my skin. Bare skin.
And the memories came back, not gently, but like a truck hitting me at full speed.
My eyes flew open, and I turned my head.
Siri.
She was sitting up on the bed, blanket clutched tightly around her, her back hunched, her body trembling like she was holding herself together with sheer will.
And she was crying.
My heart stopped.
She wasn't yelling. She wasn't throwing things or blaming me. She didn't need to. That silence—the silence of shame, of devastation—it was louder than any scream. It tore through me.
A sickening weight dropped in my stomach.
I sat up in a panic, the sheet sliding off me, and realized the full gravity of what had happened. We were both naked. We had done it.
I scrambled to find my clothes, hands shaking, heart thundering in my chest. My jeans were crumpled near the edge of the bed. My shirt was twisted beside her table. Every step, every movement felt like a punishment.
I pulled the clothes on clumsily, desperate to cover the mistake etched into my skin.
And then I left the room. Not out of cowardice, but because I couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in. My chest ached like someone had punched through it.
I made it to the living room and leaned against the nearest wall, the weight of what we had done suffocating me.
I slammed my fist into the plaster, needing the pain.
"Damn it," I hissed, under my breath. "You should've stopped. You knew better. You knew better."
I looked up at the mirror near the door, and I hated the reflection that stared back. My hair was a mess, eyes bloodshot, skin pale. I looked like a ghost. A man who had lost something irretrievable.
I didn't just fail her. I failed myself.
What kind of person lets something like that happen? What kind of man doesn't pull away when he sees someone falling apart? I was supposed to protect her. I was supposed to be the one who kept things in control.
But I didn't.
I followed my grief. My pain. My selfishness.
I walked back down the hall, the seconds stretching into eternities. Every step felt like it dragged through cement. My fists were clenched as I opened her door again.
She didn't look up.
I approached the bed slowly and sank to my knees beside it, not knowing what right I had to speak.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, barely audible. My voice cracked under the weight of it.
She didn't respond.
"I swear to God, Siri… I didn't mean for this to happen. I—I should've stopped you. Stopped me."
Finally, she turned to me. Her face was streaked with tears. Her eyes were bloodshot and full of something that twisted the knife deeper—disappointment.
"You think I don't know that?" she rasped.
Her voice… it was broken. Worn raw from crying.
"I wasn't even thinking," she said, her words trembling. "I just… I felt like everything was falling apart. And when I saw you, it felt like the only thing that was real was pain. And I acted out of that."
"I know," I said, throat tight. "I felt the same. But it doesn't make it right."
"No, it doesn't," she said quietly.
We sat in silence, the air between us thick with guilt, with shame, with words that wouldn't come.
"I feel disgusted with myself," she whispered. "I used you. I just wanted to forget how much it hurt… and you were just there."
"You didn't use me," I said softly, hoping to offer her something, even if it meant nothing. "We both… gave in. We were both broken. We didn't know what to do. I should've protested more."
"That doesn't make it okay," she snapped, her voice rising—but not out of anger. Out of self-loathing. "This… this was a mistake. A huge, unforgivable mistake."
I lowered my head, trying to steady my breath. "I'll do anything to take it back. I'll carry this guilt forever if it means you can be okay."
She looked at me, eyes blazing now—not with hatred, but with clarity. "There's nothing to take back. We made a choice in our worst moment. But now we live with it."
Her next words were sharp. Final.
"You'll never tell anyone. Not Indhu. Not Rakesh. Not even in your sleep, Bhargav. This dies here. Understand?"
I nodded, each syllable burning into my soul.
"Now leave," she whispered, barely holding herself together. "Please. Forget what happened here."
She started crying again, louder this time, her sobs uncontrollable. My chest tore open, but I knew—I couldn't fix this. Not now.
"Leave!" she screamed.
I stood, heart shattering, but said nothing more. I wanted to stay. To hold her. To apologize again and again until something inside her healed. But I had no right.
I looked at her one last time—the strongest girl I knew, now wrapped in a pain so unbearable it almost glowed around her.
And then I left.
With every step away from her room, from the version of me that failed us both—I knew.
We were never going to be the same.
And I didn't know if we even deserved to be.
To be continued…