Siri's POV
The wind had settled, but my heart still hadn't.
The sky had long turned black, save for the faint halo of a streetlamp below and a few scattered stars overhead. A chill hung in the air, wrapping around my shoulders like an invisible shawl. But it wasn't the cold that made me shiver—it was the aftermath. Of everything.
My eyes stung from hours of crying. My throat felt scraped raw, like each sob had left its mark. My cheeks were tight, stiff with dried tears, and my body felt like it had been emptied and wrung out like an old cloth.
We had been sitting on the terrace for what felt like hours. Side by side. Not saying much. Letting the quiet do the talking. Letting the open sky hold all the words I couldn't speak aloud.
There was something strange… liberating about breaking down in front of Bhargav. Like I had finally exhaled after holding my breath for years. Like I'd allowed myself to feel in front of someone, without worrying how broken I looked.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't rush me.
Didn't tell me it would be okay.
He just stayed.
Sometimes, that's all you need. Someone to sit in the wreckage with you.
When I finally stood up, my legs trembled under me. My knees buckled slightly, and I had to catch the low parapet wall to steady myself. Bhargav rose too, mirroring my movement, but giving me space.
His hand reached out slowly—almost unsure. His fingers brushed my cheek, gentle and barely there, wiping away the last streaks of tears.
"I'm sorry," I whispered before I could stop myself. My voice cracked. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."
He shook his head, brows pulling together. "Don't be. You didn't fall apart, Siri. You just… let go. And you were allowed to."
I looked down at the tiles beneath us. The patterns were blurry, smeared by my tears and the dim lighting.
"I haven't let go like that in years," I murmured. "Not even when Abhi…"
My voice trailed off, but he didn't press me.
"I know," he said softly, looking out toward the night sky. "That's why I stayed."
I swallowed hard, a new ache swelling in my chest. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
That broke something in me again—something softer this time. Not the same violent kind of grief, but something more fragile. Something that made me want to close the space between us and say thank you in a language only he would understand.
"You should go to work tomorrow," he said suddenly, quietly.
I blinked, startled. "What?"
He glanced at me, his voice tender but firm. "You've been inside too long. You need… air. Faces. Distraction. A little routine might help. Staying in this darkness won't."
I stared at him.
It wasn't what I expected. Not after everything. Not tonight. But the way he said it—it didn't sound like judgment. It didn't feel like pressure. It felt like… a wish. A small nudge back toward the world.
"You think I can just pretend none of this happened?" I asked bitterly, not even sure who I was angry at—him, myself, or the weight of everything I had lost.
He didn't flinch.
"No," he said. "But I think you can try living in spite of it. Not because you're okay. But because you're not."
His words sank deep. Too deep.
I turned away slightly, my eyes prickling again. "What if I'm not ready?"
"Then take it slow," he said. "One step. One hour. One fake smile at a time. But don't let this… this define the rest of your days."
I bit my lip. My hands were trembling again, but I didn't hide them this time.
"I'll try," I whispered.
He smiled, just a little. "That's all I'm asking."
We started walking toward the staircase. Our steps were slow, quiet, almost cautious. But the silence between us had shifted. It wasn't heavy anymore. It wasn't full of the things we didn't say. It just… was.
A quiet we could exist in.
At the first landing, he paused. I did too.
"If it ever gets too much," he said, eyes still on the steps, "come back here."
I turned to him.
"To the terrace?" I asked.
He nodded. "To me. I mean it."
I stared at him, heart caught in my throat.
"I don't know what this is anymore," I admitted, voice barely audible. "What's happening between us… it's not clear. And I don't want to hurt either of us by pretending it is."
Bhargav met my gaze fully, his own heavy with unspoken truths.
"I'm not asking for definitions right now," he said. "I'm just… here. For whatever you need. No pressure. No expectations."
And I believed him.
That was the scariest part.
We reached the bottom floor, the quiet echo of our footsteps fading behind us. I lingered at the edge of the staircase, not ready to return to my room just yet.
"Good night," I said, unsure if that word even applied anymore.
Bhargav stepped back but didn't turn away. "Good night, Siri."
I watched him go.
And for the first time in days, I didn't feel like collapsing after someone left.
---
The Next Day – Siri's POV
Work was hard.
Not because anyone did or said anything. No one stared. No one asked uncomfortable questions. In fact, no one even seemed to notice that anything was wrong.
That stung more than it should've.
I'd imagined walking in with invisible bruises on my soul, imagined people sensing the ache in my chest the way one could smell rain in the air. But no. Life moved on. Emails piled up. Coffee machines hummed. Keyboards clicked. People laughed at something someone forwarded in a group chat.
And I sat there, untouched by all of it, a ghost in a body still trying to remember how to function.
I logged in, stared at my screen like it held the key to my healing, and forced myself to answer emails. Words blurred, sentences jumbled, but I pressed send anyway. I joined meetings with my camera off, nodded in silence when someone mentioned growth metrics or end-of-quarter targets. My name popped up once.
"Siri, your thoughts?"
I blinked.
"Uh… I think the proposed strategy could work," I said, voice flat, emotionless.
No one noticed the disconnect. No one paused.
I gave myself tiny breaks between tasks—pausing for a sip of lukewarm coffee, staring out the window at the patch of grey sky, counting the blinking cursor on the screen. I was trying. Really trying.
But somewhere between the monotony and the forced focus, a ghost from the past crept in.
Abhi.
Not the version I last saw—the one who betrayed me, who looked me in the eye and still lied like it meant nothing.
No. I remembered the version he pretended to be at the beginning. The version who seemed gentle. Thoughtful. Loving.
He used to text me in the middle of my workday just to ask if I had eaten.
Did you have lunch yet or are you still fighting with deadlines?
He'd show up outside the office building with coffee in hand, always saying, "Thought you might need this," like he hadn't been waiting there for half an hour.
Once, he even stood outside in the pouring rain, holding an umbrella like some dramatic hero from a Telugu movie, waiting for me to come out.
"You're soaked," I had laughed.
"You're worth it," he'd replied with a grin.
And I had believed him.
God, I believed him.
My chest clenched.
How stupid was I? How desperate had I been to believe that someone could love me that way? Now, in the exact same office, I sat surrounded by those memories like they were landmines, never knowing which one would explode next.
How much of it had been real? Had any of those moments meant something to him?
Or was it all just an act? A calculated performance to win me over?
I tried to shake it off, literally shaking my head in the empty cubicle. But the thoughts stuck like gum on the bottom of my brain—annoying, persistent, impossible to scrape off.
Time dragged its feet. And I had to drag mine.
To be continued...