Siri's POV
The breeze tonight was gentler but colder than usual. It traced a path across my skin—sharp, honest. The kind of chill that doesn't sting, just reminds you of everything you've been trying not to think about.
I climbed the small dividing wall between our homes—the one we'd quietly claimed as ours over years of stolen conversations and midnight snacks. My hands, though familiar with every brick and edge, hesitated at the top. The world felt different lately. So did we.
When I pulled myself up onto the terrace, the first thing I saw was her.
Siri.
She sat cross-legged near the edge, facing the open sky like she was waiting for it to give her an answer she already knew wasn't coming. Her white kurti shifted subtly with each gust of wind. Her hair, usually wild and stubborn, had been tied into a tired knot falling carelessly over one shoulder. The steel tiffin—probably packed hours ago with good intentions—sat unopened beside her.
I watched her for a few seconds. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees, chin resting atop them. Her figure didn't move, not even when I arrived. No flinch. No greeting. As if she'd turned to stone, carved out of grief and silence.
But it was her eyes that broke me.
They weren't just glassy. They were vacant. Not the fire-tipped glare that used to defy the world. This was something else. Something quieter. Like all the light had drained from her and she hadn't yet noticed.
I walked over, quietly, respecting a distance. The rustle of my footsteps didn't stir her.
"Siri…" I said softly, not wanting to pierce the stillness, only nudge it.
No response.
My eyes flicked to the tiffin, then back to her.
"You haven't eaten," I tried again, voice lower now. "And it's late."
Still nothing.
I dropped into a cross-legged position beside her, mirroring her posture, though leaving a gap between us.
Finally, she spoke. "I don't feel like it."
No inflection. No anger. Just words.
I turned toward her a little, trying to see her face better. "Want to talk about it?"
She shook her head, barely.
"I'm here," I said plainly, in case she needed reminding. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. But I'm not going anywhere."
A long pause came next. Quiet except for the breeze combing through the nearby trees and that distant sound of a scooter engine that would fade as quickly as it rose.
Then came three brittle words: "I'm fine."
Too fast. Too forced.
I could feel the lie unravel in her mouth, trembling, like she didn't have the strength to hold it together anymore.
"Siri," I murmured. "You don't have to lie to me. Not now. If you need to cry… do it. It's okay. Just… let it out."
She didn't respond immediately. I half-expected her to turn away. But then, something in her cracked.
She turned—and fell into me.
The moment she reached out, her arms flung around me in desperation, I realized this wasn't a hug. This was someone drowning, grabbing onto anything solid. Her face pressed into my chest, warm tears seeping into my shirt like spilled sadness.
"I… I'm still thinking about him," she gasped between sobs. "How could he do that to me? So easily? Three years, Bhargav. Three goddamn years. Was none of it real?"
Each word rasped out like it hurt her to speak—sharp and jagged, scraping her throat raw.
I didn't speak. I couldn't. What do you say to someone whose world just caved in?
She held on tighter, her fists clinging to my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.
"And that night…" she choked out. "I-I did something I never imagined I'd do. With you."
I went completely still.
Her heartbeat, frantic and heavy, beat against my chest in uneven thuds. My arms, hesitant at first, carefully wrapped around her. Not to possess. Just to be there. Just to hold.
I wanted to tell her she wasn't alone in that confusion. That what happened between us wasn't just a moment she'd regret. That part of me had crossed that emotional line long before she even noticed.
But words weren't what she needed.
So I didn't offer any.
I just stayed.
Eventually her sobs slowed. Her grip on my shirt loosened, fingers unclenching one by one. She leaned back, wiping her cheeks with a corner of her sleeve—ineffectively.
Her voice, quieter now: "I hate how small he made me feel."
I nodded slightly, hand still resting lightly on her back.
"You aren't small, Siri. He just… wasn't big enough to handle you."
She gave a faint laugh—a breath laced with exhaustion rather than amusement.
I looked at the tiffin again.
"You should eat something," I said gently.
She looked away. "I don't want to."
I smiled kindly. "Then I'll have to feed you. Don't test me; I will."
That earned a flicker of a chuckle—tired, but real.
"Then… feed me," she whispered, eyes not meeting mine.
I blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
There was no flirt in her voice, no humor. Just raw, stripped-down vulnerability. Like a kid.
I opened the lid of the tiffin slowly. The smell of home-cooked rice and curry wafted upward. Carefully, I took a small bite's worth in my fingers and held it to her mouth.
She ate mechanically, like her body was on autopilot while her mind wandered elsewhere.
One bite. Then another.
Each moment passed with quiet patience, punctuated only by the soft rustle of the breeze or the occasional murmur of a nightbird somewhere far away.
With every bite, something inside her seemed to loosen. Her shoulders eased. Her jaw didn't look so clenched. The hard lines around her eyes... softened.
Once the tiffin was emptied, I used a cloth from my pocket to wipe my hands and stood to rinse them at the old terrace tap in the corner. When I returned, I found her staring at the sky again.
I sat beside her and nudged her gently. "Abhi's officially the biggest idiot alive."
She looked at me with raised eyebrows.
"Seriously. Who cheats on someone like you? He should have his relationship license revoked forever."
That drew an actual laugh—a short, surprised sound. She looked down, shaking her head slightly. "You're such an idiot."
"But a charming one," I added, grinning.
"Hmm. That's… definitely up for debate."
"Oh come on. My charm is internationally recognized. I have fans."
"Yeah? Who, your mirror?"
"Ouch." I clutched my heart in faux pain. "That hurt, madam. Deeply."
She smiled—genuinely this time—and then, after a moment, she stretched her legs, shifted, and gently lowered herself until her head rested on my lap.
I stiffened in surprise but didn't move.
"You okay like this?" I asked, voice low.
She nodded. "It's comfortable."
Her eyes closed. My hand instinctively moved to her hair, slowly combing through the strands. Neither of us spoke.
The moon slipped behind a thin veil of clouds. Crickets murmured from somewhere out of sight. The world had finally exhaled with us.
Then, quietly, like she was testing the waters, she asked: "Bhargav?"
"Hmm?"
"That thing you said the other night… about marriage?"
I paused, fingers freezing mid-motion in her hair.
She glanced up at me. Her expression wasn't easy to read. A blend of doubt, discomfort… and something gentler.
"Let's try," she whispered. "I don't know what this is… what we are. But maybe we can figure it out. Together."
I let the silence hold her words. Let them sink into the walls of my chest before responding.
"Wait… you're serious?"
She gave a tiny smirk. "Maybe."
I grinned. "I was totally prepared for this moment."
"You weren't."
"Was too."
I smirked. "So… does this mean I get an update on our relationship status now?"
She peeked one eye open, eyebrows furrowing. "Seriously?"
"Hey, I need to know if I'm still in the 'enemy' zone or if I've been promoted to… let's say… 'maybe something'?"
She groaned, covering her face with both hands. "You're so annoying."
"But in a lovable way."
"Don't push it."
I leaned closer. "Come on. Just a small update. I'll take a vague one. Like… 'currently under review'?"
She sighed dramatically. "You're getting nothing."
"Oh wow. I fed you, comforted you, gave up sleep for you… and this is the thanks I get?"
She turned away with a small smile playing on her lips. "Fine. We're… ex-enemies. That's your update."
I frowned in mock disappointment. "Was expecting at least 'occasional friend' status."
"Get a life, Bhargav."
"That's what I'm trying to do here."
She shook her head, laughing softly. "You're the worst."
"But I make you laugh."
"Unfortunately, yes."
I leaned down slightly and whispered near her ear, "Then let me stay. Right here. Just like this."
She didn't answer. But her fingers lightly brushed my wrist as if to say, Stay.
Under the moonlight, we weren't promises or apologies.
We were just Bhargav and Siri—scarred, bruised, healing.
And for the first time in what felt like ages, the night didn't feel like a burden.
It felt like the beginning of something softer.
Something real.
To be continued...