The house had never felt so loud.Not with sound—her parents still moved with the same careful silence, her cousin still carried his usual clipped tone—but with the heaviness of something unspoken, pressing against the walls like smoke that refused to clear.
Ananya felt it first at the breakfast table.
Her mother's eyes flicked to her too often, then dropped back to the plate. Her father cleared his throat more than usual, pushing idli around as though his appetite had soured. Her cousin, Vikrant, sat straighter than normal, his smirk sharpened.
The air smelled of suspicion.
"Temple festival is coming again," her father said suddenly, his voice forced casual. "We will all attend. Together."
Her spoon stilled. Festivals used to mean music, crowds, a chance—however slim—to breathe outside the cage of this house. But now, under her cousin's watchful gaze, the thought filled her with dread.
"Yes, Mama," she murmured, lowering her eyes.
It wasn't just his words. It was the way her cousin's smirk deepened when her father spoke. The way her mother's fingers fidgeted at her lap, twisting her sari end. The way the silence stretched after, heavy as a stone dropped into a well.
They knew something.
By midday, the whispers found her.
She heard them first in the kitchen, when the milk woman lingered longer than usual. Her voice, low but clear, drifted through the doorway as Ananya pretended to sort utensils.
"…boys from the college hostel talking nonsense. Something about a ribbon at the banyan tree. Said it belonged to a girl, from here maybe."
Ananya's hands trembled, nearly dropping a glass.
The milk woman's laugh followed. "Always gossiping, those boys. But still—if people start asking, you must be careful."
Her mother gave a thin, strained chuckle in reply. "Of course."
Ananya gripped the counter until her knuckles ached. The ribbon. The one she had tied, the one Riyan had found. It wasn't supposed to spread. It was supposed to be theirs alone.
Her chest tightened. She didn't dare move until the milk woman's footsteps faded down the lane.
When she turned, her mother was standing at the threshold, eyes sharp, searching her face as though weighing truths she hadn't spoken.
Ananya forced her lips into a small smile. "Do you need help with the washing, Ma?"
Her mother blinked once, then turned away. "No. Stay in your room."
The words carried a weight they hadn't before.
By evening, the house was a prison.
Her cousin hovered too close, offering to fetch things she didn't ask for, shadowing her even when she walked to the courtyard. His questions were needles disguised as kindness.
"You've been quiet lately, Ananya. Dreaming, perhaps?""You don't look well. Are you hiding something?""Tell me… have you spoken to anyone outside?"
Each question sliced deeper, his tone smug, as if daring her to stumble.
She gave nothing. Not a flinch, not a breath out of place. Only silence, soft and obedient. But inside, her mind roared.
They know. Or at least, they suspect.
And if her cousin had even a thread of proof, he would tighten it around her neck until she couldn't breathe.
That night, she sat at her desk, candlelight flickering against the notebook where Riyan's last note lay hidden. Her trembling fingers touched the folded paper as though it might dissolve under the weight of her fear.
His words still glowed inside her, like fire stitched beneath her ribs. I am with you. Always. Every shadow, every silence—don't forget it's ours.
She closed her eyes, pressing the page to her chest. If the world was beginning to close in, if whispers had started bleeding from his side to hers, then this fragile thread of words was all she had left.
But how long could she hide it?
Her cousin had grown sharper than a blade. Her parents' eyes were already watchful. If he—or anyone—found the note, it wouldn't just be suspicion anymore. It would be war.
Her breath hitched. A single reckless thought carved itself in her mind: Burn it. Destroy it before they find it.
Her hand hovered over the candle flame, the paper trembling between her fingers. If she let it fall, if she let the fire eat the words, she could protect them both. No evidence. No proof. Just silence again.
But her heart screamed louder: This is all I have. If I burn it, I burn him with it.
Tears blurred her vision. She pulled the note back to her chest, rocking slightly, whispering under her breath. "Not yet. Not yet."
Somewhere deep in the night, as she lay awake, she heard it: her cousin's footsteps outside her door. Pausing. Listening.
She held her breath until the sound retreated.
The next morning, her cousin cornered her by the tulsi plant in the courtyard. His smile was all teeth.
"Strange, isn't it," he said softly, "how stories fly from place to place? A ribbon here, a boy there. People talk. Dangerous, if it reaches the wrong ears."
Her blood froze.
She forced a weak laugh, though her hands shook. "Stories are only stories, bhaiya. They die as quickly as they are born."
His eyes narrowed. "Some don't. Some stick. Like stains."
And then he walked away, leaving her skin crawling, her breath shallow.
She knew then that time was running out. The walls of her house were whispering, and every whisper carried her name closer to ruin.
That night, she sat again at her desk, the note hidden under her pillow, her pulse racing with both dread and determination.
If her cousin thought he could trap her, if he thought fear alone would cage her, then he didn't know how far she'd go for Riyan.
She whispered into the dark, her voice trembling but fierce:"Let them whisper. I will not let them kill this."
The candle sputtered, shadows trembling on the wall. Just as she tucked the note deeper under her pillow, the latch on her door scraped softly—someone testing it in the night.
Her heart stopped.