Two Years Earlier
Mornings at the gym carried a quiet rhythm—just the low hum of treadmills, the soft clank of iron, and the sharp scent of eucalyptus spray mingling with sweat. The early crowd was mostly elder persons, silent and focused, going through their routines like a meditative ritual. It was a peaceful hour, almost like a secret window into discipline and solitude.
Karan was a fixture in that world. He arrived early, trained hard, and left without fuss. Tall but wiry, always dressed in oversized clothes that masked his form, he looked like someone just starting out. But regulars knew the truth—Karan possessed stamina and strength far beyond appearances. He didn't talk much, didn't flex, didn't pose. He was there to work.
Then, one morning, Kanika walked in.
Slim, confident, and with a presence that quietly turned heads, she stepped onto the gym floor with intent. She had tried coming in the evenings, but after too many unwanted stares and awkward conversations, she asked the staff for advice. "Come in the mornings," they told her. "It's just old folks and some quiet guys."
So she did—this time with her older brother, who looked like he trained hard but lacked real strength.
That morning, Kanika chose a treadmill. The one next to hers was occupied by a guy in a hoodie, walking slowly with his hood up. Moments after she increased her pace, he began running. She glanced sideways, half-amused, half-irritated. Was he trying to impress her?
Karan, completely unaware of her presence, was simply following his usual warm-up.
***
It was chest day, and the trainer paired them together.
"Karan, spot her today," the trainer instructed, pointing to the incline bench.
He nodded silently. Kanika frowned. She wasn't thrilled. She had already made assumptions about him based on his clothes and silence, and now he'd be hovering while she lifted?
She lay back on the bench, exhaled, and began pressing. Her form was decent, steady through the first few sets. But during the final set, her arms began to shake. Just when she looked like she might drop the bar, Karan stepped in and caught it. His hands brushed hers—and in the motion, one hand accidentally touched her chest.
She froze. Her breath caught.
He racked the bar, oblivious to what just happened. But Kanika's mind was reeling. Was that deliberate? Was he one of those quiet creeps who act innocent but aren't?
She didn't say anything then. Just got up, face tense, and walked to the water station. Her brother followed closely behind.
Karan, needing water too, walked over a minute later. As Kanika drank, he lifted his hand and waved toward another trainer across the gym. She didn't notice the trainer—only Karan's gesture. She thought he was waving at her.
She snapped.
Her voice, suddenly sharp and cutting through the buzz of the gym, echoed louder than she expected.
"What is your problem?!"
For a second, everything around them froze. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Curious eyes locked on the unfolding drama.
In a flash, her brother appeared beside her—protective, alert, fists clenched.
"He touched me while spotting," she said, each word laced with ice. "And now he's following me and waving like a creep."
Her tone wasn't just cold—it was deliberate. Public. Loud enough to sting.
Karan blinked, stunned. Her brother didn't wait for a second opinion.
With a scowl tightening across his face, he shoved Karan hard in the chest.
Karan staggered back a few steps, barely keeping his balance. His water bottle rolled to the side. He didn't raise his hands. Didn't push back.
"I was just…" he tried, breath catching in his throat, "asking for my bottle."
But the sentence barely left his lips before a fist met his cheek.
The punch wasn't cinematic. It was messy and real—more heat than technique.
Karan didn't retaliate. He didn't even flinch. He just stood there, lips parted slightly, eyes holding something between confusion and restraint.
The trainer, who had been at the far end of the floor, rushed in as soon as he noticed the commotion.
"Hey! What's going on here?" he barked, his voice stern.
Everyone spoke at once.
Kanika, her words fast and accusing. Her brother, aggressive and loud. And Karan—quiet, trying to explain, still trying to piece it together.
The trainer raised both hands. "Enough," he said. Then, with a sigh, looked toward Karan.
"It's a misunderstanding," he said, firm but tired. "I saw it. He was just spotting—nothing inappropriate. He didn't even glance at her the wrong way."
Then, softer but deliberate, he added, "Karan, just apologize so we can move past this. No one wants drama in here."
Karan's jaw tightened, but he nodded. He turned to face her.
"I'm sorry," he said, simply. No emotion. No excuses.
Kanika didn't respond. She stood still, arms crossed, lips pursed. Her brother remained rooted next to her, breathing heavy, fists still twitching.
No one else moved.
No one else dared speak.
On the surface, it ended there—like closing a door with effort, even if the wind was still blowing behind it.
But something had shifted.
Something quiet. And deep.
***
Kanika and her brother didn't show up the next day. Or the day after. A full week passed.
They were out of town visiting relatives—an unexpected trip to attend their cousin's engagement. Her father, who often trained in the evenings, was also out of town for work, which meant the gym was missing their entire family for a while.
Karan remained consistent—same time, same routine, same silence. But something in his expressions changed. He avoided eye contact more. Kept his hoodie up longer. Trained harder.
Then, one morning, Kanika returned. Alone.
She had been waiting for the right time, rehearsing what to say if she saw him. The guilt had eaten at her slowly during the past week. Her brother had even admitted he might've overreacted, but Karan's face kept returning to her—shocked, stunned, silent. A boy who hadn't even defended himself.
She entered in gym after week.
Karan was already on the treadmill. The one beside him was open. She stepped onto it, unsure what to say.
Their eyes met.
He looked startled. Not angry, just distant—like someone remembering a nightmare. Without a word, he turned his head and increased his pace.
Kanika's chest tightened. She didn't expect that. Maybe indifference. Maybe silence. But not rejection—not avoidance. Not this cold wall.
She had come back ready to fix things, to at least acknowledge her mistake. But now it felt like he had erased her completely. And that stung more than she thought it would.
***
Other day the gym announced an internal strength competition—weight-class based. Karan signed up. So did her brother, out of pride or perhaps rivalry.
Whispers spread through the gym like wildfire: Karan was too light. Undersized. Quiet. No chance.
But Karan won.
His technique was flawless. His mind, unshakable. He moved weight with ease, never grunted, never posed. Even trainers who never praised anyone nodded silently.
Kanika watched from a distance, stunned. He didn't just win—he made it look effortless. It was like the weight meant nothing to him. But what shocked her more was how most people seemed unsurprised. As if they always knew.
The next round removed weight classes. Karan still entered. This time he was giving up over twenty kilograms to the other competitors.
He didn't win—but placed fourth.
The crowd clapped. Her brother was silent. Kanika stood, feeling a strange mix of awe and regret. She clapped too—louder than she realized and in front of everyone, she called out—not loudly, but most people noticed.
"I'm sorry. For that day."
Karan, wiping sweat from his face, paused. Their eyes locked. He didn't speak. Just gave a small nod. Then turned away.
And even though he said nothing, that nod meant everything.
***
The next morning was leg day.
Kanika showed up early. Too early. With too much on her mind and too much to prove.
Her brother hadn't returned to the gym after that embarrassing loss at the competition, and she didn't blame him. But what was bothering her wasn't him. It was Karan.
That look he gave her when their eyes met—the way he increased his pace on the treadmill without a word—like she was just air. Like she didn't matter. Like she wasn't even there.
And that pissed her off.
She wasn't used to being invisible. Ever. She hated the way it made her feel. It was unsettling, unfamiliar—and worst of all, she couldn't stop thinking about it.
She marched over to the squat rack and started stacking plates, heavier than she'd normally dare alone. She didn't warm up properly. Didn't care. She just wanted to release the fire building inside her.
First rep. A breath. A dip. A push. Her mind was locked in, but barely.
Second rep. Her legs trembled—not from effort, but from something unsettled, unresolved. A fire burning where calm should be.
Third rep. Anger. Pure, tangled anger. At him. At herself. At how, despite everything, her heart still fluttered when he was near. His silence echoed louder than words ever could.
Fourth rep. She dipped too deep. Lost focus. A single wobble in her knee, and her centre of gravity shifted.
The bar tilted. Her footing betrayed her.
For half a second, she felt sheer, raw panic—until two arms wrapped around her waist. Strong. Grounding. Familiar.
Karan.
Of course.
She didn't even need to look to know.
He steadied her, helped her rack the bar like it was all part of the routine. Not a word. Not even a sound. Just action.
She turned around, her breath heaving, her chest rising and falling like waves before a storm.
But he was already walking away.
Didn't even glance back.
Didn't ask if she was okay.
Didn't acknowledge the fact that he'd just touched her again—held her like she mattered.
He walked straight to the water cooler, calm and unaffected.
And something in her snapped.
She followed, fists clenched.
"Hey!" she shouted.
He didn't turn.
"Karan!"
He finally looked over his shoulder, vaguely annoyed, his face as unreadable as ever. "What?"
"What the hell is your problem?!"
He blinked slowly, like her yelling was a mild inconvenience. "What now?"
"You just grabbed me—held my waist—and then walked away like it didn't mean anything!"
"I was spotting you," he replied, flat as stone. "You were about to fall."
"That's it? That's all you have to say?"
"You're standing. You're breathing. I figured that meant you were fine."
She stared at him like she was seeing a stranger. "You know, not everyone gets to touch me like that."
He didn't flinch. "I didn't ask to."
The words were like cold water down her spine.
"What the f#ck does that mean?!" she snapped, louder now, drawing attention.
"It means," he said, his voice maddeningly calm, "I didn't want to touch you. I had to. You would've hurt yourself."
Kanika's throat tightened. "You didn't want to?"
"No," he said, unwavering. "I didn't want another scene. Another slap. Another misunderstanding. I didn't even want to be near you."
The sentence landed like a punch. It wasn't laced with venom—it was worse. It was detached. Unbothered. Like she was nothing more than a recurring inconvenience.
"You really think you're untouchable, don't you?" she spat.
"I don't think about that kind of stuff at all."
"Bullshit."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you think I'm doing?"
She stepped closer, furious. "You're trying to be above it all. You walk around like the world's noise doesn't touch you, like I don't touch you. You're lying to yourself."
"I'm staying away from the chaos that people like you keep creating."
"You think I enjoy this?! That I wanted to yell at you again?!"
"You think I wanted to help you again? Get accused again? Be the villain in your head again?" His voice rose slightly, the edge of his patience showing. "You slapped me in front of a dozen people. Your brother punched me. And now you're yelling at me… for saving you from falling? How does that make sense?"
"Because it's not just the squat!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "It's you! The way you ignore me! You look through me like I'm invisible!"
"Maybe because it's easier that way."
"Easier?!"
"Yes." He exhaled. "Easier than trying to figure out what version of you I'll get today. The angry one? The one who yells? Or the one who don't want to listens?"
She fell silent. Her chest heaved, but not from exertion anymore. Her heart was pounding in a way that had nothing to do with reps or plates.
It wasn't just fury. Or confusion. It was something unnameable. Something irrational.
He had just caught her. Saved her. And instead of gratitude, all she felt was… heartbreak?
She stepped back, swallowed hard. "You think you're better than everyone just because you keep your mouth shut?"
"I think I avoid pain by not opening up to people who turn on me in seconds."
"Then why help me at all?!"
"Because no matter how much you shout," he said quietly, "I'm not the kind of guy who watches someone fall."
That silenced her.
Not because he won.
But because he mean it.
There was no sarcasm. No anger. No guilt-tripping.
Just… truth.
***
She stared at him, her fists loosening, her lip trembling slightly. "You're such a mind f#cking, you know that?"
He turned back to the water cooler and sipped. "You're welcome. For catching you."
"That's not the point!"
He looked at her, eyes softening—just a fraction. "Then what is?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Her throat burned.
She didn't know what the point was.
Why did it matter so much that he looked at her? That he didn't look at her?
Why did his indifference feel worse than insults?
She had been complimented, chased, flirted with by dozens. But no one's silence had ever made her feel so… exposed.
"You're not going to pretend I don't exist, Karan," she said, her voice quieter now. "Not anymore."
He met her gaze. And for the first time, something flickered.
Not affection.
Not regret.
Just awareness.
"You've made that pretty clear," he said.
And for some reason, it felt like a promise.
***
That night, Kanika lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across her room.
His face hovered behind her eyelids.
His voice. His hands. The way he steadied her—not like a man touching a woman, but like someone catching a falling thought.
How could he make her feel seen by doing nothing?
How could he make her feel invisible by doing everything?
Across the city, Karan lay awake too. His palms still felt the echo of her waist. Not in a romantic way—just… in a way that lingered.
He didn't hate her.
But he was scared of her chaos. Of what she could unravel in him.
Still…
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.