The next morning felt like silence had swallowed the city. No horns. No chatter. Just the faint dripping of rainwater from the balcony railing.
Dhruve sat on the couch, shirt half-buttoned, hair still damp from the shower he didn't really take. He had stood under the water for a long time, not to clean himself but to think — or maybe to stop thinking. The warmth of the water did nothing. It only reminded him of how long he'd been cold.
He stared at his phone. Dozens of unread messages. A few from the office. Some from Anya. Her last text blinked on the screen: "You disappeared. Are you okay?"He typed, "Yeah. Just tired."Then deleted it.Typed again: "Don't worry."Deleted that too.Finally, he set the phone face-down.
The echoes of last night kept circling his mind — Priya's voice, that half-shocked look when she saw him in the rain, the way her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something but couldn't. Maybe she still loved him. Maybe she didn't. Maybe that wasn't even the point anymore.
He rubbed his eyes."Shit," he whispered. "Why can't I just let it go?"
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, it wasn't darkness. It was noise — flashes of every smile she'd ever given him, every argument that ended in silence, every time he'd looked at her and thought this is home.Now, all of that felt like a cruel joke.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel anger. Not really. Just… fatigue. A kind of deep emotional ache that didn't shout, just pressed on his chest like weight. Revenge had filled the hole once, but it was a fire that burned too long, and now the ashes were choking him.
He poured himself coffee — the same brand she used to buy. It tasted bitter, the kind of bitter that makes you smirk at your own stupidity.
The rain hadn't stopped outside. The street was blurred through the glass, cars sliding slowly, people wrapped in raincoats. The world kept moving. It always did.
He picked up his phone again and scrolled through his gallery — not for photos of her, but for the screenshots, the recordings, the proofs. Evidence of betrayal. The tools of his vengeance.He stared at them for a long time. His hand trembled slightly.Then he selected a few and sent them to the trash. Not all. Just some.A small act of mercy. Or weakness. He couldn't tell which.
"Fuck," he muttered, staring at the 'Recently Deleted' folder.He didn't hit empty trash. Not yet.Maybe tomorrow.
A knock on the door snapped him back.He frowned. "Who the hell—"
It was Anya. Soaked from the rain, holding a cup holder with two coffees. Her smile was small, hesitant."I tried calling," she said softly. "You weren't picking up."
He opened the door wider. "You could've just texted."
"I did. Ten times." She laughed nervously and stepped inside before he could stop her. "You look like shit, Dhruve."
He exhaled through his nose, half-smiling. "Yeah, I feel like it too."
She handed him the cup. "Double shot. You need it."He took it, their fingers brushing for a second — and something flickered between them. Familiar, but dangerous.
For a while, they just stood there. Rain pattered against the window, filling the silence between words.
"You ever feel," she started slowly, "like the world just… stops making sense?"
He looked at her. Her eyes were tired, but warm. "Every damn day," he said.
She smiled faintly. "Then we're the same kind of broken, I guess."
That line hit deeper than she probably meant it to. The same kind of broken. Maybe that's why she clung to him — she saw something of herself in him. Or maybe she wanted to fix him because she couldn't fix herself.
He sat down and gestured for her to do the same. They talked — about work, about nothing, about coffee. But somewhere in the middle of that meaningless chatter, Dhruve felt a strange calm. Not joy. Just stillness. Like a storm had paused.
When she left an hour later, she said, "Try to sleep tonight, okay?"He nodded. "Yeah. You too."
As the door closed, he realized her perfume lingered in the air — faint, almost ghostly. He didn't hate it.
That night, lying in bed, Dhruve stared at the ceiling. He didn't dream of revenge. He didn't even dream of Priya. Just rain. Endless, falling rain washing everything away.
Maybe that's what healing looked like — not forgiveness, not peace, just the ability to breathe again without it hurting so damn much.
He turned to his side, closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, didn't feel like he was drowning.