Author Pov :

"Why...?" she asked, the single word barely leaving her lips, her voice cracking under the weight of emotions she could no longer contain.

It wasn't just a question.

It was a plea.

Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy, as if something inside her was collapsing slowly, painfully. She needed to know. Needed to understand why she was not enough. Why she was not the girl he wanted... not the girl he desired... not the one he could even consider.

She released his wrist, the strength in her fingers fading, and turned to face him fully. He did not move.

Vihaan stood rigid, his back still towards her, shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly that the sharp line of it was visible even from where she stood. He didn't look at her. He didn't acknowledge her presence. And that silence hurt more than any words could.

"Answer me, Vihaan," she asked again, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. Tears burned in her eyes, threatening to spill, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. "Why am I not good enough for you?"

She wasn't asking him to love her.

She wasn't even asking him to accept her.

She only wanted a reason.

A reason strong enough to silence her hopes.
A reason cruel enough to make her stop dreaming of a future that now felt foolish... impossible.

That way, she could let go.

That way, she could stop waiting.

Her breath hitched suddenly when, without warning, he turned and grabbed her wrist. The sudden force pulled her forward before she could react. A startled gasp escaped her lips as she stumbled toward him.

She barely had time to understand what was happening when he twisted her wrist behind her back, not enough to hurt—but enough to immobilize her—and pulled her flush against his chest. The proximity stole the air from her lungs.

"You want to know why I don't love you, right?" he said, his voice low, hard, and stripped of warmth.

The coldness in his tone sent a chill down her spine.

"Give me one reason," he continued, his jaw tightening further, the anger in him barely restrained, "to at least like you, Swara Tripathi."

Swara blinked, stunned.

Fear slowly crept into her chest.

She had never seen him like this. Never seen this sharpness, this rage, this unfamiliar intensity in his eyes. They looked darker, almost red with suppressed emotion, and it terrified her.

"Answer me, Swara Tripathi," he breathed, the words escaping through clenched teeth.

His voice was low, but it carried a sharp edge that cut straight through her. The warmth of his breath fanned across her face, uneven and heavy, as if he were struggling to contain something volatile inside him. He stood too close—so close that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could sense the rigid tension in every muscle of his body.

His fingers tightened around her wrist without him even seeming to realize it, pulling her further into him, until the space between them disappeared entirely.

Swara instinctively tried to pull her hand free. Her first reaction was not defiance, but panic. She twisted her wrist slightly, trying to ease herself out of his grasp, but his hold remained firm—unyielding, immovable. It felt less like he was holding her and more like he had anchored her there, unwilling to let her go until he forced whatever truth he wanted to hear out into the open.

"I love you... I always have loved you, Vihaan," she said, the confession leaving her lips in fragments, dragged out against the tightness in her throat.

Her voice trembled, but beneath that tremor was something resolute. This was not a sudden feeling. Not a passing infatuation. It was something she had carried quietly for years, protecting it, nurturing it, waiting for the right moment that now felt disastrously wrong.

"I know this is wrong... maybe it is," she continued, forcing herself to meet his eyes even as her own began to sting. "Our age doesn't match... people might even call it foolish. But trust me, I love you. Can't you even consider that? Just once?"

Her gaze searched his face desperately.

She looked for anything—a flicker of surprise, a crack in his composure, a moment of hesitation. Something that would tell her her words had reached him.

But there was nothing.

No softness.
No confusion.
No warmth.

Only a cold, restrained anger that seemed to build with every second she stood in front of him.

The absence of emotion hurt more than outright rejection. It was as if what she had confessed meant nothing at all.

"Trust?" he repeated.

The word left his mouth with a hollow sound, followed by a humorless chuckle that didn't resemble laughter in the slightest. It was sharp, bitter—like the very idea of trust was something absurd to him.

"Do you even know what trust means?" he asked harshly.

There was something darker beneath his anger now. Not just irritation. Not just refusal.

Something wounded.
Something that made his voice sound less like a question... and more like an accusation.

Swara's lips parted, but no sound came out.

For a moment, she simply stood there, frozen between the urge to speak and the sudden ache tightening inside her chest. Tears gathered in her eyes, slowly blurring her vision until his face became nothing more than an outline she struggled to hold onto. She tried to breathe, but every breath felt shallow, incomplete—like something inside her had locked up.

"Vi... Vihaan, I really love you," she whispered again.

The words sounded fragile this time. Helpless. As if repeating them might somehow make them more believable... might somehow reach him if she just said them enough.

"Shut up. Just shut up."

The suddenness of his voice cracked through the air like thunder.

He released her so abruptly that she staggered backward, her balance faltering. Swara almost lost her footing, her hand instinctively reaching behind her for support that wasn't there. She flinched at the harshness of his tone, taking another small step away without even realizing it.

Fear flashed across her face before she could hide it.

Her heart began to hammer wildly now—not with hope, not with nervous anticipation, but with shock.

This was not the man she had known for years.
Not the one who spoke with quiet patience.
Not the one she had trusted silently, from a distance, believing he was different.

"You love me?" he repeated, scoffing under his breath.

The sound was sharp, disbelieving—as if the very idea was absurd. As if those words didn't belong anywhere near him.

The disbelief in his voice hurt more than rejection ever could.

"You don't love me, Swara. This is not love," he said, stepping toward her.

His chest rose and fell sharply, like he was trying to contain something violent inside himself but failing to keep it down. Every step he took made her retreat instinctively, her back eventually meeting the cold wall behind her.

"You know girls like you don't love," he continued, his voice growing harsher, layered with a bitterness that didn't seem to belong only to this moment. It sounded old. Deep-rooted. "You people love money. Only money."

The accusation struck her like a physical blow.

"You just want fun," he spat, the disgust clear in every syllable. "And once you get bored with one man, you leave... and find another."

Swara's heart clenched painfully with each sentence.

Her mind struggled to catch up with what he was saying. The words didn't make sense. They didn't match anything she had ever done, anything she had ever shown him.

That's what he thought of her?

That she was playing with him?
That she would use him and walk away?

"You're getting me wrong—" she tried to speak, desperation breaking through her voice. She wanted to explain, to defend herself, to make him see that she was not the person he was accusing her of being.

But he didn't let her finish.

Vihaan grabbed her wrist again, pulling her abruptly toward himself. The force of it made her stumble forward, colliding into his chest. Before she could react, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, locking her in place, not allowing even an inch of distance between them.

The closeness felt suffocating now.

"You don't love me," he repeated, his voice lower this time, strained—as if dragged from somewhere buried deep inside him. "You just want to satisfy your needs... just like her."

The last words carried a weight Swara didn't understand.

But she could feel it.

There was history in them.
Pain.
Anger that didn't belong to her... yet was being poured onto her all the same.

The faint crease between her brows deepened, confusion clouding her expression.

Who... was he talking about?

"Vihaan, leave me," she said, her voice unsteady as she tried to twist out of his hold. Her fingers pushed against his wrists, trying to loosen them, but his grip only tightened—unyielding, almost desperate. It was as if he didn't even realize how much strength he was using.

Or worse... he did.

"Why?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous whisper that sent a chill down her spine. "Don't you want this?"

Before she could react, he pulled her closer.

Closer.

Until the distance between them vanished completely—no space, no air, no escape. She could feel the heat of his body, the harsh rhythm of his breathing, the tension radiating off him like a storm ready to break.

Swara's heart slammed violently against her ribs.

So loud.

So fast.

It felt suffocating.

Her breaths turned shallow, uneven, trembling as panic slowly began to replace the warmth she had carried just minutes ago. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision until his face became nothing more than a distorted outline.

This... this was not how she had imagined this moment.

Not like this.
Not with anger.
Not with suspicion.
Not with her love being twisted into something cheap... something ugly.

She pushed against his chest again, this time harder, but he didn't move. His hold remained firm, almost punishing.

"You wanted to have fun, right?" he continued, cruel sarcasm dripping from every word. "Let me satisfy your need then."

And he leaned down.

Closer to her face.

Swara's breath hitched.

For a second, she froze—not because she accepted it... but because her mind refused to believe what was happening.

The man she loved.
The man she had trusted.
The man she had waited for.

How could he look at her like this?
Like she was nothing more than an accusation.

Something inside her cracked.

Not softly.
Not slowly.

It shattered.

With all the strength she could gather, she shoved him away.

The sudden force made him stagger back a step, caught off guard—and before he could regain balance, her hand rose instinctively.

The sound of the slap echoed across the silent terrace.

Sharp.
Final.
Unforgiving.

Vihaan's face turned slightly with the impact, a red mark blooming across his cheek.

Swara's hand remained suspended in the air for a moment, trembling violently before falling back to her side. A tear slipped down her cheek... then another... and another, until she could no longer stop them.

Her chest tightened painfully, every breath feeling like it scraped against broken glass.

But the pain inside her heart—

That was far worse.

She stepped forward suddenly and grabbed his t-shirt, clutching the fabric in her fists. Her fingers shook, but she didn't let go. She pulled him down to her level, forcing him to look at her.

Forcing him to see what he had done.

"I thought..." Her voice broke, but she forced the words out anyway. "I thought you were different from my father."

The sentence carried years of silent wounds. Years of watching, fearing, promising herself she would never relive that kind of pain.

"But you're the same," she whispered, betrayal flooding her tear-filled eyes. "Exactly the same."

Her grip loosened.

Not because she forgave him.

But because she no longer had the strength to hold on.

In that moment, the part of her that had loved him quietly... patiently... foolishly—

Died.

She had loved him with everything she had.

And he had turned that love into her greatest mistake.

Swara pushed him away—this time not weakly, not hesitantly—

But with finality.

The force of it made him take a step back, as if the invisible thread that had held them together had been severed in one brutal motion.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, relentless and burning, as though they no longer cared about dignity, restraint, or the pride she had always protected so fiercely. Her entire body trembled—not out of fear, but from the sheer magnitude of everything breaking inside her at once.

"I hate you, Vihaan Singhania!" she cried, her voice cracking under the unbearable weight of pain and rage. "I fucking hate you!"

The words tore through her throat like shards of glass.

And even as she said them, they hurt her just as deeply as they were meant to hurt him.

Because this wasn't hatred born overnight.

It was love—betrayed, humiliated, and crushed until it had nowhere else to go.

Her chest rose and fell erratically, each breath a struggle. She wiped her tears, but more replaced them instantly, blurring her vision, blurring him... blurring everything they had once been.

"Don't show me your face ever again."

The sentence came out quieter.

But it carried far more finality than her scream.

It wasn't anger anymore.

It was a door closing.

And before he could react—before he could speak, before he could apologize, before she could lose the last fragile piece of strength holding her together—

She turned and ran.

Not walked.

Not paused.

Ran.

Her footsteps echoed against the terrace floor, uneven and desperate, as if she were trying to outrun the memories chasing her. The wind hit her face, cold and sharp, but it did nothing to numb the ache clawing through her chest.

She didn't look back.

Because she knew—

If she did...

If she saw even a glimpse of him standing there...

She might stop.

And if she stopped, she might forgive.

And if she forgave, she would break all over again.

So she kept running.

Choosing pain.

Choosing distance.

Choosing herself—

For the first time.

--------------------

Five years later  (Swara is 22 now)

The soft clinking of glass bangles broke the stillness of the room.

It was a delicate sound—measured, unhurried—each note falling into place with quiet precision. The woman sitting before the mirror adjusted them carefully along her wrist, aligning them as if even the smallest detail mattered.

Nothing about her movements was careless.

Nothing about her was.

She sat straight-backed, composed, her reflection framed by the muted morning light filtering through the curtains. There was no rush in the way she got ready. No nervous anticipation. No distraction.

Every gesture was calm.

Practiced.

Controlled.

She lifted a pair of silver jhumkas from the table and wore them, fastening them without once breaking her steady gaze from the mirror. The woman staring back looked nothing like the girl who once searched for answers in her own reflection.

Swara Tripathi had changed.

Time had refined her features, sharpened the quiet grace she carried. The softness of youth was gone—replaced by a stillness that spoke not of peace, but of restraint. Her eyes no longer revealed what she felt. They observed. Measured. Withheld.

Years had taught her how to conceal.

How to stand unshaken.

How to carry wounds without letting them bleed where anyone could see.

She placed one foot on the chair and bent slightly, fastening the clasp of her anklet. The tiny bells chimed as they settled against her skin—a sound that once would have drawn a smile from her.

Now, it was just sound.

Nothing more.

Her phone rang.

The vibration broke the silence. She glanced at the screen.

For the first time that morning, something faint—almost imperceptible—softened her expression.

Shivanya Calling.

She answered.

"Where are you? I've been waiting at the temple forever!" came the irritated voice from the other end.

Swara exhaled lightly, a breath that carried neither apology nor urgency. "I'll be there in ten minutes," she said, her tone even, touched with mild amusement.

She disconnected, picked up her dupatta, and walked out.

The morning air outside was cool, laced with the fragrance of incense and fresh marigolds from roadside stalls. Devotional songs played faintly somewhere in the distance, blending into the hum of the waking city.

Swara drove in silence.

Her hands rested steady on the steering wheel. Her gaze remained fixed ahead. Thoughts came and went like passing shadows—acknowledged, but never allowed to linger.

She no longer fought them.

She simply didn't follow them.

When she reached the temple, she saw Shivanya waiting near the entrance, exactly as expected—arms crossed, impatience written all over her face.

"You always say ten minutes," Shivanya complained the moment she saw her.

"And I always come," Swara replied, a small, restrained smile touching her lips.

Together, they began climbing the familiar stone steps.

The temple hadn't changed.

The same weathered carvings.

The same echo of bells.

The same scent of camphor rising into the air.

But she had.

Each step she took felt deliberate, yet heavy—like walking across years she had already buried. The stone beneath her feet was familiar, worn smooth by countless devotees, but to her it felt distant, belonging to another lifetime she had sealed away.

People moved around her in quiet devotion.
Some whispered prayers under their breath.
Some rang bells with folded hands and hopeful eyes.
Priests chanted mantras that echoed through the vast hall, their voices rising and falling like a tide.

But none of it reached her.

The sounds blurred together—present, yet far away.
Like she was standing inside a world she could see...
but no longer feel a part of.

She crossed the threshold of the sanctum.

The air changed instantly—thicker, warmer, saturated with the fragrance of sandalwood, burning camphor, and oil lamps that had been lit since dawn. The glow of the diyas trembled against the stone walls, casting shifting shadows that moved like silent memories.

Swara stood before the idol of Shiva.

Still.

Unmoving.

She brought her hands together.

Closed her eyes.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Not calm.
Not chaos.
Not even thought.

Just a vast, quiet emptiness she had grown accustomed to carrying—an emptiness that no longer demanded to be filled, no longer questioned its own existence.

It simply was.

And from that stillness, the prayer surfaced.

Not shaped by faith.
Not softened by longing.
Not carried by pain.

Only by certainty.

Never bring him in front of me.

Her fingers pressed tighter against each other, the only sign that the words had weight.

There was no love left to fight.
No anger left to burn.
No questions left waiting for answers.

Whatever had once lived there had been locked away so completely that even time had stopped trying to reach it.

I don't want to see him again, Bholenath.

The words did not ache.
They did not tremble.

They existed the way a closed door exists—final, unquestioned, unmoved.

A decision made years ago.

And never touched again.

Swara opened her eyes.

Her expression was composed.
Serene.
Unreadable.

As though no storm had ever passed through her.
As though nothing had ever broken there.

As though she had never loved at all.

The café was bathed in a soft amber glow, the kind of lighting that made everything look calmer than it truly was. Warm lights hung from the ceiling, their reflections trembling faintly against polished wooden tables. The low murmur of conversations blended with the distant whirr of a coffee machine, punctuated now and then by the gentle clink of ceramic cups meeting saucers. 

The air carried a comforting mix of roasted coffee beans, melted chocolate, and freshly baked bread—an atmosphere meant for ease, for lingering, for people who had nowhere else to rush to.

Swara and Shivanya slid into their seats near the window.

Outside, the world continued in its usual urgency—autos passing by, people weaving through traffic, someone arguing over a phone call, someone laughing too loudly. Inside the café, however, time seemed to slow, as if the walls deliberately shut out the chaos beyond the glass.

Shivanya absentmindedly stirred the straw in her cold coffee, the ice cubes knocking lightly against the sides of the glass. Her gaze wandered, scanning the room in idle curiosity—until it paused on a table across from them.

A young couple sat there.

The woman was speaking animatedly, clearly in the middle of a long complaint. Her brows were drawn together, her hands moving expressively as she explained something with dramatic frustration. Every now and then she huffed, clearly expecting sympathy.

The man sitting across from her did nothing extraordinary.

And yet, it was noticeable.

He didn't interrupt.
Didn't look distracted.
Didn't reach for his phone.
Didn't try to correct her.

He simply listened.

Leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes focused entirely on her face. Occasionally he nodded, occasionally murmured something that made her continue, as if her words mattered enough to hold space for them. There was patience in his posture—unforced, unperformed.

"I wish I get a partner like him," Shivanya sighed dreamily, resting her chin on her palm as she watched them. Her eyes sparkled with unfiltered admiration. "Look at him... how attentively he's listening to his wife's rant. Not even irritated. Not even pretending."

Swara followed her gaze.

Just once.

Her eyes landed on the couple for a fleeting moment. Long enough to notice the way the man didn't rush her. Long enough to notice the ease between them. Long enough to register something she had trained herself not to feel.

Her gaze lingered a fraction longer than she intended.

Then something inside her recoiled.

Her jaw tightened.

The softness she had accidentally allowed into her expression vanished almost instantly, replaced by a controlled stillness. She looked away as though the sight itself was unnecessary.

She reached for her milkshake.

Cold glass met her fingers. Tiny droplets of condensation slid slowly down its surface, gathering at the base before falling onto the table. Swara focused on that instead—on something physical, neutral, safe.

"This is all for show," she said, her voice flat, stripped of emotion. She took a measured sip. "Love doesn't exist in this world."

Shivanya looked at her, frowning slightly. She had heard this before—many times. Yet every time it sounded less like an opinion and more like a conclusion Swara had already decided could never change.

"You always say that," Shivanya replied gently. "But there must be someone you like, right? At least once?"

The question was casual.

But it didn't land that way.

For a split second, the sounds of the café dulled.

The present loosened its hold.

A different space rose uninvited in Swara's mind—

A terrace under a dark sky.
A voice edged with anger.
Fingers gripping too tightly.
Words spoken not to understand, but to wound.

You don't love me.

Her hand tightened around the glass.

The cold surface pressed sharply into her palm, grounding her before the memory could fully form. The flash disappeared as abruptly as it had come, but it left behind a faint tension running through her body.

Swara blinked.

Once.

Her face returned to its usual composed calm, every emotion carefully locked behind an expression that revealed nothing. Only the subtle stiffness in her jaw betrayed the effort it took.

"No," she said quietly, her tone gentle but final.

"I don't like anyone."

She lifted the glass again, taking another slow sip—not because she wanted to drink, but because it gave her something to do. Something to focus on. Something that prevented further questions.

Her gaze drifted past Shivanya, past the café walls, past the present moment altogether.

There was no visible sadness.
No visible anger.

Just a silence she had learned to live with.

The ache beneath that silence—

Only she knew it had never really left.

Glimpse of next chapter

“I’m ready,” he said. “I will marry the girl you choose for me.”

“Wouldn’t you like to hear the girl’s name?”

Vihaan didn’t trust himself to speak.

He only nodded.

“Swara. Swara Tripathi.”

The name hit differently.

Excited for next chapter ?😉