I don't remember falling.

The moment was a blur as my knees hit the cold tile with a force that jarred through my body, and the breath ripped from my lungs in jagged gasps. My fingers clawed at my chest, searching for air-any air.

I know, the storm outside had passed, I knew was over. But my body, this wretched body of mine hadn't caught up. It was stuck in the chaos, trembling~ breaking apart one shaky breath at a time.

I was breaking apart. I was broken.

Somebody please save me please.

And then-

His voice came ,
like a getle breeze,
softy cutting through the haze of my couldy thoughts.

"Sapna... what happened? Are you okay?"

Advit's voice was softer than I'd ever heard it, as if raising it any louder might shatter the moment-or me. it was-softer than a prayer half-spoken in a chapel where even gods held their breath.

It drifted toward me, a gentle breeze in a crumbling world, slicing through the thick fog of my despair without tearing it apart, simply... reaching.

My fingers curled against the floor, nails scraping helplessly, as if clinging to the fragments of myself.

What am I supposed to do if someone appeared before me with such gentleness?

The outcome was obvious- I was destined to be broken whether by kindess or by cruelty.

I barely registered the sound of him dropping to one knee beside me. His movements were careful, cautious, as though I might slip away entirely if he approached too quickly.

His eyes searched my face, scanning it with an understanding that felt both grounding and overwhelming, filled with a concern so raw it made me want to surrender my lifetime pain in his arms-and yet, somehow, run.

He reached out-his hand lifting as if to touch me, to offer comfort or to wipe away the tears that had started to dripped from my cheeks.

But then he stopped.

His fingers hovered inches from my cheek, trembling ever so slightly. It was as if the desire to provide comfort battled with the fear of making things worse.

"It's okay," he whispered, though his voice carried uncertainty, as if he wasn't sure if those words could reach me.

"You're safe now."

I am save now?

But even as he said it, even if my heart wanted to believe his words, I wasn't sure I believed him. Because the storm raging in my chest-the one that squeezed tighter and tighter-didn't feel like it had passed at all.

And then-

I saw him pulled back.

Slowly, with a painful realisation, he withdrew his hand, every movement carrying the weight of his understanding. So, he remembered.

He remembered I couldn't bear to be touched.

And instead of insisting~ telling me to overcome my fears, instead of trying to cross the boundary I'd set because many others find it beyond their understanding, he respected it with grace. That respect-so quiet, so unassuming-felt like a kindness I hadn't known I needed.

And somehow, that restraint-

That simple, delicate restraint-

Broke me more than any cruelty ever had.

The tears came harder, relentless, unstoppable. Each sob tore its way out of me, cracking open the fragile dam I'd tried to hold together for too long.

"Shh... don't cry," he whispered, his voice trembling with helplessness. "I'm here. No one will hurt you-not while I'm here."

His words were meant to soothe, meant to wrap around me like a blanket against the cold storm inside. But instead, they pierced deeper, each syllable tearing at something buried far below the surface.

Because those words-those simple, well-meaning words-

They were the ones I had once longed to hear.

From someone else.

And they never came.

Now, hearing them from him, they weren't comforting. They weren't healing. They became the echo of the pain I had tried so hard to silence. Because everything he embodies was the very same thing I lost. They brought the memories crashing back-the pointed fingers, the sharp words, the silence that had followed when I had needed so desperately to be heard.

I sobbed harder, trembling, as my past and present collided in a wave so overwhelming I thought I might drown in it.

My sobs turned sharper instead of turning soft, rather it became harsher, as the weight of those unfulfilled wishes crashed over me. They had lingered for years-those broken hopes, those quiet dreams of safety-and now, his presence only magnified their absence.

Advit didn't speak again. He didn't try to fill the silence or to fix what was breaking inside me. Advit didn't move, didn't speak further. He just stayed.

Oh, his presence, he doesn't realized what power it held, how grarerful I was because it was a reminder that I wasn't alone in this moment, even if I felt like I was shattering into pieces. Then there was-His gaze; filled with a kind of silent understanding I wasn't sure I could handle.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

For my miserable heart.

---

🪶 A Cruel Fate

Fate had stripped from me the man I had once dreamt of, the one I had prayed for with all the fervor of a heart that knew no doubt. It didn't give me the man I had loved, the one I had chosen, the one I had once trusted with my every dream. No, fate had taken Kartik, stolen him from my life as ruthlessly as a thief in the night.

And in his place, it had given me Advit.

Advit-the man I had sworn never to desire, the man whose presence I had learned to resent, if only because it was easier than facing the truth.

Why? Why was it always Advit who appeared at the precipice of my collapse?

Why not Kartik? Or the other men who came after Kartik? Why Advit?
The one I refused to surrender my heart?

Advit, who never said what I wanted to hear but always said what I needed.
Advit, whose silence could infuriate me and yet ground me in a way I could never quite explain.
Advit, who never crossed the boundaries I set but never left when I was too broken to ask him to stay.

And yet, as I sat there, trembling, drowning in the weight of my own misery, he was here.

Not the one who had once held me in his arms and promised he'd never let go.

But Advit.

Always Advit. The wrong man. The right moment.

Why not Kartik? Never Kartik.

Kartik, the one I had loved.
The one who had cradled my breaking heart in his hands and promised, with a conviction I had dared to believe in, that he'd never let go.

But promises-promises are fragile things, and Kartik's had shattered, and the other men after him, leaving nothing but silence in its place.

Still, I had waited for him. Waited through the storms, the silence, the ache. Because wasn't he supposed to come back? Wasn't he supposed to pick up the pieces?

Instead-always, without fail-it was Advit.

He didn't appear with the words I wanted to hear, or the grand gestures I had once thought would save me. Instead, he came in silence, in steady breaths that felt heavier than promises and more real than comfort.

Advit. Present in the moments I most wished to be alone. Appearing, not with declarations that demanded my attention, but with quiet resolve-and an uncanny understanding of the silence I tried so desperately to keep.

He became, in every misstep of my life, the steady hand I didn't ask for-but always received.

And still, I couldn't bring myself to hold on to him.

Because what if I held on too tightly, and lost myself in the steadiness he offered?

I rubbed my cheeks furiously, my skin burning from the force of it, red and raw. The tears didn't stop, but the friction gave me something else to focus on.

Pain, I thought, could be simpler. Easier. It might distract me from the grief that refused to let go.

Advit shifted beside me. I barely noticed him move until his hand dipped into his pocket, his expression twisting with frustration. He was searching-probably for a handkerchief, something practical, something to give me without asking for anything in return.

But his hand came back empty.

And for a moment, he hesitated. His brows furrowed, his lips pressed tightly together in that way they always did when he was debating his next move. And then-

He offered me the hem of his shirt.

It was such a small thing. Ridiculous, even. But the sight of him holding out that frayed edge, awkward and unpolished, broke something in me all over again.

He didn't say anything. He simply held the fabric out, his hand steady, his eyes filled with something that stopped me cold. It wasn't pity-it was something quieter, heavier. A kind of understanding that didn't ask for permission, and didn't need words to explain.

I didn't take it. I couldn't. My hands stayed frozen in my lap, trembling, still caught between the impulse to run and the need to stay.

But the gesture alone shattered whatever walls I'd tried to hold together.

In that moment, I realized why fate had always chosen Advit.

It wasn't about love. It wasn't about desire.

It was about timing.

Because when I fell apart, when I couldn't piece myself back together, it wasn't Kartik's promises that held me steady. It was Advit's quiet presence, his uncanny ability to stand in the space between my grief and my survival.

Advit. The wrong man. The right moment.

And still, I couldn't bring myself to hold on to him.

Because I refused to owe him anything.

Not his kindness.

Not his comfort.

Not his warmth.

Not his heart.

Not even a single piece of fabric.

💦

"I can't keep seeing you like this."

The sound of Advit's voice echoed softly against the sturdy yet tattered tiled walls. The kitchen felt suffocatingly small, its muted fluorescent light casting a pale yellow glow over the stark counters and scattered utensils. The remnants of Vikram's presence lingered, echoes of his storm that refused to dissipate.

Advit's movements cut sharply through the stagnant air. He stood, pulling his phone from his pocket

"I'm calling Bhabhi," he said, his tone heavy with a certainty I couldn't bear to hear. He dialled her number.

The panic surged, rising fast and uncontrollable. Without thinking, I grabbed the hem of his shirt, the fabric rough and solid beneath my trembling fingers.

He stopped instantly, his eyes dropping down to where my hand was clinging to his shirt.

The world seemed to pause with him. His gaze softened to where my hand clung to his shirt, and the faint furrow between his brows deepened. He didn't speak right away, his silence more unsettling than words.

"No," I whispered, the sound cracking against the air, fragile. "Please don't."

He dropped down to his knees. His gaze rose slowly, meeting mine, confusion flickering through his hazel eyes like shadows moving across the floor.

"Why?"

The question wasn't sharp. It wasn't demanding. It was quiet-gentle, almost hesitant.

"I don't want to worry her," I murmured, my voice uneven, each syllable clawing its way out of my throat. "It's my problem. I can deal with it. She already has enough on her plate. She have helped me enough. I already owe her a lifetime of gratitude, which I doubt I will ever be able to return for her generosity. Don't call her please."

The weight of my words hung between us, filling the silence that felt louder than it should have been.

Advit's lips parted as if to argue, but no sound came. Instead, he exhaled quietly, the tension in his shoulders loosening, and crouched down again.

The sight of him lowering himself to my level-it shouldn't have mattered, but it did. There was something about the simple act, the way he refused to stand above me, that made my chest ache.

His presence was steady in its silence, grounding me amidst the chaos. The kitchen seemed colder now, the faint chill of the marble floor seeping through my legs as I knelt there. A plate sat forgotten on the counter, remnants of something half-eaten, its edges flecked with dried sauce-a trivial thing, but it felt heavier now, like every object in the room had taken on the weight of what had unfolded.

And then he looked at me again.

With those~Soft. Gentle. Understanding eyes in a way that felt unspoken and yet overpowering. His hazel eyes carried something indefinable, something that pressed against the walls I had built without demanding they come down.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

"Even in a state like this, you're still holding so tightly onto that idea~ this idea that you can't ask for help, that asking you would make you a burden. It's maddening, Sapna."

The words settled heavily between us. I felt his gaze on me-with something that felt heavier, deeper. His eyes lingered, taking in the raw edges I couldn't hide, the exhaustion that refused to be masked.

"You think you're saving people from your pain by keeping it all inside. You think silence is strength, don't you?"

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head as his gaze softened. "But it's not. Silence is isolation-it's self-imprisonment-and it's only eating away at you. Do you even realize it, Sapna?"

His tone shifted, soft but cutting through the haze that gripped me. "I'm starting to think... you're dumb, Sapna. Too dumb for your own good."

"You're hesitating when you should be asking for help." His gaze pressed against the walls I'd tried to rebuild around me.

"Pain isn't meant to be carried alone. You don't realize it, Sapna-you're holding onto something that will drown you if you don't let someone else help carry it."

I opened my mouth, the faintest protest rising in my throat, but he cut me off before I could speak.

"You have someone to turn to," he continued, his voice softening just slightly. "You may not see it now, but you do. You're fortunate, Sapna-because there are people in this world who would give anything to have even one person they could share their pain with."

" Hello, Advit."

His fingers brushed against his phone as he glanced at it one last time, his brows furrowing in that way they always did when he was weighing something.

He looked at me, then at his phone.

"Bhabhi, I have something to tell you. This is getting out of hand. I don't know how to handle it."

" What happened?"

His gaze drifted back to me. I was now violently shaking my head.

Advit. No. Please don't.

" Bhabhi..."

" Yes, Advit... bolo."

Please. Don't for god sake.

A devilish grin appeared instantly on his his lips. Of all the things it was a devilish grin that appeared- I know its meaning quiet too well, which means trouble.

"BHABHI... I missed you so much."

" Shut up Advit. You damn...."

Then, slowly, he slid it back into his pocket. The movement was quiet, decisive, like the closing of a door that no one dared to open again.

"Did he touch you?"

The question came low, almost detached, as if he didn't want to acknowledge it-didn't want me to hear it. But I knew better. I was familiar enough with him to sense the tension behind his composure, the way his voice lowered to conceal the storm raging just below the surface.

I shook my head. My throat tightened, the words refusing to form. The struggle to keep it together, to keep from falling apart in front of him, was nearly oppressive.

My eyes burned with unshed tears, stinging under the weight of everything I couldn't say.

"It's okay," he said softly, impossibly gentle, like the brush of wind through an open window. "You don't have to talk about it. But... is there anything I can do to help?"

He did not sound demanding in the way he spoke, with his steady voice and the care in his words. It wasn't overwhelming. It was simple, almost frail, as though he feared the wrong tone might shatter me entirely.

And yet, his question crushed me under its simplicity.

What did I need? I didn't know.

I had no idea what could possibly make me feel whole again, what could fill the gaps that seemed to widen the longer I tried to ignore them. The thought tightened my chest, like a hand pressing down on my ribs.

The kitchen around us was silent now, yet Vikram's presence lingered like shadows cast by a past storm. A chair sat askew near the table, its legs scraping faintly against the tiles as if reminding me of everything I was trying to forget. The air smelt faintly of spices, but their warmth had dissipated, leaving a cold calm that seemed to sink into my skin.

Advit stayed kneeling beside me, his presence steady and solid, his gaze unwavering. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed softly, its brilliance stark against the darkening sky outside, visible through the partially open window.

He didn't push me to answer. He didn't fill the silence with words that might have soothed him more than me. He simply waited, his hand resting lightly on his knee, a gesture of patience more than anything else.

And yet, even as he offered me that quiet, I couldn't shake the ache.

Because I didn't know how to let him help.

Because I didn't know how to stop wanting the kind of comfort he couldn't give.

Because deep down, I didn't know how to feel whole again-or if it was even possible.

Advit exhaled, the sound heavy, as though he carried the weight of words he wasn't sure he should say.

"Look, Sapna, I don't know what's going on inside your head. I don't know what's hurting you-or why."

He paused. The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't empty. It was deliberate. A moment for him to gather himself, to tell himself that this was not about him-now was not the time to say the wrong thing, no matter how unsure he felt.

His voice softened, but there was a subtle intensity about it, as if every syllable was burdened with care that he did not know how to express.

"Sapna," he began again, his tone not raised, but altered by feeling, "I admit I am at a loss. I have no idea what your sorrows are like or how they are bothering you. I have no idea how deep your pain is or the vicious form it takes when it pounds on your soul and folds it under weights that are too great for you to carry alone."

The words were careful, deliberate, but there was an ache behind them, a yearning to understand what he couldn't reach. His gaze flickered over me, as if searching for pieces of the answers I couldn't give.

"But it's clear to me," he continued, his voice quieter now, a thread of raw emotion weaving through it, "I can tell by the tremble in your voice and the deep sadness in your eyes, that you have suffered more than most would dare admit."

He paused again, his posture remaining firm, but something in his expression changed-an almost imperceptible crack in the serene facade.

"And in truth," he said after a moment, "my inexperience makes it difficult for me to be of any use to you. I cannot claim to know what to say, or what to do, to make this better."

As the admission left him, he let out a breath, his shoulders drooping just a little.

"But if it were within my power, I would take upon myself even a portion of your pain, if only to give your heart a moment's peace."

His words struck something deep within me, something I couldn't name. They weren't perfect-they didn't offer solutions or promises-but they carried a sincerity that disarmed me.

He paused again, and though his posture remained steady, there was a quiet tension in his expression, an anxiousness that betrayed how much he cared despite his uncertainty.

"If my presence troubles you," he added, his voice dropping lower, "say so, and I will be gone. If you wish to be alone, I will leave at once."

The vulnerability in his tone caught me off guard. It wasn't the vulnerability of weakness-it was the vulnerability of someone who cared too much but knew when to let go.

His words hung in the air between us, raw and heavy, and for the first time, I saw it clearly: the depth of his restraint, his quiet willingness to stay without expectation, and his equally quiet willingness to leave if that's what I needed.

And though I still didn't know what I needed, the thought of him leaving...

It was almost too much to bear.

His words made something inside me snap.

My raw, unfiltered emotions poured out before I could stop them.

"No."

A whisper.

A plea.

"Stay with me. I don't want to be alone."

His lips parted slightly. I think my answer surprised him.

But he didn't question it.

He just... stayed.

---

He sat down beside me on the cold floor, the chill of the tiles seeping into the air between us.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts that neither of us knew how to express. It wasn't an oppressive silence-it didn't demand to be broken. It simply existed, like a quiet bridge connecting us in ways words couldn't.

I didn't know how to fill it.

And yet...

It wasn't uncomfortable.

There was something about his presence, about the way he simply was-offering nothing but himself. He didn't speak, didn't move, didn't press. But he stayed.

Even though his hand never reached for mine, even though his touch never met my skin, I could feel him reaching out in other ways.

Through his words-spoken softly before and now echoed in the quiet. Through the quiet patience that radiated from him. Through his eyes-holding a quiet understanding that made my chest ache.

It was more than enough.

Somehow, the warmth of his presence reached through the coldness in the room-and through the coldness inside me. And that, in itself, was enough to keep me from falling any further.

I glanced at him, and for a moment, I caught the faintest flicker of something in his expression-concern, maybe, or something deeper, something he wasn't ready to say aloud. His gaze wasn't intrusive; it didn't demand anything from me. It simply waited, steady and unyielding, as if to say, I'm here. Take what you need.

The cold floor beneath us felt less harsh with him there. The weight pressing down on my chest felt a little lighter, though I couldn't explain why.

He shifted slightly, his movements careful, as though he was afraid of breaking the fragile calm between us. His hand rested on his knee, his fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed to mirror the breaths I was struggling to take.

"You know," he said after a while, his voice cutting gently through the stillness, "life is strange."

His words settled in the air, stirring something unspoken between us.

I turned my gaze toward him, unable to ignore the weight in his tone, the subtle shift in his posture as if the words themselves carried more than he let on.

"No matter how tragic someone's story is," he continued, his tone soft but steady, "miracles always find a way to happen."

His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, the rhythm deliberate yet absent, like the action was more for himself than for me. The quiet movement felt symbolic, as if he was trying to find order in the chaos of his thoughts.

"I used to think miracles were just myths," he admitted, his words gaining a faint edge of vulnerability. "Something people believed in to comfort themselves, to make their pain feel smaller."

Then, unexpectedly, he let out a short breath-a laugh, barely there, tinged with something bittersweet.

It wasn't lighthearted.

It carried a sadness so raw it felt like a confession in itself.

For a moment, his gaze shifted-not toward me, but inward, as though he was looking at something far away, a memory too distant to touch but close enough to feel.

The silence stretched again, but now it wasn't empty. It was full, brimming with the weight of his thoughts, the unspoken stories behind his words. I didn't dare interrupt, afraid that even the smallest sound might shatter the fragile space we'd created.

"Maybe that's the thing about miracles," he said, his voice softer now, like a quiet revelation. "You only believe in them when you've seen one. And even then... you never think it's meant for you."

His words hung in the air, like the faint remnants of a storm that had passed but hadn't fully left. He wasn't looking at me anymore, his gaze fixed on some invisible horizon, caught between the present and the past.

I didn't know what to say.

There was a vulnerability in his words that demanded silence rather than answers. His presence felt like it was holding me together, even as he unraveled in front of me.

And yet, as I watched him, I couldn't shake the quiet realization creeping into my mind.

He wasn't waiting for a miracle. He was trying to become one. For himself. For someone else.

For me?

The thought lingered, sharp and unfamiliar, but I couldn't bring myself to let it go.

"And then they started happening to me. THE MIRACLES."

His words, quiet and steady, were like a gentle wave shattering the silence between us. They carried a weight that drew me in-a thread leading to a part of him he'd kept hidden until now.

I stayed silent, holding my breath, afraid that even the faintest sound might shatter the delicate moment.

"One time," he began, his eyes distant, fixed on something far beyond the four walls of the kitchen, "I was surfing alone. My head was messed up-I was exhausted, drained from everything. The waves were strong that day, and I wasn't paying attention."

The rhythm of his words was steady, deliberate, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the calmness of his tone. The memory itself seemed to be fighting its way back to him as he gulped, his fingers curling slightly against his knee.

"I got pulled under," he said, the words sharper now, more precise. "I thought... 'This is it.' I thought I was going to die."

The confession hit me like a gust of wind, stealing the air from my lungs. My breath hitched, my chest tightening as if I could feel the weight of the water he had once fought against.

He paused, the silence between us thick with the echoes of his words. Then, he let out a short, quiet laugh-a sound so faint and hollow it made my chest ache.

"But then-someone saved me."

His fingers drifted to his chest, an unconscious movement, slow and deliberate. He reached beneath his shirt, his shoulders shifting slightly as he pulled out a delicate silver chain.

The pendant swayed in the dim light, catching my attention immediately. A single raindrop-shaped charm hung from the chain, its surface smooth and gleaming faintly. There was something hypnotic about it, something sacred, as though it carried the weight of more than just metal.

He held it between his fingers, his gaze softening as it rested on the charm.

"She left this behind," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

I leaned closer, drawn to the pendant, to the story it seemed to hold. My fingers itched to touch it, but something held me back-a quiet reverence, a sense that this was not mine to reach for.

"Who?" I whispered, unable to stop myself.

His eyes flicked to me, and for a moment, I thought he might answer. But instead, he smiled-a small, bittersweet smile that held secrets I wasn't sure I was ready to hear.

"Someone I owe everything to," he said softly.

The pendant gleamed again as he let it drop gently against his chest. The silence that followed was heavy, but not with discomfort. It was full of meaning, of memories, of emotions that couldn't be put into words.

I didn't press him further. Some stories, I realized, weren't meant to be told all at once. They unfolded in their own time, like the slow unfurling of petals beneath the sun.

And as I sat there, watching him, I couldn't help but wonder about the person who had left the raindrop charm behind-the person who had been his miracle, his anchor, his reason to believe.

I wanted to ask more. But for now, I stayed silent, letting his presence speak louder than words.

---

I stared at the delicate carving, S & A something about those letters pulling at the edges of my mind, stirring feelings I couldn't quite name. It wasn't fear, but it wasn't comfort either. It was something raw, something heavy-like a memory that didn't belong to me but was somehow mine to carry.

"It's beautiful," I murmured, the words slipping out without thought, as though speaking them aloud might unravel the knot forming in my chest.

He nodded faintly, his gaze lingering on the pendant as though it held answers he hadn't found yet.

"Since I started wearing this," he said quietly, his voice steady, yet soft with emotion, "bad things don't happen to me as often."

His smile flickered for a moment-small, faint, yet deeply tinged with sadness. It wasn't the kind of smile that brought joy; it was one that carried an ache, a reminder of something lost, something held close despite the pain.

"It's like a charm," he continued, his words growing heavier as they hung between us. "A reminder that I wasn't supposed to die that day. That I still have things to do in this life."

His fingers brushed against the pendant, his movements slow, reverent. And as he spoke, it swung gently from its chain, catching the light in a way that made it seem alive-like it had a story it wanted to tell.

I watched him, my breath shallow, the weight of his words pressing against my chest like a hand gripping too tightly.

Then, without warning, he reached for my hand.

The warmth of his touch startled me, his fingers wrapping gently around mine as he placed the pendant in my palm. Its cool surface contrasted sharply with the heat of his skin, and I froze, the sudden shift making my heart race.

"Take it," he said, his voice firm but quiet, each word deliberate.

I stared at him, my throat tightening as I shook my head. "No," I whispered, "I can't. It's too important to you."

His eyes softened, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that was both unsettling and reassuring.

"That's exactly why I want you to have it," he replied, his tone resolute but gentle. "You need it more than I do."

The pendant sat heavy in my hand, its surface gleaming faintly as the engraved letters seemed to pulse with meaning. It felt like it was tying me to something I did not yet understand, so my fingers automatically wrapped around it.

I wanted to argue. To push it back into his hands, to tell him that it wasn't mine to take. But the quiet strength in his expression stopped me.

He wasn't just giving me the pendant-he was giving me a part of himself. A part of his story. A part of his survival.

And somewhere deep down, I knew-I couldn't refuse.

The silence that followed was filled with more than words could ever say. The pendant was warm now, its cool metal slowly absorbing the heat from my skin, as if it had already begun to adjust to its new place.

I stared at him, my throat tightening, the weight of his actions pressing against the edges of my thoughts.

"But-"

Before the protest could leave my lips, Advit moved. His hands, steady and unhurried, slipped the chain over my head. The cool silver brushed against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that I couldn't ignore.

The pendant settled just below my collarbone, its weight faint but unmistakable, a presence that seemed to hold me in place. It was startling-not just the gesture, but the way it made me feel.

Comforted.

Safe.

I didn't know why.

My fingers instinctively moved to touch the charm, its surface warm now, absorbing the heat from my skin. I glanced up at him, searching his expression for answers.

"Why?" I managed, my voice fragile.

He smiled then-a soft, knowing smile, the kind that felt like an answer in itself. It wasn't patronizing or forced. It was genuine, as though he understood what I couldn't yet grasp.

"Because now I'll worry about you less," he said simply, his voice low and steady, carrying an intimacy that made my heart falter.

I felt the air shift around us, the quiet growing heavier with meaning.

"You don't realize it," he continued, his gaze dropping briefly to the pendant resting against my chest, "but your clumsiness has been eating away at my mind."

There was no teasing in his tone, no trace of mockery-just a quiet truth that made my pulse quicken.

"If you ever feel alone-if you ever feel like the world is against you-this pendant will protect you."

His voice softened, growing gentler, like the brush of wind through an open window.

"It'll keep you safe from your inner demons," he added, his gaze meeting mine again, unwavering.

His words carried an odd kind of warmth, settling over me like the first rays of sunlight after a storm. For a moment, the air felt lighter, clearer, as though I could breathe just a little more easily.

I curled my fingers around the pendant instinctively, the smooth metal pressing into my palm. It felt like more than just an object-it felt like a promise, a tether, a lifeline to something I hadn't even realized I needed.

The chain itself was delicate, the faint gleam of silver almost ethereal against my skin. But the pendant-the pendant was weighty, not just physically but emotionally, carrying with it the echoes of his words and the warmth of his presence.

"Thank you," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.

He nodded, his smile deepening slightly, but there was no triumph in his expression-only quiet reflection.

"It'll keep you safe," he said softly, his voice steady, as though the statement held more truth than I could yet understand.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with emotions I couldn't name. My hand pressed against the pendant, holding it tighter, grounding myself in the moment.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the suffocating weight of loneliness eased, just slightly.

For the first time, I felt like maybe-just maybe-I wasn't as alone as I thought.

🦋

Trying to distract myself, I had asked too many questions. Questions that felt innocent enough at first but now lingered awkwardly in the space between us.

"What does she look like? Is she older than you? Is she pretty? Is she tall? Is she fair?"

I cringed inwardly, feeling the weight of my own prying. The questions tumbled out too quickly, their transparency leaving nowhere to hide.

Advit raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in amusement as he gave me a pointed look that said Really? He said nothing at first, but his silence was teasing enough.

I was about to apologize, to wave it off as some kind of joke, when his expression shifted. The humor faded, replaced by something softer, something deeper.

It was like he was no longer sitting in this room with me. His gaze went distant, as if his mind had wandered back to a place only he could see. A wistful smile began to tug at the corner of his lips-soft, slow, and heartbreakingly bittersweet.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly, his voice carrying a tenderness that caught me off guard. "My vision was blurry when she saved me from drowning. But to me, she was the most beautiful girl I've ever met."

Beautiful.

The word echoed in my mind, lingering with an unfamiliar edge that unsettled me.

She must've been stunning, I thought bitterly. Not just pretty, but radiant in a way that left an imprint on his heart. The kind of beauty that lingers in a man's thoughts for years-haunting and unforgettable.

"How can you say that when you've never seen her face?" I asked, the question sharper than I intended, my own voice betraying an emotion I didn't want to name.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine. There was no hesitation in his gaze-only quiet certainty and a depth of understanding that made my chest tighten.

"Because beauty isn't something you always see," he said, his tone steady and sure. "It's something you feel."

The way he said it-the simplicity of the statement, the weight of his conviction-left me momentarily speechless.

I wanted to argue, to challenge his answer, but I couldn't. Something about the way he looked at me, the way his smile lingered, stopped me in my tracks.

It was a truth that belonged to him, a truth I had no right to question.

Yet, something restless stirred inside me. I wanted to know more, but at the same time, I wasn't sure I could handle the answers.

Because deep down, I realized, I wasn't just curious about her.

I was afraid of the way I already felt about him.

---

His gaze remained locked on mine, steady and certain, and the intensity of it made it hard to breathe.

"Sometimes, beauty isn't about a face," he said, his tone calm but rich with meaning. "Sometimes, it's in an act of kindness, in the warmth of someone's presence. I never saw her features clearly, but the way she saved me-without hesitation, without expectation-made her beautiful in a way no face ever could."

His voice carried a kind of reverence, as though her memory still lit up corners of his soul that even he didn't understand.

" And since when did we measure beauty by what's seen on the outside. The doesn't melt from outward appearance. The hearts melt where true beauty lives where the love fills the soul and breathes in the heart.

As he spoke, his admiration was almost palpable, filling the space between us. And though I tried to push away the sharp sting that pricked at my chest, I couldn't ignore it.

It was irrational, I told myself. Silly, even.

Why does it matter?

But the question clung to my thoughts, heavy and insistent.

What would happen if they met again?

Would his heart, restrained and careful for so long, finally yield to her memory? Would the gratitude he held onto so fondly deepen into something else, something stronger?

The thought made my stomach twist.

He broke through my spiraling thoughts with his calm, grounded voice, as though he could sense the direction of my mind.

"I kept this pendant all these years," he said, his fingers brushing against the chain lightly, "hoping to meet her again. Not just to thank her, but because... I feel like we've met before."

He paused, his expression shifting as though he were grasping for the edges of something intangible, something just out of reach.

"Somewhere, in another time, another place," he continued softly. "My heart remembers, even if my mind doesn't."

The words hung in the air, each one imbued with a quiet conviction that made me shiver.

There was a weight to his tone, a sense of longing that seemed larger than the story itself. It wasn't just about her-it was about something deeper, something tied to the essence of who he was.

As I watched him, I couldn't help but feel the gravity of the moment.

The pendant in my hand glimmered faintly, as though it held a secret of its own. Its smooth surface felt warm now, not just from my grip but from something almost alive within it-a connection between past and present, memory and hope.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening against the surge of emotions I didn't know how to name.

"Do you think you'll find her?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

His lips curved into a soft, almost enigmatic smile, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

"I don't know," he said, the answer simple but carrying the weight of countless possibilities. "Maybe she's still out there, waiting for our paths to cross again. Or maybe I'll never see her, but that doesn't change what she's already given me."

"And what's that?" I asked softly, my voice hesitant.

He looked down at the pendant still resting in my hand, his gaze lingering on it for a moment before meeting mine again.

"A reason to believe in second chances."

His voice was calm, but there was a deep fragility underlying it that made my chest ache.

The room felt smaller, more intimate, the silence that followed no longer awkward but full-filled with questions that neither of us were ready to ask, with truths we weren't yet ready to face.

And though my mind was still tangled with thoughts of what could be, of what might happen if they met again, one thing became clear to me in that moment.

It wasn't just about her.

It was about him-about the way he carried hope like a fragile yet unyielding flame, lighting up the darkness in ways even he didn't fully understand.

And maybe, just maybe, that hope was something I needed too.

"Would you recognize her if you saw her again?" I asked, the question spilling out before I could second-guess it.

Advit tilted his head back, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as though searching for the answer in the stillness above. For a long moment, he said nothing, his silence stretching into something heavy, thoughtful.

"I don't know... Maybe," he said finally, his voice low, reflective.

I hesitated, my emotions twisting in ways I couldn't quite name. The words that came next slipped free without permission, as though they were waiting for a chance to escape.

"I hope you meet her again."

The moment they left my mouth, regret followed.

Advit's gaze snapped back to mine, surprised, his brows raising slightly as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard. But the real surprise was mine.

Why had I said that?

A moment ago, jealousy had consumed me, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts like an unwelcome guest. A moment ago, the idea of him finding her again had twisted painfully inside me.

And yet here I was, offering my blessing for their paths to cross once more.

How pathetic.

Or perhaps... perhaps this was what loving someone truly meant.

Wanting their happiness-even if that happiness didn't include you. Even if you had to watch from a distance as their life intertwined with someone else's.

Advit's eyes softened, his gaze steady as it held mine. There was no pity in his expression, no condescension-only quiet understanding, as though he had seen through me completely and was choosing to let it be.

His lips curved into a small smile, gentle and knowing, the kind that carried a silent acknowledgment. It wasn't triumphant or smug-it simply was.

Around us, the atmosphere changed, and the storm inside of me subsided into an uncomfortable quiet. I hadn't realized until now how erratic my heartbeat had been-how the jealousy and insecurity had roared like thunder in my chest.

And now, all of it had quieted.

Because of him.

Because of this one man.

"Looks like you've calmed down," he murmured, his voice soft but tinged with subtle amusement.

I blinked, startled by the observation. His tone wasn't mocking, but there was something about the way he said it that made me feel like he understood far more than I wanted him to.

The pendant gleamed faintly against my skin, a tangible reminder of everything unspoken between us.

And for the first time, I wondered-was this enough?

The reminder of my emotional breakdown moments ago sent a wave of embarrassment crashing over me, swift and relentless.

I felt the heat bloom across my cheeks, spreading like wildfire. My skin prickled with the memory of my vulnerability-how I'd let myself cry in front of him, exposed and raw, the edges of my emotions fraying in plain view.

I squeezed my eyes shut as if that might erase the humiliation clawing at me. But when I opened them, I was met with something even worse.

His gaze, sharp and knowing. That teasing glint in his eyes.

He was enjoying this.

"Hey!" I snapped, the sharpness of my tone masking the nervous energy that twisted inside me.

He raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as if to say, Go on, I'm listening.

I pressed forward, desperate to change the dynamic-to deflect, to push away the weight of what I was feeling.

"Don't tell me you made up that heartwarming story just to comfort me," I accused, the words coming faster than I could think them through. "And... don't tell me your ex gave you this pendant and you're just trying to get rid of it. If that's the case, take it back!"

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I'd gone too far.

His reaction was immediate.

The smirk vanished, replaced by a blankness so sudden it felt like a door slamming shut. His expression-once so easy to read-became a mask, cold and inscrutable. His eyes, which had been alight with amusement, darkened, the light extinguished.

I froze, the weight of my reckless words settling between us like a heavy stone.

The tension in the air coiled tighter, thicker, wrapping around me like an invisible force I couldn't escape.

"Is that what you think?" he asked at last, his voice low, measured, but with an edge that made me shiver.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

His gaze didn't waver, didn't soften, and I felt pinned under its intensity. The silence that followed wasn't empty-it was deafening, suffocating, filled with the unspoken implications of my careless accusation.

"I-" I started to speak, but my voice faltered. The regret burned in my chest now, sharp and unyielding.

What was I supposed to say?

How could I take it back?

He didn't move, didn't say another word, but the stillness of him was louder than anything he could have said.

For the first time since we sat down, I felt the fragile thread between us begin to fray.

"Did I hit a nerve?" I asked, the question sharp and probing, a flicker of curiosity driving me to push just a little harder.

"Is it actually from your ex?"

What the fuck am I say? This damn mouth just shut up.

The moment the words left my mouth, the tension shifted.

Flick.

"Ow!" I exclaimed, rubbing my forehead as the sharp sting bloomed across my skin. "What was that for?"

Advit leaned back slightly, his expression calm but purposeful.

"For offending me," he said simply, his tone detached, as though the flick was justified and required no further explanation.

"What?" I asked, baffled, my hand still hovering over the spot he'd flicked.

His eyes met mine, steady and unyielding, and I saw it-a flicker of something beneath the surface.

"You think too little of me," he said, his voice smooth, his expression carefully composed. But then, just for a moment, something else crossed his face-disappointment, subtle and fleeting, but impossible to miss.

"But it's okay," he continued, his tone remaining calm even as a quiet edge laced his words.

"It's not like I care what you think. It doesn't change the truth."

And yet, as he said it, his eyes betrayed him.

His voice was steady, indifferent even, but his gaze-his gaze held hurt. Quiet, subdued, but undeniable.

It contradicted everything he was saying, revealing emotions he couldn't-or wouldn't-acknowledge outright.

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening as guilt began to creep in. The sting of my impulsive words lingered, sharp and unrelenting.

Suddenly, I felt bad.

"Advit-" I started, my voice faltering, uncertain of how to repair the damage.

He tilted his head slightly, his calm demeanor unwavering, but I could see the flickers of emotion he wasn't showing outright. The silence that followed wasn't empty-it was heavy, brimming with the consequences of my thoughtless comment.

A wave of guilt crashed over me as his words settled heavily in the space between us.

" Seriously? Do you really think so little of me?" he had asked, his voice soft, almost too calm, carrying a weight that made my chest tighten.

I wanted to answer-needed to-but my throat felt dry, the words caught somewhere I couldn't reach.

His expression remained neutral, unreadable, but his eyes-those eyes-betrayed him. There, in the depths of his gaze, was something I hadn't expected.

Hurt.

It was quiet, subtle, but undeniable.

The air between us grew heavier, each second stretching into something unbearable. My reckless accusation hung there like an invisible wall, separating us, threatening to undo the fragile connection we'd built.

"Advit, I didn't mean it like that," I blurted, my voice shaky, barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine, his calm silence somehow more piercing than any words could've been.

"Then how did you mean it?" he asked after a moment, his tone steady, measured, but his words cut deep.

I swallowed hard, my palms clammy as they rested against my lap. The pendant around my neck felt heavier now, its cool surface pressing against my skin like a reminder of my thoughtlessness.

"I just-" I paused, my voice faltering.

How could I explain it?

How could I take back something that had already been said?

"Forget it," he said suddenly, cutting through my stumbling attempts. His voice was soft, almost resigned, but his words hit harder than I expected.

He looked away, his gaze drifting toward the window, the light reflecting faintly against the edges of his face. The teasing warmth, the playful glint that had been in his eyes earlier-it was gone now, replaced by something distant, something guarded.

My chest tightened, an ache blooming in a place I hadn't known could hurt like this.

And then, as though sensing my unease, he turned back to me.

"You don't need to explain," he said quietly, his voice softer now, gentler. "I get it. You didn't mean to hurt me."

But even as he said it, even as his words offered me an out, his eyes told a different story. They carried a quiet hurt that hadn't faded, no matter how calm he sounded.

"I shouldn't have said that," I admitted, the words spilling out in a rush. "I wasn't thinking-I was just trying to distract myself, and-"

He held up a hand, silencing me with the simple gesture.

"It's okay," he said, his lips curving into a faint smile-one that didn't reach his eyes. "I've already forgotten it."

But I hadn't.

And as the weight of the moment pressed down on me, I realized something that made my breath hitch.

It wasn't just that I'd hurt him-it was that I'd hurt someone who mattered.

Someone who'd been there for me when I didn't even know I needed it.

"Advit," I said softly, his name a plea, though I wasn't even sure what I was asking for. Forgiveness? Understanding?

He looked at me then, his expression softening just slightly, but the distance in his eyes remained.

"...Sorry," I muttered, the word a little hesitant, as though testing its weight.

"For what?" he asked, his tone so neutral it felt almost dismissive, yet his gaze flickered with interest.

She bit her lip, gathering courage, and finally said, "For not believing you."

"Hmm."

My head snapped up, my eyebrows furrowing in disbelief.

"Hmm?" she repeated, her voice rising with incredulity. "That's it? I just apologized! I apologize from the depths of my soul, and all I get is a lazy 'hmm'?"

He smirked, the amusement dancing in his eyes infuriatingly clear.

"You call that an apology?" he asked, leaning back slightly, the teasing lilt in his voice impossible to miss. "You spent half the time justifying yourself."

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. "Well, if your apology standards weren't set somewhere up in the stratosphere, maybe I wouldn't feel the need to!" I shot back, crossing my arms defensively.

A grin spread across his face, the sort that both aroused annoyance and reluctant admiration.

"Well,"he said slowly, dragging out the word just enough to test her patience. "If your apology was more sincere, maybe I'd respond differently."

She scoffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "See, this is why I don't take you seriously! My distrust in you isn't my fault-it's a result of your own nonsense!"

He chuckled, the sound low and undeniably amused, but then his words turned unexpectedly sharp.

"Hah! You're still trying to justify yourself. You women are something else."

Wait? Did he just say women as if we were some kind of disease.

"Excuse me?"

His eyes flicked to me briefly, unreadable, before he rolled them in dramatic fashion and waved me off.

"Forget it. Want some water?"

My glare was sharp enough to cut glass, but the urge to spar further faded as I felt the guilt creeping back in, relentless and suffocating.

With a small groan, my body curled into a shell, muttering under my breath, "Fine. I'm sorry for being unreasonable earlier. And for my unstable mood swings. And for crying like a lunatic."

He let out a soft breath of laughter, his smirk softening into something more genuine.

"It's okay," he said simply, his tone warmer now, carrying a reassurance that caught me off guard.

For a moment, the tension eased, replaced by a fragile sense of understanding, the playful barbs giving way to something unspoken yet undeniable.

"How is it okay? Don't you think I'm a pain in the neck?"

"Not just a pain in the neck," he said, the words rolling off his tongue with a teasing lilt.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Then what else am I?"

Instead of answering immediately, he lifted the glass of water to his lips, his movements maddeningly deliberate.

My eyes strayed-quite accidentally, mind you-to his throat as his Adam's apple bobbed with every drink.

Why does that look... attractive?

Snap out of it, Sapna.

Heat spread across my face like wildfire. Oh no. No. This was not happening.

Am I turning into a pervert?

He set the glass down with an irritatingly graceful motion, the smirk on his face sending my thoughts spiraling further into chaos. Then, with a casual air that only he could pull off, he tapped his chest.

"You're also a pain in my heart," he said, his smirk growing into a slow, mischievous smile.

I froze.

"It hurts here whenever I think of you," he added, his voice warm and playful, yet carrying a hint of something deeper.

My soul left my body.

WHAT?!

The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

"Eww."

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then-

He burst out laughing.

For a second, I thought his laughter might never end. He was clutching his stomach, his shoulders shaking as the sound filled the room-genuine, unrestrained, and completely infectious.

"You should've seen your face," he gasped between breaths, his voice breaking with amusement. Tears had formed at the corners of his eyes, and his usually composed demeanor was utterly shattered.

I crossed my arms, glaring at him, though I could feel the edges of my frustration begin to blur.

"It wasn't that funny," I muttered, but my voice lacked conviction.

His laughter only doubled, as though my weak protest was fuel to the fire. He leaned back, momentarily breathless, before looking at me again. The grin on his face was boyish, free of the guarded walls I'd seen in him so often.

"Sapna," he said, wiping the corner of his eye, "you just said 'eww.' Like a five-year-old."

My jaw tightened, my cheeks burning. "Well, what was I supposed to say to that?!"

He straightened slightly, his grin softening into something teasing but warm. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe something like, 'Wow, Advit, that was incredibly sweet. I'm so moved.'"

"Ugh," I groaned, throwing my head back. "See, this is why I don't take you seriously. Who even says things like that?"

"Someone honest," he replied, his voice dipping just enough to catch me off guard.

The lightness of the moment lingered, but his words carried something else-something quieter, more genuine. His gaze held mine for just a beat longer than it should have, and I felt my stomach flip for reasons I wasn't ready to name.

I cleared my throat, looking away quickly. "Whatever. Stop being dramatic."

But even as I said it, my lips twitched, betraying the faintest hint of a smile.

"Oh, you're smiling now," he pointed out, his tone still playful. "I must be doing something right."

"I'm smiling because I'm picturing throwing this glass of water at your face," I shot back, but the sharpness in my voice had softened.

He laughed again, this time quieter, more controlled, but the warmth in his expression didn't fade.

"Don't worry," he said after a moment, his voice calmer, gentler. "You're not a pain in the neck. Or the heart."

"Oh?" I arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "Then what am I?"

He leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting into something unreadable-teasing yet serious, light yet weighty.

"You," he said, pausing just long enough to make my breath hitch, "are a disaster. But you're my disaster."

My mind stalled. For a moment, the world narrowed to just that one word-*my*.

"Eww," I repeated automatically, though my voice wavered, and I knew my face was probably giving me away.

His laughter bubbled up again, lighter this time, and for the briefest of moments, the tension between us dissolved entirely.

His entire body shook with amusement, his laughter so rich, so unrestrained, that I couldn't help but stare. It was rare to see him like this-unguarded, so completely in the moment.

"What's so funny again?" I asked, though my tone betrayed more curiosity than irritation.

"You!" he exclaimed, wiping at the corner of his eye as he continued to chuckle. "Sapna, you're so cruel. My first heartfelt confession, and you just-" he clutched his chest dramatically, exaggerating his words. "Oh my God, I've never been rejected so mercilessly in my life."

"Shut up!" I snapped, though the words lacked any real bite. As if to emphasize my point, I picked up an imaginary cushion and threw it at him.

He caught it effortlessly-well, pretended to-with a smug grin that made me roll my eyes.

"Seriously, though." He tilted his head, his grin softening but not fading. "Are you going to sit on the floor all day? Go wash your face. You look like a pufferfish. Your eyes are as red as a bull."

"Shut. Up," I shot back, my tone clipped, but the heat creeping up my neck betrayed how embarrassed I felt.

I extended my hand toward him, the gesture tentative but intentional.

"My legs are numb," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Help me up."

He hesitated, his smirk faltering slightly as his brow furrowed in thought.

"Won't my touch make you uncomfortable?" he asked, his voice quieter, his teasing tone replaced by something more serious.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself, before replying. "It's okay if it's you. Sooner or later, I have to overcome it."

His lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features.

I pressed on, my voice softer now, barely above a whisper. "I want my senses to get used to your touch... so that... I don't feel repulsed by you anymore."

The words were difficult to say, each one carrying a weight I hadn't expected, but they hung in the air, honest and unfiltered.

Something shifted in his eyes-an unspoken emotion flickered, fleeting but powerful. For a moment, it seemed like he was trying to mask whatever he was feeling, but he couldn't quite manage it.

A quiet understanding passed between us, heavier and more meaningful than anything either of us could have said aloud. The teasing, the laughter, all of it fell away, leaving only the raw truth of the moment.

Without a word, he reached down, his hand wrapping around mine gently yet firmly.

His touch was warm, steady, and for the first time, I didn't pull away.

The air between us seemed to shift, the weight of the moment pressing against my chest in a way that wasn't uncomfortable-but grounding. His expression softened, his usual confidence tempered by something quieter, something deeper.

"You'll get there," he said softly, his voice steady, reassuring. "No rush."

His words settled over me like a blanket, easing the tension I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. And though I didn't say anything, I gave his hand the faintest squeeze, a silent acknowledgment of the trust I was trying to build.

The warmth of his hand seeped into mine, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the gentle connection between us. My heartbeat quickened, betraying emotions I wasn't ready to confront.

But then-

With one decisive tug, I YANKED him down.

The sound of his knees hitting the floor was loud enough to echo, followed immediately by his startled exclamation.

"Ow! What the-?"

I rose to my full height, a smirk tugging at my lips. The sight of him on the floor, wide-eyed and utterly betrayed, was far too satisfying.

I winked.

"You look great on the floor, Princess " I said, my tone laced with mock admiration. "Mashallah."

He stared at me, his expression frozen in disbelief, as if I'd single-handedly shattered his faith in humanity. His wide eyes screamed How could you?-but instead of guilt, I felt an undeniable sense of triumph.

And then, as though I hadn't just destroyed his dignity, I turned on my heel and walked away, the smirk still firmly in place.

Behind me, his voice rose in a muttered grumble, half to himself.

"What a silly girl."

The corners of my lips curved upward, the softest of smiles breaking through my cool facade. I couldn't help but glance back, just once, curiosity getting the better of me.

And there he was.

Still sitting on the floor, a small smile playing on his lips, his expression now tinged with amusement instead of betrayal.

"What an idiot," I whispered, though the words carried no venom, only quiet affection.

The sound of his laughter faded slightly, but the energy in the air didn't. It lingered, wrapping around us like the remnants of a shared joke, alive and electric.

I slowed my steps just enough to catch one last glance at him. He was still sitting on the floor, his hand brushing absently against his knee, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

"What a dramatic fool," I whispered, the words meant more for myself than anyone else. But there was no edge to them-only the quiet warmth of knowing someone who could make the world feel lighter.

And even as I turned away again, my smirk unwavering, I felt the weight of his gaze on my back.

"Hey, Sapna," he called suddenly, his voice clear and just a touch amused.

I paused, glancing over my shoulder but keeping my expression carefully composed.

"You're going to regret leaving me here, you know," he said, his smirk returning in full force, that glint of mischief back in his eyes.

"Oh?" I arched an eyebrow, crossing my arms. "Why's that?"

He stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands as though he were settling in for a casual chat from the floor.

"Because," he began, dragging out the word for effect, "I know something you don't know."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. You're not as mysterious as you think."

His grin widened, and I felt my stomach twist-because, annoyingly, his confidence was actually starting to make me curious.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his tone deliberately light, but something about the way he said it made me hesitate.

I turned back toward him fully now, my arms still crossed but my curiosity clearly winning over my irritation. "Fine. Spill. What is it?"

He tilted his head, his gaze steady as it met mine. "Come closer first."

I narrowed my eyes but took a cautious step forward.

"Closer."

With an exaggerated sigh, I took another step, close enough now that I could see the faint remnants of amusement still lingering in his expression.

"Okay, I'm here. What's this groundbreaking revelation?" I asked, my tone dripping with skepticism.

His smirk softened into something quieter, something that made my chest tighten despite myself.

"The thing you don't know," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "is how much I enjoy watching you walk away."

For a moment, the air felt still, heavy with the weight of his words.

I stared at him, caught between incredulity and something I refused to acknowledge.

"Eww," I said again, my voice sharper this time, but the heat creeping up my neck betrayed me.

He laughed, his head tilting back as the sound rolled through the room once again.

And though I wanted to hold on to my irritation, I couldn't help but feel the corners of my own lips twitch, the warmth of his laughter pulling me in despite myself.

His laughter still echoed faintly, but I couldn't quite shake the way his words lingered in the air. My heart felt caught between exasperation and something softer-something that made it harder to breathe.

"You know," I said as I walked away, keeping my voice light, "you talk a lot of nonsense for someone on the floor."

"And you walk away a lot for someone who seems curious about my nonsense," he countered, his voice warm with amusement.

I stopped, just barely, before glancing over my shoulder. "Oh, please. Don't flatter yourself. I'm not curious."

"Sure," he said, stretching the word out, his grin practically audible. "Keep telling yourself that."

I turned fully now, hands on my hips. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, far too casually for someone who'd just been unceremoniously yanked to the floor. "It means I know when someone secretly enjoys my company."

I scoffed, but my lips twitched despite myself. "Enjoy your company? You flatter yourself too much. I'm only tolerating you because I feel bad for ruining your dignity."

"Oh, so you do feel bad," he replied, leaning back on his hands, his grin growing wider. "I knew it."

"Don't push your luck," I said sharply, though the edges of my irritation had softened.

"Sapna," he began, his tone changing slightly-quieter, more thoughtful. "You're a strange one, you know that?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said." His expression softened, and for a moment, the playfulness faded into something more earnest. "You push people away and pull them closer at the same time. It's kind of... fascinating."

My breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over me like a quiet revelation. I wasn't sure how to respond, so I fell back on what I knew best.

"Well, maybe I just like keeping people on their toes," I said lightly, brushing off the way his gaze felt like it could see straight through me.

"Is that what this is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "A game?"

"Not everything is about you," I shot back, though my voice wavered slightly under the intensity of his stare.

"Maybe not," he admitted, his smile softening. "But it's a lot more fun when you're around."

Something in his tone-gentle, but with a sincerity I wasn't prepared for-made my chest tighten. I turned quickly, before he could see the heat rising to my face.

"You're impossible," I muttered, starting to walk away again, my steps quicker this time.

"And you're adorable when you looked like you want to slap me," he called after me, his laughter chasing me down the hallway.

I didn't look back, but my lips curved into a smile, and I hated how easily he could pull it from me.