32. SITUATION
VEERANSH
I don't answer her immediately. Her words hang in the air between us, heavier than the silence she's been carrying all day.
It's a waste of your time... hanging out with me.
I've heard many things in my life. Accusations.
Praises. Fear disguised as respect. People calculating their words before speaking to me.
But this. This isn't manipulation. This isn't drama. It's resignation. And that unsettles me more than anger ever could.
I lean back slightly in my chair, my fingers resting against the edge of the table.
Her plate is barely touched. She's eaten like someone fulfilling an obligation, not satisfying hunger.
I notice things now that I shouldn't be noticing.
How she keeps her shoulders drawn inward, like she's trying to occupy less space.
How her eyes flicker toward my face every few seconds, gauging my reaction. How she never once met my gaze when she said she didn't want to go tomorrow. Not defiance. Avoidance. As if the safest place for her is invisibility.
"You think you're wasting my time," I say slowly. She stiffens. "I... no..." I raise a hand slightly, not to stop her, but instinctively. "I didn't ask you to justify it."
Her lips press together. She looks down again. That familiar tightening grips my chest. I don't know what this feeling is, but it's irritating in its persistence. I've built my life on control. Precision. Efficiency.
People exist in my world for reasons, transactions, leverage, outcomes. Aarohi wasn't supposed to be... this. She was a means to an end. A signature. A name. A key.
Not someone who looks at a vacation like a burden she's placing on me. I push my chair back and stand, walking toward the window. Outside, Kashmir glows faintly in the evening light, mountains settling into shadows.
"I didn't bring you here to entertain me," I say, my voice even. "Or to kill time." She doesn't respond. I glance back at her. She's sitting perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered like she's waiting for a verdict.
I exhale slowly through my nose. "I brought you here because my mother wanted us to," I continue. "And because I agreed." That much is true.
What I don't say is that I could have easily refused. Could have made excuses. Could have sent her alone with staff. But I didn't. And I don't know why.
"You don't get to decide what's a waste of my time," I add, firmer now.
"That's my decision." Her fingers tighten slightly.
I turn fully toward her. "Look at me." She hesitates, then obeys.
Her eyes meet mine, uncertain, tired, guarded.
"Do you think I don't know you're uncomfortable?
" I ask. "That this trip is difficult for you? "
Her throat moves as she swallows. "I..." "I know," I cut in quietly. "You don't have to explain everything." That surprises her. I see it. It surprises me too.
I walk closer, stopping a safe distance away. Not looming. Not retreating. Balanced.
"You've been silent all day," I say. "You barely ate. You didn't complain about the cold. You didn't ask for anything." I pause. "That's not strength. That's fear."
Her breath stutters. She doesn't deny it. The realization hits harder than I expect. Fear. Not of Kashmir. Not of the cable car. Of me.
I clench my jaw, irritation flaring, but not at her. At myself. I've spent years cultivating fear as a tool. It makes people efficient. Predictable. But seeing it etched into her every movement feels... wrong.
Unnecessary. "You think staying in this room is safer," I say slowly. "That you'll disturb me less if you disappear." Her eyes shine faintly, but no tears fall.
"I don't need you to disappear," I say. The words come out before I've fully thought them through.
She looks up sharply. I hold her gaze. "I don't need you to punish yourself by isolation," I add.
"And I don't need you deciding what I want.
" Silence again. This time, it's different. Not heavy. Charged.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration simmering under my skin. Not explosive, contained, coiled. "Tomorrow, we're going to Sonmarg," I say again, controlled. "Not because maa wants it. Because I want it."
Her brows knit together, confusion flickering across her face. "You're not staying locked in a room," I continue. "And you're not going to assume you're a burden."
I step back, creating space. "Finish your food," I say, softer. "And rest. We leave early." She nods slowly, still unsure.
I turn away before she can say anything else. Because the truth is, I don't know why her silence today bothered me so much. I don't know why the thought of her sitting alone in this room tomorrow feels... unacceptable.
And I definitely don't know why, when she said it's a waste of your time, something sharp twisted in my chest. This trip was supposed to be simple. Controlled. Predictable. But somewhere between the mountains and her quiet guilt, the equation has shifted.
I wake before the alarm. Habit. The room is quiet, curtains still drawn, early light leaking through the edges like a secret. For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the heater and the distant silence of the mountains outside. Then I turn my head.
She's asleep. Curled slightly on her side, blanket pulled up to her shoulders, hair spread messily across the pillow. Her face looks softer in sleep, unburdened by the constant alertness she carries when she's awake.
She looks... younger. More fragile.
I check the time. Early. Too early. I decide not to wake her.
I get up quietly, careful not to disturb the bed, and step outside the room. The corridor is empty, carpet muffling my footsteps. I take a short walk, just to clear my head, the conversation from last night replaying in fragments.
It's a waste of your time... I don't like that sentence.
I come back, head straight to the bathroom, take a quick shower, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders.
It helps, usually. I dress, buttoning my shirt with mechanical precision, glance at my phone.
A few missed notifications. Nothing urgent.
When I step out again, she's still asleep. Time slips. Ten minutes. Fifteen. We're on a schedule. I move closer to the bed and tap her shoulder lightly. "Aarohi." No response.
I tap again, slightly firmer. She stirs, brows knitting, turning her face toward the pillow. "Aarohi," I say again. "Wake up." It takes a few seconds more, but finally her eyes flutter open, half-lidded, unfocused. She blinks slowly, clearly still trapped somewhere between sleep and waking.
"Get fresh," I say, keeping my tone neutral. "After breakfast, get ready. We're moving to the Gulmarg resort."
She nods vaguely, pushes herself up, and shuffles toward the bathroom without saying a word. The door closes. I check my watch. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. Too long. I finish a quick call, glance toward the bathroom again. Still closed. Another ten minutes.
I walk over and knock on the door. "What are you doing inside?
" I ask, my voice firm but not raised. "Come out fast." There's a pause.
Then the door opens slowly. She steps out.
And something is immediately wrong. Her face is pale.
Her eyes are red, not sleepy red. Raw red.
Like she's been crying or fighting something back.
Her hands are clenched tightly at her sides, knuckles white, her shoulders stiff. Alarm cuts through me instantly. "What happened?" I ask sharply. "Are you injured somewhere?" She flinches at my tone. "Your stomach hurts?" I continue, scanning her automatically. "Your wound? Is it hurting again?"
She shakes her head faintly. "Then what?" I press. "Say something." She doesn't. Her lips tremble. And then she starts crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears spilling down her cheeks, her breath hitching like she's trying not to be heard.
The sight hits me harder than I expect.
"Hey..." I step closer instinctively. "What happened?"
I run through possibilities at lightning speed. Pain. Injury. Fever. Panic attack. Nothing fits.
"Talk to me," I say, lower now. "What's wrong?"
She wipes her eyes hurriedly, like she's embarrassed for being seen like this. Her voice comes out broken, barely above a whisper.
"I forgot to bring sanitary pads."
It takes a second for the words to register. Then they do. Understanding clicks into place, immediate and sharp.
I feel stupid, for not realizing sooner. And angry. Not at her. At myself.
For pushing the schedule. For knocking like that. For not noticing sooner.
"Okay," I say quickly. "Okay. That's fine." She looks startled by how fast I respond. "I'll handle it," I add, already reaching for the phone. "You sit." She hesitates. "I..."
"Sit," I repeat, firmer this time. Not harsh, just decisive. I call the front desk, keep my voice low, professional. "I need sanitary supplies sent to the room. Immediately. Female staff only." I end the call and turn back to her. She's standing there like she's waiting for punishment.
I don't understand how someone can be conditioned to expect that, for something so basic.
"They'll bring it," I say. "You didn't do anything wrong.
" Her eyes flicker up to mine, disbelief clear on her face.
A soft knock sounds. A female attendant enters quietly, hands her a small bag, nods respectfully, and leaves.
Aarohi takes it with shaking fingers and disappears back into the bathroom.
The door closes. I stand there for a moment, staring at the wood grain, jaw tight.
This shouldn't have reduced her to tears.
This shouldn't have scared her this much.
I move to the window, looking out at the bright morning over Kashmir, but the view doesn't calm me today.
I think of all the rules. All the control. All the moments she chose silence over speaking. And I realize something unsettling. She isn't quiet because she has nothing to say. She's quiet because she's afraid of what happens when she does.
When the bathroom door finally opens again, she steps out slowly. Her face is calmer now, but there's still a trace of embarrassment lingering in her posture. "I'm..." she starts. "Stop," I say gently. "You don't need to explain." She nods, eyes lowered.
"Take your time," I add. "We'll delay breakfast." She looks up then, surprised. I turn away, giving her space. For the first time, the thought forms clearly in my mind. I didn't just force her into my life. I forced her into fear.
And for reasons I don't fully understand yet, that realization sits heavier on my chest than any consequence I've ever faced.