44. DRUNK.
After the conversation with his parents, Vivan headed downstairs. His steps were slow, almost unsure. The house was quiet except for faint clattering from the kitchen.
Aarvi walked out of the kitchen, wiping her fingers on a cloth. She wasn’t expecting him — the tiny jerk in her shoulders made that clear.
Vivan moved toward her.
“Did you have your breakfast?” he asked, voice gentler than usual… almost careful.
Aarvi looked up, startled for a second before giving a small, polite smile.
“Hm… yes.”
He nodded, awkwardness hanging between them like a thick fog.
A few heartbeats later, he said, “If you want… I can drop you to office.”
Aarvi blinked once. Then again.
“No thanks,” she said softly. “I’ll go by cab. Maybe… always.”
The hesitation in Vivan’s nod was impossible to miss.
Then came a pause — long enough that she thought he would leave.
But he didn’t.
“Why didn’t you protest?” he asked suddenly.
Aarvi blinked, shock washing over her face. “What?”
“Why didn’t you say no to this marriage?” he pressed, his tone not rude… just confused. There was something vulnerable underneath.
She stared at him, eyes widening, breath catching. “Why this sudden question?”
“No questions back,” he said, frowning slightly. “You’re supposed to give an answer.”
Aarvi let out a sad, almost tired smile.
“Harsh was also not my choice, Vivan.”
Her voice softened, carrying years of quiet acceptance.
“I was forced to marry him too. But he ran away for his girlfriend… and you couldn’t. That’s the only difference.”
Vivan’s expression shifted — guilt? surprise? even he couldn’t tell.
“And honestly…” she added, voice barely above a whisper, “if I had married Harsh, maybe he would’ve said the same thing you did.”
She straightened her shoulders and mimicked him with a dry laugh,
“‘We’ll divorce after a year.’”
Vivan let out a small chuckle — but it wasn’t amused.
It was the kind of laugh that said you’re not wrong… and it hurt him to admit it.
“That’s what I’m asking, Aarvi,” Vivan said again, leaning a little forward, too absorbed in the conversation to hide his frustration. “Why didn’t you protest the marriage with Harsh?”
Aarvi exhaled, looking down for a second before shaking her head.
“I couldn’t,” she said quietly. “My Grandpa was really ill at that time. Everyone kept saying… these might be his last days on earth.”
She gave a small laugh — the kind that hides a very old hurt.
“Funny thing is, even he used to say that too. And everyone believed him.”
Vivan frowned deeper, disbelief sharp in his eyes.
“He wanted to see me married,” she added, voice softer now, almost fragile.
“And everyone agreed to that?” Vivan asked, fury slowly rising. He couldn’t hide it — not this time.
Aarvi gave a tiny nod, her lips pressing together.
Disbelief hit his face again, harder this time — like he genuinely couldn’t understand how she silently carried all that.
“And guess what?” she said with a dry smile. “He’s perfectly healthy today.”
Vivan stared at her like she just told him tthesun rises from the west.
Another wave of disbelief washed over him.
But then — to ease the heaviness — he let out a helpless chuckle and said,
“Well… yeh toh tumhare saath pura scam ho gaya.”
Aarvi finally let out a small, real chuckle.
And Vivan… he smiled too. Not out of politeness. Not forced.
“Umm… can we continue this talk later?” Aarvi asked, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Actually my boss is a little strict. He won’t spare me if I’m late.”
She said it teasingly, deliberately.
Vivan frowned at her, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
For a moment, in the middle of all the mess, all the heartbreak, all the heaviness… he forgot everything.
“Oh really?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.
Aarvi nodded with a fake-serious expression.
“I don’t know… but employees there say their boss is too strict for no reason.”
Vivan’s smirk deepened.
“Then you should go late today,” he said slowly, “so you can also experience how his punishments look.”
Aarvi gasped dramatically, frowning at him.
“If you have time to waste, you can waste it. But I have a boss dancing on my head, so I’m leaving.”
She grabbed her purse and started rushing out of the house, and Vivan — without even realizing — watched her every step.
Just as she reached the doorway, she suddenly stopped.
Then turned around.
Then ran back inside again.
Vivan frowned in confusion as she sprinted into the kitchen.
A few seconds later she came out — a tiffin box in her hand.
She walked toward him and held it out.
Vivan looked at her hand.
Then at the box.
Then at her.
She understood the confusion and said softly,
“You didn’t eat breakfast today… so, you can have this.”
She placed the tiffin on the table gently, like it was something fragile.
Then she turned to leave again.
But once again she paused, turned back and quickly added:
“And if you don’t want it, you can give it back to me. I’ll eat it.
But don’t waste it.”
With that, she ran out of the house for real this time.
And Vivan just stood there…
Staring at the tiffin.
At her thoughtfulness.
At how something so small…
felt warmer than anything he had felt in days.
At how this girl, who never asked for anything, kept giving him little pieces of comfort without even realizing it.
He walked toward the table, picked up the tiffin box Aarvi left for him, and headed out.
He placed it carefully on the passenger seat — like it was something more than just food — and drove to office.
His cabin was quiet, the blinds half closed, his laptop open but untouched.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose when his phone suddenly buzzed.
Vivan answered, “yes?”
“Tonight there’s a party,” Yuvan said without greeting, “Thrown by Chauhan Corporation. Did you hear about it?”
“Yes,” Vivan replied, sounding uninterested, “They invited. I’m coming.”
There was a pause.
“You? Alone?” Yuvan repeated, confused.
Vivan rolled his eyes, sliding his chair back. “Then with whom do you expect me to come?”
Yuvan didn’t even take a second.
“Aarvi.”
Vivan’s hand froze mid-air.
He sighed deeply.
“Yuvan… you know I never publicly announced this marriage.”
“So announce it!” Yuvan snapped back, frustrated.
“You and Kiara are no more together. You should—”
“Yuvan.”
Vivan cut him off, his voice low, tired, and raw.
“Just because Kiara and I broke up… you think I should run to Aarvi and say I’m free now? And that we should suddenly ‘focus’ on our marriage?”
Yuvan went silent for a beat.
“But—”
“No,” Vivan said firmly.
“Things won’t change. We were going to divorce, and we will divorce.”
“And what if Aarvi doesn’t want to divorce you?”
Yuvan’s voice was softer now… cautious.
There was a long pause.
Vivan stared at the tiffin box on his table.
He swallowed.
“No,” he finally said, voice low.
“Aarvi never accepted this marriage. Not really. She agreed because of family pressure… the same pressure that forced her into Harsh’s wedding too.”
He leaned back, looking at the ceiling.
“But now?”
His voice softened… strengthened… changed.
“Now I’m with her. And I won’t let her family ruin her life again. After our divorce, she will marry the man she chooses. Her consent. Her life.”
Silence filled the phone.
Then Yuvan exhaled.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
The call ended.
And Vivan sat there… staring at nothing…
with a tangle of emotions he didn’t know how to name.
The office felt unusually silent.
He stared at the tiffin box Aarvi had handed him.
It was small… ordinary… but something about it felt heavy.
He pulled it closer with hesitant fingers.
For a long moment, he just sat there — elbows on the desk, palms pressed together — staring at the closed lid like it was asking him a question he wasn’t ready to answer.
Finally, he exhaled and opened it.
The soft aroma of home-cooked food hit him.
Simple. Warm. Familiar.
Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He picked up the spoon. Took one bite.
And It felt like the tightness in his chest eased just a little.
He ate quietly. Slowly.
Not out of hunger, but because it felt grounding. Human.
Every now and then, he paused, staring at the food as if he couldn’t believe someone actually remembered he hadn’t eaten.
Someone cared.
When he finished, he wiped his mouth and shut the tiffin gently — almost respectfully.
A soft smile ghosted on his face.
Aarvi.
Her name floated in his mind again.
He exhaled, reached for his personal phone and dialed her number.
The call barely rang twice.
“Hello?” Aarvi’s voice came, calm and unsure at the same time.
Vivan cleared his throat. “Aah… don’t...don’t prepare food for me tonight.”
The moment the words left, he mentally cursed himself.
He sounded exactly like a husband telling his wife he wouldn't be home for dinner.
“Why?” Aarvi asked, genuinely confused.
“Because I’m attending a party. It’s important.”
His voice was clipped but soft, almost explaining himself when he didn’t need to.
“Okay,” she said simply.
Silence hovered.
Not uncomfortable… but strangely intimate.
Aarvi broke it first. “Did you…" she paused as if asking this is illegal but decline anyways "n...nothin-”
“Yes,” he cut her gently, already knowing what she was asking.
“I had the food. It’s tasty.”
A small smile bloomed on Aarvi’s face on the other side.
“Thanks.”
Another long pause.
“Should I end the call?” she asked quietly.
Vivan nodded instinctively, forgetting she couldn’t see him.
“Vivan?”
He blinked. “Y...yes. And… maybe I’ll be late too.”
This time, she didn’t respond verbally.
Just a soft exhale before she cut the call.
The line went dead, but Vivan still held the phone to his ear for a moment. And then went back to his work.
The party was loud. Lights flashing, music vibrating through the hall, people laughing, clinking glasses — everything looked normal.
Except Vivan.
Because the moment he stepped inside, his eyes froze on a giant LED screen playing the sponsor reel…
And there she was.
Kiara.
Her interview clip from an old event flashed for barely five seconds.
But five seconds were enough.
His jaw clenched.
His heartbeat dropped into the pit of his stomach.
He had been fine the entire evening… but that one glimpse?
It cracked something inside him.
Vivan quietly stepped away from the crowd and went to the bar.
“Whisky. Neat,” he said.
The bartender served.
He drank.
Another glass.
And another.
Soon the burn in his throat felt better than the burn in his chest.
He wasn’t crying.
He wasn’t angry.
He was just… overwhelmed.
Maybe with the breakup.
Maybe with how the world expected him to move on overnight.
He didn’t know.
But by the fourth drink, he stopped caring.
His head felt heavy.
His body warm.
Voices blurry.
“Bro,” someone tapped his shoulder.
Vivan blinked.
“What the hell are you doing?” Yuvan’s voice was half concern, half irritation.
Vivan smirked — a sad, drunk smirk.
“Celebrating,” he slurred.
“Looks like mourning,” Yuvan muttered.
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
Vivan shook his head weakly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re walking like the floor is moving,” Yuvan shot back.
“Get up.”
Vivan tried to stand.
The ground tilted.
Yuvan caught him by the arm. “Told you.”
Vivan exhaled, defeated, letting himself be dragged out of the hall.
Cold air hit his face, making him blink rapidly.
“Didn’t know a breakup could make Singhania lose balance,” Yuvan said, half teasing.
Vivan didn’t laugh.
Didn’t say a word.
He just stared ahead — empty, tired — and whispered,
“It wasn’t the breakup, Yuvan… it was everything else.”
Yuvan’s teasing died instantly.
He opened the car door. “Sit.”
Vivan sat, leaning his head back, eyes closing.
Yuvan drive back to home there was silence in the car.
Except his uneven breathing.
Yuvan glanced at him and sighed.
“You could’ve told Aarvi to come with you, you know,” he said softly.
Vivan cracked one eye open.
“She… wouldn’t want to.”
“How do you know?”
Vivan looked out of the window, voice low and broken from alcohol and truth.
“Because I ruined her life too.”
Yuvan didn’t reply.
He knew arguing with a drunk man was pointless.
So he just drove.
The car stopped.
Yuvan shook him. “We’re home.”
Vivan opened his eyes, tired and half-conscious.
As he stepped out, he nearly stumbled.
Yuvan held him upright.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Yuvan asked.
Vivan nodded lazily. “Yeah… thanks.”
“You want me to drop you inside?”
“No,” he said, staring at the door.
“I’ll manage.”
Yuvan gave him a long look but didn’t argue.
“Call me if you need anything.”
Vivan nodded again, slow and sleepy.
The car drove away.
And Vivan stood there in the soft night breeze… drunk, vulnerable.
He went inside.
The house was silent.
Lights dim.
Everyone asleep.
Except Aarvi.
She had been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep since their awkward call.
He said he’ll be late.
But how late?
Why was he sounding so—
A sudden thud echoed from downstairs.
Aarvi immediately sat up.
“Vivan?” she whispered to herself.
Another sound — a soft clank, like someone bumping into the shoe rack.
She quickly got up and tiptoed out of the room, heart beating fast.
When she reached the corridor, she saw him.
Vivan.
He was standing near the staircase… well, trying to stand.
His coat was half off his shoulder.
His hair messy.
Eyes half shut.
Face flushed.
He was holding the railing… or rather, hugging it to stay upright.
Aarvi rushed forward. “Vivan! What happened? Are you okay—”
He blinked slowly at her.
Then smiled.
A soft, drunk, heartbreakingly tired smile.
“AARVIII…” he said aloud, almost dragging the word, like he’d been searching for her for hours.
Aarvi’s eyes widened horror-struck.
Before that sound could echo through the quiet house, she instantly pressed her hand over his mouth, stepping close—too close—so he wouldn’t yell again.
“Shhh!” she whispered urgently, her breath brushing his cheek.
“Don’t shout… please…”
Vivan blinked at her, stunned.
Her palm was still over his lips.
Her face inches from his.
Her scent—soft, familiar—wrapped around him.
Aarvi realized how close she was and began pulling her hand back quickly—but Vivan’s fingers gently closed around her wrist.
Not tight.
Not forceful.
Just enough to stop her.
“You’re… awake?” He said voice almost inaudible because her palm is still on his mouth.
She quickly pulled her hand away. “You’re drunk.”
He chuckled — a warm, defeated sound.
“No, no, I’m not drunk. I’m just… thinking.”
“You can barely stand,” she snapped softly, trying to keep her voice down.
“Oh.” He looked at his own foot like it betrayed him.
“Yeah… maybe the floor is drunk.”
Aarvi rolled her eyes and sighed. “Come. You’ll wake everyone.”
“But I didn’t wanna wake you,” he mumbled, leaning slightly on her.
“I was being… shhh… super quiet.”
“You just made three noises in one minute.”
“Really?” His eyebrows lifted in slow motion.
“That’s… bad.”
She tightened her grip. “Come with me.”
When she tried to guide him towards their room, he suddenly pulled back.
“No… not that room.”
Aarvi frowned. “Why?”
He pointed vaguely toward the guest room door.
“I… don’t wanna disturb you.”
Her heart softened a little.
“But you’re already disturbing the whole house,” she whispered.
He paused, thinking — or trying to.
Then nodded with difficulty, eyes drooping.
“Oh. Sorry.”
She supported him as they entered the guest room.
“Aarvi… we broke up.”
His eyes dropped.
Aarvi froze.
That sentence—those words—they weren’t meant for her.
She shouldn’t be the one hearing them.
This wasn’t her place.
Her throat tightened, and she looked away.
“I… I think you should sleep, Vivan,” she whispered, taking a step back.
But the moment she stepped, he stumbled, his balance shifting, and Aarvi instinctively grabbed his shirt to steady him.
Except her grip wasn’t strong enough to manage his full weight.
He tilted.
She tried to pull him upright.
But reality won.
Their feet tangled.
Aarvi lost her balance first.
And in the next secondthey fell.
Thankfully on the bed.
Not harshly, but close—so close his breath brushed her neck as they landed on the soft mattress.
Her hair slipped over his face.
His fingers caught on her sleeve.
Aarvi’s heart hammered painfully fast, chest rising and falling beneath him.
For a moment neither moved.
They both felt the warmth.
The sudden intimacy.
The kind that makes a person forget the air around them.
Aarvi was the first to shift, cheeks flushed.
“V-Vivan… get up,” she whispered, pushing lightly against him.
He lifted himself, sitting beside her, breathing unsteadily—half from alcohol, half from whatever just happened.
She stood and brushed her clothes, trying to calm her heartbeat.
“I should… I should go,” she murmured, heading toward the door.
But before she reached it, his fingers wrapped around her wrist.
Slow. Warm. Lingering.
She turned.
He wasn’t looking at her hand.
He was looking into her eyes—confused, vulnerable.
“Aarvi… I’m sorry.”
His voice was thick, tired.
“I shouldn’t… talk about her to you. It must hurt. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Aarvi nodded slowly, trying to step back toward the door, but Vivan tightened his hold on her wrist—still gentle, still warm.
“Aarvi…” his voice trembled with exhaustion, alcohol, and something painfully honest.
“I’m telling you all this because you’re drunk.”
He blinked at her, serious in his drunkenness.
“You won’t… remember anything tomorrow.”
Aarvi stared at him.
I? Drunk?
Her breath caught, then a soft disbelieving laugh slipped out.
“Me?” she asked softly, tilting her head.
“I’m drunk?”
Vivan nodded with a sad, earnest concern only a drunk man could carry.
“Yes… that’s why I said it. You’re drunk. Tomorrow you’ll forget everything.”
Aarvi’s lips curved into a tiny, helpless smile.
His thumb was still brushing her wrist unconsciously, eyes full of confusion and sincerity.
She stepped just a little closer—enough for him to focus his blurry gaze on her properly.
“Well…” she whispered, amusement dancing on her voice.
“ Then I must be too drunk…”
He blinked hard.
She finished, smile widening—
“…because right now you look drunk to me.”
Vivan’s brows pressed together in total confusion.
“Me?”
He pointed at himself.
“I’m… I’m not drunk. You’re drunk.”
Aarvi bit her lip, holding back a laugh.
She gently slipped her wrist out of his grasp, his fingers lingering on her skin for a second longer than she expected.
“Goodnight, Vivan,” she said softly, almost fondly.
She turned and began walking away.
Behind her, Vivan muttered to himself, still confused,
“But… how can she… see me drunk… when she’s drunk…?”
The line was slurred, adorable, heartbreaking.
Aarvi’s smile grew as she reached the door.
She didn’t look back.
But Vivan did—watching her leave with unfocused eyes, chest heavy, heart unsettled.
The door clicked softly shut.
And the room suddenly felt colder.
Quieter.
Lonelier.
Without her.