CHAPTER 35
ADITI
It’s close to midnight, and I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan lazily rotating above me. My phone rests on my chest like it weighs a hundred kilos. I’ve been watching his contact flash on the screen for the past half an hour now—Abhimaan. Just his name. Mocking me in silence.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. I mean, I do.
And that’s the worst part. I should be over it by now.
I should be angry. Done. I should have deleted his number the moment I walked out of that office, but no.
Here I am, fingers hovering over the call button like some teenager with a crush. How humiliating.
But it’s not about him. Not entirely.
I need to return the office laptop. It’s the practical thing to do. Resignation letter—check. Device—check. Loose ends to tie up—check. My brain keeps listing things like a damn checklist, trying to make this logical when everything about it is emotional.
My thumb grazes the screen. My heart races.
What if he doesn’t pick up?
But what if he does?
What if I hear his voice and fall apart all over again?
And yet, the stillness in this room is unbearable. Everyone else is asleep, and I’m here spiraling. My eyes sting from the lack of sleep and unshed tears. I could wait till morning. Be professional. Be strong. But I know I won’t sleep a second if I don’t make this call.
I sit up, swipe across the screen before I can stop myself, and press the green button. One ring.
That’s all it takes.
“Hello?” His voice is quiet. Breathless. Like he wasn’t asleep. Like he’d been waiting.
I don’t speak. My throat is dry.
Silence stretches between us.
“I’ll come tomorrow to give you the laptop,” I finally say, forcing my voice to stay neutral.
“Okay.” He coughs immediately after. Harsh. Dry.
I sit up straighter. “Are you—are you sick?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and panic begins to bubble in my chest.
“Abhimaan?” I try again. “Are you okay? Why are you coughing like that? Did you catch a cold? Did you go to a doctor? Oh, you might not know a doctor here—”
“I’m fine.” His voice cuts me off gently. But there’s something broken in the way he says it.
“I just… had your ice cream.”
“What?” I frown. Why did he eat ice cream when he clearly can’t handle it? Is he mad? Sometimes he’s so infuriating. I huff.
“Got a slight fever. It’ll pass.” He says.
“You’re an idiot,” I whisper.
“I wanted to feel close to you.” His voice is barely audible. “I want to talk to you, Aditi…”
He says my name like it hurts. My heart aches. He put himself in jeopardy so that he could feel closer to me? He really is insane.
My heart twists painfully. But I can’t. Not now.
“We can do that tomorrow,” I say and end the call before I lose my nerve. Before I say something I can’t take back.
But the silence creeps back, and it’s worse now.
My mind replays the conversation in fragments—his cough, his voice, the way he said my name.
I glance at the clock. 12:47 AM. He must be in pain, although he’s a full 31-year-old man who can definitely take care of himself.
I still feel restless. There’s this urge to see him right now and make sure he’s alright. I sigh.
Screw it. When did I start to second-guess anything?
I send a quick message to Anika letting her know I’m going for a drive and not to worry. I know she’ll be half-asleep and won’t think twice. I grab my car keys, tie my hair back, slip on my hoodie and sneakers, and tiptoe out the front door.
The drive to the resort is quiet. Jaipur looks different at night—emptier, softer. The roads feel longer and my thoughts louder. I keep one hand on the wheel and the other curled around my phone, just in case.
When I reach the resort, it’s darker than usual. The guard recognizes me from yesterday and waves me through without question. I park the car and quietly take the elevator. As the door opens at the third floor, I get out and walk towards the room he booked for us.
I knock once. Then twice.
The door opens slowly.
Abhimaan stands there, leaning against the frame. And he looks… terrible.
His skin is pale, sweat clinging to his forehead. His eyes are dull and glassy. His hair is a mess, and his hoodie hangs loose on his frame.
“Hi,” he whispers, his eyes widening a bit.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t look okay.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, stepping forward, instinctively. “You look awful.”
He tries to smirk. “Thanks. Always a boost to my self-esteem.”
“Shut up,” I snap, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead.
He flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away. He’s burning up.
“Why the hell are you standing?” I scold. “You should be in bed.”
“You knocked, you know.” He raises an eyebrow as if trying to make a point.
We stare at each other for a moment, and for the first time today, I let myself really see him. Not as my mentor, not as the man who broke my trust—but just as him. And he’s not okay. Not even close.
“I’m not leaving you like this,” I say firmly. “You’re coming home with me.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“You’re not spending the night alone in this condition. You need rest. You need medicine. You need someone to scold you for eating ice cream like a fool.”
“I don’t think your family will—”
“I don’t care,” I interrupt. “You’re coming. That’s final.”
He sighs but doesn’t argue. Probably because he is tired. I help him walk to the car, his body heavy against mine, and something inside me aches at how easily he leans into me, like it’s the most natural thing.
The ride back is silent. He dozes off with his head against the window, his breaths shallow. I keep glancing at him, heart twisting with every cough he tries to suppress.
Once home, I guide him inside, thankfully without waking anyone. I lead him to the guest room and help him sit on the bed.
“I’ll get some medicine,” I mumble and rush to the kitchen, hands shaking as I fumble through the cabinet.
By the time I return, he’s lying down, eyes barely open.
“Here,” I whisper, crouching beside the bed. “Paracetamol. Water.”
He takes it without complaint, fingers brushing mine for a second too long. I force myself to ignore the spark.
“You’ll feel better by morning,” I say, adjusting the blanket over him.
He nods slowly. “Why did you come, Aditi?”
I don’t answer.
Because I couldn’t not.
Because the idea of him being sick and alone felt like a physical ache.
Because I’m stupid and soft, and despite everything, I still care.
“I just… wanted to make sure you were okay,” I whisper finally.
His eyes flutter shut. “You always do that. Take care of everyone else.”
I watch him for a long moment, something fragile blooming in my chest. “Sleep,” I whisper. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He’s already gone, his breaths deepening, face relaxing. But I sit there for a while longer, curled into the floor beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
And for the first time in days, I let myself breathe.
Not because everything is okay.
But because he’s here. And maybe that’s a start.