CHAPTER 50
ABHIMAAN
It’s dark.
I don’t know how long it’s been. A few hours, maybe a day. Maybe two. Time stops making sense when all you can see is black. When even the outline of your fingers disappears in front of your eyes. When silence presses so loud into your ears, it feels like it’s screaming.
My back is cold against the wall. The cemented floor is harder than usual today, or maybe I’m just more tired. Hungry. My lips are dry. My tongue feels too big for my mouth.
But I’m not going to cry. I promised I wouldn’t.
It was Harsh’s turn.
But I couldn’t let him go in. Not after what happened the last time. His lip hadn’t stopped bleeding for hours. And he was wheezing, that dry cough of his echoing in the corners of the room. So I pushed him behind the cupboard when they came to get him. Told them he ran. That I locked him out.
Sister Diana was furious. She’d slapped me, hard, across the face. Told me I was a liar. That lying was a sin. That God was watching. I didn’t care.
I’d take his place every single time if I had to. Harsh is my best friend. My only friend. And I would never betray him.
My arms wrap around my knees as I shrink into the corner.
It’s cold. So cold. I hate the dark. I hate the way it crawls under your skin and fills your lungs.
The way your brain starts playing tricks on you—shadows moving, whispers that aren't real, the scritch-scratch of something crawling too close.
A spider brushes my ankle. I kick it away, biting down on a scream. My breathing is ragged and uneven.
I’m not going to cry.
But God, I feel so alone.
The sound of footsteps makes my body tense. The sharp click of heels. I squeeze my eyes shut.
No. Please. Not again.
The door creaks open, just a sliver of light filtering in, and even that burns. I flinch.
“Abhimaan.”
Her voice is calm. Too calm. That calm that comes right before the storm.
Sister Diana.
She steps in and closes the door behind her.
No.
I scramble backward, hands scraping against the walls. There’s nowhere to go.
“Please… please don’t,” I whisper, my voice small, broken.
She comes closer. Her shadow looms over me.
“Please… Sister… please—”
“Abhimaan!”
Someone is shouting.
No. Wait. That’s not her voice.
My eyes fly open.
I’m not in the dark room. I’m not twelve. I’m in my bed. Drenched in sweat. My heart is pounding like a drum against my ribs.
And Aditi is here.
She’s holding me. Tight. Her arms wrapped around me like she’s trying to anchor me to reality.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear slips down the side of my face and touches her shoulder. My chest rises and falls rapidly. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
But she doesn’t let go.
I should push her away. She shouldn’t see me like this. This broken, weak version of me. I’ve spent years building walls so no one sees this part of me. It’s ugly. It’s pathetic.
But I don’t move. I stay there, frozen in her arms. Because somewhere deep inside, I know—if I have to be honest with her, truly honest, then she has to see all of me. Not just the parts that are polished and composed.
If I want this—us—to be real, she needs to know me. Even the pieces I’d rather keep buried.
I wrap my arms around her. Slowly. Hesitantly. Like I’m afraid she’ll vanish.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against her shoulder.
She pulls back immediately, furious. “You’re sorry?” Her voice cracks. “For what? For your nightmare? Was it your choice? Did you choose that?”
Her pain is palpable, and it cuts deeper than any blade. Not because she’s angry at me—but because she’s hurting for me.
A single tear slips down her cheek, and still, somehow, her hand rises to wipe mine. Her fingers shake as they touch my skin, brushing just beneath my ear like I’m something breakable. Porcelain. Delicate. And maybe I am. Right now, in this moment—I feel like I am.
Her forehead leans gently against mine, the soft weight of her grounding me. Her voice drops to a whisper, but it lands like a promise. “You’re okay,” she breathes. “You’re not alone. I’m with you. Always.”
Her breath ghosts over my lips—warm, steady—and I feel myself breathe for the first time in what feels like hours. Maybe days. Maybe years.
“I’m supposed to keep you safe,” I murmur, my throat dry, my voice barely there. A confession. A curse.
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, and I see something fierce burning in hers. “No,” she says, and her voice is stronger now, even as it trembles. “No. This isn’t one of those one-sided protector things. This will be fifty-fifty.”
A laugh escapes me—quiet, broken—but it’s real. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, tired but honest. “Yes, it will be,” I whisper. “You exist. And I take care of you.”
She narrows her eyes and glares like I just offended her entire soul. That familiar little frown tugs at her brows, and it somehow makes her look impossibly small. And impossibly precious.
The realization dawns on me. A realization that settles into my chest like dawn breaking through fog.
“Aditi,” I say, her name cracking in my throat. My eyes sting again. “I have someone. Someone who… who cares for me.”
Her face crumbles.
Like I just tore open something inside her she’d tried so hard to keep sealed. She stares at me like I’ve finally said the thing she’s been waiting to hear.
“Yes,” she breathes, voice shaking. “You do. You idiot. I care. So much. I love you, Abhimaan.”
And then she’s in my arms.
And I’m gone.
The tears come before I can even register them. Raw, unstoppable, silent at first but blinding. I don’t hide them. I don’t wipe them. I let them come. Because for the first time, I’m not crying alone.
She’s crying too. And somehow, that breaks me more than anything else.
Her hand moves in slow, soothing circles on my back, anchoring me. I cling to her shirt like if I let go, I’ll disappear again. Be lost again.
“I…” I try, but my voice fails me. The words are stuck somewhere between pain and relief.
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Her voice is soft and tentative. “Can you tell me what it was? The nightmare?”
“I was in that room,” I say softly. “The punishment room. They used to keep us there sometimes. It was pitch dark. No windows. Just four walls and spiders.”
She gasps. Her eyes were burning, probably from rage. “Why did they punish you?”
I take a breath. “I didn’t want Harsh to go through it. He was sick, so I’d hide him when it was his turn. And I’d go instead. I thought I was being brave. But it was… it was scary. Every single time.”
She sniffles. “That sounds exactly like you. Taking someone else’s place. Always thinking about others.”
“I didn’t want him to suffer,” I whisper. “But I never stopped being scared. Even now. Sometimes it’s like I’m right back there.”
She touches my face. “I want to go back in time and break that door. I want to get you out.”
“You’re helping now,” I say softly. “You’re here. You have no idea what that means.”
She gives me that look. The one she saves for when her heart is too full and words aren’t enough.
And suddenly the weight lifts a little.
I look at her. Really look at her. This woman who’s fearless and soft. She stands between me and my demons like she was born for it.
And something clicks.
“You know,” I say, voice thick, “in hindsight… I’m glad I went through all of it.”
She pulls back and frowns. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Because,” I murmur, “if I hadn’t… I wouldn’t have met you. And I wouldn’t have known how to treasure you.”
She opens her mouth to argue. I stop her.
“I mean it, Aditi. If I had a normal life… if I’d grown up with love, I might have taken it for granted. I might not have recognized what you’re giving me. Your care, your anger, your love… I see it. Every day. I feel it.”
I swallow hard. “And not having you in my life? That thought… that’s more terrifying than any dark room I’ve had to survive in.” A tear escapes my eyes as I smile, gently caressing her cheeks.
She stares at me, frozen. Then she lunges forward, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck. “You absolute—beautiful—idiot,” she sobs into my chest. “Don’t say things like that. You make me cry.”
I hold her. One hand stroking her back. The other clutching her hand.
“I love you,” I whisper again.
“I love you more,” she sniffles.
“Nope. Not possible.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re annoying.”
I laugh too. Quietly. Brokenly. But it’s a laugh.
Because in this moment—wrapped in her arms, her warmth chasing away the shadows—I feel okay.