FRIENDS
I stood behind him, my fingers gripping the back of his shirt so tightly that my knuckles had turned pale, my breath coming out uneven and heavy as the room filled with raised voices and sharp words that refused to stop.
His father kept shouting.
And Adithya—
He wasn’t backing down either.
Each word they threw at each other only made things worse, louder, harsher, more unbearable, until it felt like the walls themselves were echoing with anger.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Tightly.
As if that could shut it all out.
As if that could take me somewhere else.
But it didn’t.
Because I had heard this before.
Felt this before.
Lived this before.
The voices blurred.
The room disappeared.
And suddenly..
I wasn’t here anymore.
I was there.
Back in that house.
Watching.
Helpless.
The sound of shouting turned into something familiar, something terrifyingly known, my chest tightening painfully as memories I had buried clawed their way back without mercy.
My dad’s voice.
Loud.
Furious.
My mom’s voice—
Breaking.
Pleading.
And then...
That moment.
The one I could never forget no matter how hard I tried.
A glass bottle.
Shattering.
The way he hit my mom with that.
My breathing hitched sharply, my body trembling as the past overlapped with the present, refusing to separate, refusing to let me breathe.
No…
No, no, no…
I tightened my hold on Adithya’s shirt, my fingers clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping me grounded, the only thing stopping me from slipping completely into that fear.
Because right now—
His father’s voice sounded too similar.
Too loud.
Too dangerous.
And a part of me...
A terrified, broken part..
Was convinced that any second now,
He would raise his hand again.
My heart pounded wildly against my ribs, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I stood there, frozen between past and present, fear wrapping around me so tightly that I couldn’t even think straight.
I didn’t care about the argument anymore.
I didn’t care about what they were saying.
All I could think was—
Please don’t hit him.
His father kept shouting, his voice refusing to settle, each word sharper than the last as he tried again and again to force Adithya into agreeing, to leave me.
But Adithya—
He didn’t argue anymore.
He didn’t shout back.
“Please, ma… leave this to me,” he said finally, his voice calm, steady, carrying a weight that made me look at him despite everything going on inside me. “This is my life… and I choose this path. Whatever the consequences are, I will face them.”
Something in his tone—
It wasn’t loud.
But it was final.
His father’s face darkened instantly, anger flaring up again as if those words had only added fuel to the fire, and before I could even process what was happening—
He stepped forward and grabbed Adithya by his collar.
My breath got stuck in my throat as my body froze for a second before instinct took over.
My fingers moved on their own, my grip tightening on Adithya’s shirt before sliding down to his hand, holding him tightly as if my life depended on it.
His father’s eyes fell on our hands locked together.
His gaze lifted.
To my face.
And then...
He let go.
Adithya’s collar loosened under his grip as he stepped back, and I felt the air rush back into my lungs, a shaky breath escaping me as relief washed over my trembling body.
I looked at Adithya immediately, my eyes scanning his face, checking, searching—
But he wasn’t shaken.
He wasn’t scared.
His face had turned stern.
“Don’t send your money every month,” his father shouted, his voice filled with wounded pride more than anger now. “I know how to take care of my family.”
He turned and walked out without another glance.
His mother paused for a second, her eyes landing on me again—
Sharp.
Disapproving.
Almost blaming.
As if I was the reason for everything that just happened.
Yes, I was.
And then she followed him.
The door shut behind them.
And just like that—
The house fell silent.
I didn’t let go of his hand.
My fingers remained wrapped around his, even after the door had shut, even after the voices had faded.
I just stood there—looking at him.
Trying to understand what had just happened in the span of a few minutes that felt like hours.
My mind struggled to catch up.
His father’s anger.
His mother’s words.
The way he stood there.
Because of me.
His gaze shifted.
And then it found me.
Locked with mine.
My breath shuddered softly, my fingers still around his hand, as I stood there under the weight of his eyes, unable to look away, unable to move, as if something invisible had rooted me to that spot.
There was no anger in his eyes.
No blame.
But there was something else—
Something tired.
Something heavy.
And that made it worse.
Because I knew.
I knew I was the reason behind all of this.
I didn’t know what exactly he had told them, what kind of story he had built, what lie he had carried to protect whatever this was.
He just looked at me.
At my face.
At my hand still holding his.
As if he too had forgotten that we were still connected like that.
Then finally—
“Order any food,” he muttered, his voice low, tired, stripped of everything except exhaustion. “I’m not cooking today.”
He just stood there for a moment longer.
Slowly— almost hesitantly...
I loosened my grip from his hand.
My fingers slipping away from his skin, the warmth fading little by little until there was nothing left between us again.
He walked away into the room, leaving me standing there alone…
With a heart that felt heavier than before.
He closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing louder than it should have, and I stood there for a moment before my knees gave in and I slowly sank to the floor, my back resting against the cold wall as my mind raced in a hundred different directions, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened, trying to understand what kind of words he must have said, what kind of lie he must have carried all this time for his own parents to look at him like that, to speak to him like that, to almost… raise a hand on him.
I exhaled slowly, dragging my hand through my hair as I shook my head, forcing myself to stop thinking before it swallowed me whole.
Enough.
Not now.
Not when the air itself still felt heavy with what just happened.
And then—
My eyes flickered toward the kitchen.
The kheer.
A small, almost bitter smile tugged at my lips.
I made it for him.
For his birthday.
And now—everything felt too broken to even mention it.
I leaned my head back against the wall, closing my eyes for a brief second, when suddenly—the room door opened again.
My eyes snapped open.
He walked out in fresh clothes.
An empty water bottle in his hand.
He didn’t look at me as he walked past, heading straight to the kitchen, and I watched him quietly, my heart still not steady, my thoughts still tangled, my emotions still unsure of where to settle.
I sighed softly, my head tilting back again—
Until his voice reached me.
“Did you make this?”
My heart skipped.
Just like that for no reason.
“Yes!!” I shouted from where I sat, my voice coming out quicker than I intended, a strange mix of excitement and nervousness slipping through before I could stop it.
He walked out of the kitchen slowly, his gaze landing on me, steady, unreadable, and something about the way he looked at me made my fingers curl slightly against the floor.
“Why?” he asked.
Just one word.
But it carried so much weight.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, my mind hesitating between truth and something safer, something easier.
But the truth slipped out anyway.
“It’s your birthday… so I thought of making a sweet,” I muttered, my voice softer now, almost unsure, my gaze dropping away from his.
Silence followed.
Thick.
Unmoving.
I could feel his eyes on me.
I couldn’t hold it.
I looked away.
“You want it?” I asked, trying to break whatever that moment was, trying to steady myself.
He breathed out slowly, his gaze finally shifting away from me as if he needed that distance just as much as I did.
“You made it for me?” he asked, quieter this time, like he still couldn’t believe it, like the idea itself felt unfamiliar to him.
Something twisted softly in my chest.
“You want it or not?” I asked, standing up quickly, masking everything behind that usual tone of mine.
He paused for a second before muttering, almost under his breath—
“Unless it’s edible…”
And then he turned walking back into the room.
A sudden, uncontrollable grin spread across my face, the kind that came from somewhere too light to be explained, and before I could even think twice, I rushed into the kitchen, my steps quick and almost clumsy in my excitement as I grabbed a bowl and spoon, carefully pouring the kheer into it, making sure it looked presentable enough before hurrying back to the room like it was something far more important than just a simple sweet.
He was sitting on the bed when I entered, his phone in his hand, his posture relaxed but his face still carrying that faint trace of exhaustion from earlier, and yet—his eyes lifted the moment I walked in, settling on me as I approached him, holding out the bowl with a quiet eagerness I didn’t even try to hide.
I handed it to him carefully, and for a brief, fleeting second, my fingers brushed against his.
Just a second.
But enough for my stomach to twist unexpectedly, a strange warmth rushing through me that I wasn’t prepared for, that I didn’t understand, that I didn’t even try to stop.
I quickly pulled my hand back and sat down beside him, leaving a comfortable distance between us, as if that space could somehow calm the sudden flutter inside me.
He looked at me, his brows slightly furrowed, his expression holding that usual hint of suspicion that made me want to both laugh and throw something at him at the same time.
“Did you mix any poison or what?” he asked casually.
I clicked my tongue immediately, rolling my eyes in exaggerated annoyance.
“I will pour it on your head,” I muttered, crossing my arms as I shot him a glare that held no real anger.
He shook his head slightly, a faint hint of something almost like amusement passing through his face before he finally took a spoonful and tasted it.
And just like that—
My entire attention narrowed down to him.
To his reaction.
To his face.
My eyes stayed fixed on him, watching every small movement, every flicker of expression, waiting—
Waiting for something.
He paused for a second and then looked at me, confusion settling in his eyes as he caught me staring.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
I didn’t even blink.
“How is it?” I asked immediately, my voice carrying more anticipation than I intended, my fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the bed.
He looked at the bowl for a moment and then back at me before muttering, almost casually—
“Not bad.”
And then—
He took another spoonful.
And another.
As if it didn’t matter.
As if it did.
“Wow,” I muttered under my breath, my lips curling slightly, my eyes still on him, a strange mix of satisfaction and something softer settling quietly inside me.
“You should pay me for the time I spent making this,” I muttered.
He glanced at me, giving me a look that was half irritation, half disbelief, before shaking his head slightly and continuing to eat.
“Actually… it’s quite good,” he said.
And those simple words—
They landed somewhere deep inside me.
My heart fluttered instantly, light and uncontrollable, as if it had been waiting just for that.
I flipped my hair dramatically, trying to hide the way my chest had warmed.
“I know… I am so talented,” I said, winking at him with a grin that carried more pride than I deserved.
He chuckled.
Soft.
Low.
Barely there.
But enough.
Enough to make my heartbeat stutter, enough to send something unfamiliar rushing through me, something that made me want to hear it again without knowing why.
I straightened slightly, suddenly feeling like this moment needed to be held onto, stretched just a little longer.
“Okay fine… I have a deal to make,” I said, my tone shifting into something serious, almost theatrical.
“I won’t buy any clothes for you,” he muttered immediately, not even looking at me.
I rolled my eyes, letting out a small huff.
“Not that deal… this is a very serious emotional deal,” I said, my voice softening slightly despite myself.
That made him pause.
He looked at me then—
Properly.
With a quiet seriousness that mirrored mine, even if he didn’t fully understand it yet.
Slowly, I held out my hand toward him.
“Let’s be friends… okay?” I asked, a small grin spreading across my face, though my eyes held something softer beneath it.
He scrunched his nose instantly, turning slightly away as if the idea itself was ridiculous.
“Nah… I don’t want a friend like you,” he muttered.
“Don’t be so rude,” I argued, leaning a little closer, my tone playful yet persistent. “I am a very good friend.”
“Which friend forces someone to marry-”
“Uhhh stop that,” I groaned, cutting him off, my voice filled with mock irritation as I frowned at him.
“Let’s forget that, okay?” I added quickly, my tone softening again. “Let’s just… be friends.”
And once again....
I held out my hand.
Waiting.
This time, I didn’t smile.
I just watched him.
Because somewhere, quietly, this mattered more than I was showing.
He stared at my hand for a long moment.
As if weighing something.
As if deciding whether to step into something new… or stay where he was.
Then slowly—
He lifted his hand.
Hesitant.
Almost careful.
And just before he could reach mine—
I grabbed it.
Firmly.
Excitedly.
Shaking it with a burst of energy I didn’t even try to control.
“FRIENDS!!!” I beamed, my smile wide, bright, unfiltered, spilling over without restraint.
And in that moment—
I saw it.
The way his lips twitched.
The way a smile, soft and reluctant, tried to stay hidden but still found its way onto his face.
And somehow—
That quiet, almost unwilling smile…
Felt like the most genuine thing I had seen all day.
Uhh wait...He is just a friend...not more than that.