FUNERAL
I stared at my finger for a moment, watching the thin line of red settle beneath the bandage, the sting still lingering faintly against my skin.
It was nothing.
Just a small cut.
Something I wouldn’t have even paid attention to on any other day.
But today—
It wasn’t the cut that stayed in my mind.
It was her.
The way her hands trembled when she held mine.
The panic in her eyes.
The urgency in her voice.
As if… something much worse had happened.
I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the thought before it could settle any deeper.
It didn’t make sense.
I washed the apple again, cleaned the knife, and without thinking too much, continued peeling the apple—this time carefully, slowly, making sure my grip didn’t slip again.
Once done, I cut it into small pieces and placed them neatly in a bowl.
With the bowl in my hand, I walked toward the room.
She was sitting on the bed, exactly where she had rushed to earlier.
Her face had lost all its colour, her eyes distant, like she was somewhere else entirely.
I stepped closer and held the bowl out to her without a word.
She looked up at me slowly and for a brief moment, our eyes met.
I tossed a piece of apple into my mouth and placed the bowl gently on her lap before pulling the chair closer and sitting beside the bed, leaning back slightly as I scrolled through my phone, trying to act normal—like nothing strange had just happened between us.
But I could feel it.
Her gaze.
It brushed against me again and again, like something unsure of itself.
I turned my head slightly—
And just like that, she looked away.
Quick. Almost guilty.
I frowned faintly, my eyes narrowing a little as I looked back at my phone.
What is wrong with this girl?
A few seconds passed.
Then again—
That same feeling.
Her eyes. On me.
I didn’t turn immediately this time.
I waited.
Let it stay.
And then suddenly, I looked at her again.
She turned away just as quickly.
Like she got caught.
I exhaled quietly, a small, confused irritation settling in my chest as I finally spoke.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“I—I am not looking at you,” she replied instantly, her voice slightly shaky, her fingers tightening around the edge of the bowl on her lap.
“You are,” I said simply, my tone calm, almost certain, as I shifted my gaze back to my phone again.
I scrolled through an online shopping app, absentmindedly comparing a few table fans, thinking about how unbearable the heat had been at night and how many times I had noticed her turning, shifting, struggling to sleep without saying a word.
My thumb paused over one option, considering it for a second, when something else caught my eye.
A chain.
Simple. Elegant.
It looked similar to the chain Viyana is wearing.
I stared at it for a moment before turning my phone toward her.
“It looks like your chain,” I said, a faint hint of amusement in my tone, expecting her to react—maybe correct me, maybe say something sarcastic.
But she didn’t.
Her face remained the same.
My brows furrowed slightly as I looked at her.
“What happened to you?” I asked, my voice lowering without me realizing.
She just shook her head.
Then she picked up a piece of apple and finally started eating, like she was trying to avoid the question altogether.
I didn’t push.
Instead, I lifted the phone again.
“You bought this online?” I asked, as I pointed at the chain resting against her collarbone.
She glanced at it briefly.
“No… it’s my mother’s.”
I hummed softly, my gaze lingering on her for a second longer before I looked back at my phone.
Her mother’s.
That explained why she never removed it.
But something else settled in my mind.
She had spoken about her grandfather.
Her brother.
But never—
Not even once—
About her parents.
I exhaled quietly, my fingers moving almost on their own as I opened google and typed her name.
Viyana Sinclair.
The screen filled instantly.
Information.
Too much of it.
Age: 30.
Vice Chairperson of VV Groups.
Degrees from different countries.
Awards. Achievements. Recognition.
Sibling : Vihaan.
Everything.
Everything except—
What I was looking for.
No mention of her parents.
Not even a single line.
I turned my head toward her slowly.
“What happened to your parents?” I asked.
She didn’t hesitate.
“They died.”
“Okay,” I said simply, not pushing further, my eyes returning to the phone as if it didn’t matter.
“Viyana,” I called, turning my head toward her again, my curiosity refusing to settle after everything I had just seen.
She looked up at me this time, quieter than usual, but attentive.
“Why doesn’t your brother have a surname… but you do? And his name is Vihaan—which isn’t a Christian name—but yours is,” I asked, genuinely confused, my brows slightly drawn together as I tried to make sense of it.
For a moment, she just looked at me.
Then she spoke.
“Sinclair is not my surname,” she said calmly. “My brother and I… we don’t really use a surname.”
I blinked, processing that.
“And since my mom was Christian and my dad was Hindu… our names ended up like that.”
“Hmm…” I hummed, leaning back slightly, my eyes still on her, a faint curiosity lingering in my expression.
Different religions.
No shared surname.
No mention of parents anywhere.
And the way she avoided things—
The way she closed off certain parts of her life so effortlessly.
It all connected somewhere.
I just didn’t know where yet.
“Interesting,” I muttered under my breath, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at my lips—not amused, but intrigued.
“My life history is interesting for you?” she asked, her voice carrying a faint edge I couldn’t quite place.
I nodded without hesitation, still looking at her with that same quiet curiosity.
“It is,” I admitted honestly, because it was— she was.
There was something about her that didn’t fit into one straight line, something layered, something that kept unfolding the more I looked.
“Then why is there no mention of your parents… anywhere?” I asked, turning my head slightly toward her, watching her face this time instead of my phone.
“Because we don’t want to,” she said.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No emotion.
A clean answer that clearly meant—don’t ask further.
I didn’t.
I just hummed softly and leaned back, shifting my attention to the phone again, scrolling through the endless list of her achievements.
Awards.
Recognition.
A life that looked… perfect.
“You’ve got a lot of awards,” I said after a moment, a faint chuckle escaping me as I glanced at her again. “You’re actually very distinguished… popular too.”
I paused for a second, my gaze drifting around the small room before settling back on her.
“And it feels so weird,” I added, a small, almost disbelieving smile forming on my lips, “that you’re sitting here… in my house.”
Because someone like her, with a life that big, that visible, that admired, shouldn’t belong in a place this small, this ordinary.
And yet—
There she was.
Sitting on my bed, holding a bowl of cut apples I had peeled for her, looking nothing like the person the world seemed to know.
“Not more weird than the fact that you started caring for me,” she said suddenly.
I snapped my head toward her.
Something in me stiffened instantly.
“No,” I shook my head slowly, almost too quickly, like I needed to deny it before the thought could even exist. “I don’t care about you.”
Her lips twitched, not into a smile—but into something quieter. Something knowing.
“Says the one who almost cut off his fingers while peeling the apple just because I said I don’t like it with the skin,” she muttered.
My breath hitched as I looked away immediately.
Why am I doing this?
For someone who forced me into this marriage.
For someone who turned my life upside down.
I exhaled sharply, frustration building inside me—not at her, but at myself.
“Come out of your delusions,” I said, my tone turning colder, harsher than I intended. “I don’t care about you, and I won’t even care even if you—”
Even if she dies?
The words stopped.
Cut midway.
Like something inside me refused to let them come out.
I shut my eyes tightly as a sharp headache struck, pulsing through my temples, making me clench my jaw in irritation.
This is so wrong.
I exhaled again, slower this time, trying to steady myself, trying to push away whatever this was—
“Even if I…?” she asked, not letting it go.
My chest tightened.
For no reason.
My heartbeat picked up, uneven, irritatingly loud in my own ears as I forced a breath out and turned to her.
“Even if you die,” I said, my voice rough, edged with irritation that wasn’t entirely meant for her. “I don’t fucking care even if you die… but die after the divorce.”
The words came out harsher than I intended.
Or maybe exactly as harsh as I needed them to be.
I turned away immediately, biting the inside of my cheek, my grip tightening around my phone as I forced my attention back to the screen.
Anything to avoid looking at her.
Anything to avoid thinking about what I just said.
“One day I’m going to die,” she said casually, almost playfully, like she was talking about something trivial, “and you’re going to cry at my funeral, shouting my name.”
She laughed.
I let out a small, mocking laugh, the kind that didn’t reach anywhere beyond my lips.
“Not so funny,” I said, turning my face away from her as if that would somehow lessen the weight of what she had just said.
But it didn’t.
Not even a little.
My heart felt unbearably heavy at her words, like something had quietly settled inside my chest and refused to move no matter how much I tried to ignore it.
My fingers hovered over the phone screen without moving.
Because my mind wasn’t there anymore.
It was stuck on her words.
On that careless way she spoke about something so… final.
So irreversible.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, my jaw tightening slightly as I tried to brush it off like it meant nothing.
The irritation—at myself, at her, at this entire situation that felt like a cage I never chose—built up so suddenly that I didn’t even try to stop it.
I snapped, my voice sharp, harsher than it had ever been, “Not me, nobody will cry for your loss… everyone will be happy that such a despicable woman had finally died.”
The moment the words left my mouth.
Something twisted inside me.
I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers trembling slightly as frustration and something heavier clawed at my chest.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, already turning away, already wanting to get out of that room before I had to face what I just said.
I walked out, but my steps slowed near the door.
I turned back.
She was still sitting there.
Staring at me.
“I am fucking sorry for saying that,” I said, the apology coming out just as rough, just as irritated, like I was fighting even that.
Then I walked out again.
But barely a second passed—
Before I turned right back.
Marched inside.
Because something about leaving it like that didn’t sit right either.
“I am not sorry,” I muttered, standing there awkwardly, my voice lower now, less certain, like I didn’t even know what I was trying to prove anymore.
I just stood there.
Like an absolute idiot.
Caught between two things I didn’t understand.
She blinked at me.
And then she chuckled.
Soft. Light.
At me.
At my stupidity.
And my stupid heart fluttered for absolutely no fucking reason.
I hate myself.
I clenched my jaw slightly, dragging a hand through my hair in frustration, my thoughts a complete mess as I tried to shove that feeling away before it could even settle.
“What happened to you?” she asked, her eyes fixed on me, curious, almost amused.
I scoffed lightly, masking everything under irritation like I always do.
“Effects of staying with someone who is mentally sluggish,” I said, pointing at her.
She raised an eyebrow instantly, clearly unimpressed.
“Mentally sluggish?” she repeated slowly, tilting her head, her lips twitching like she was holding back something.
“Yes,” I said, folding my arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe as if I had everything under control. “It spreads, you know. Very dangerous condition. I think I’m getting infected.”
She let out a small laugh again.
I looked away immediately, annoyed at myself all over again, my fingers curling slightly into my palm.
No matter how much I tried to deny it, no matter how many harsh words I threw at her just to prove a point I didn’t even believe in.
I didn’t want her to die.
Not now.
Not later.