DAD
“What happened then?” I asked, my voice quieter than usual as we sat on the floor, the moment still lingering between us in a way I couldn’t shake off.
“I ended up crying because my wrist hurt so bad,” she said, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the button of my shirt.
“From that day, I decided I’ll never wear glass bangles,” she added
I looked at her.
Just… looked.
A faint smile pulled at my lips without permission, something soft settling inside me as I watched her talk, watched the way her expressions shifted so easily.
“What?” she asked, catching me staring.
I shook my head quickly and turned away, pretending like it was nothing, but the image of her kissing me kept replaying at the back of my mind, refusing to leave, making something warm and embarrassingly shy creep into my chest.
“Just because you fell once while wearing glass bangles… you stopped wearing them completely?” I asked.
“When I fell, they broke and pierced into my skin,” she said, lifting her hand toward me. “See.”
I took her hand without thinking, my fingers gently tracing the faint scar she showed me.
“And I stopped wearing them,” she continued.
“And nobody brought them for me after my mom,” she added, her voice softer this time.
I glanced up at her face, and there it was—that quiet sadness she didn’t say out loud but carried anyway.
“You can buy them for yourself,” I said, even though the moment I said it, I knew that wasn’t what she meant.
“When someone buys something simple for you with love… it’s different,” she said, her gaze lowering slightly.
“We don’t get that feeling when we buy things for ourselves.”
Before I could respond, a sharp burning sensation spread near my eye.
I flinched slightly, my hand instinctively moving up as my skin started reacting to the paint, the irritation becoming more noticeable with every second.
I didn’t lie about that.
My skin really was sensitive.
I get allergies easily.
I always have.
Even the smallest thing on my skin is enough to trigger a reaction, and I knew that the moment she dipped that brush into the paint and came closer to me, but still… I didn’t stop her.
Because I couldn’t.
I couldn’t stand the way her face fell when I denied her.
That small disappointment in her eyes—quiet, unspoken—it stayed with me longer than it should have, and somehow, that mattered more than this burning sensation slowly spreading across my skin now.
The irritation near my eye stung, sharp and uncomfortable, but I ignored it, letting my hand drop back down as if nothing was happening.
I could tolerate this.
This sting.
This discomfort.
If it meant seeing that smile on her face again.
My gaze shifted to her, still sitting close to me, still lost in her own thoughts, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the fabric of my shirt like she had found some kind of comfort there.
And without realizing, I found myself smiling again.
“Adithya…” she called softly.
I hummed in response, my gaze still somewhere else, though my attention was entirely on her.
“Shall I go and talk to your family?” she asked.
“Talk what?” I asked, my tone neutral, but something inside me already tightening.
“Tell them that I was the one who forced you into this marriage,” she said, like it was the simplest solution in the world.
“No,” I said.
Her brows furrowed immediately. “Why?”
I held her gaze for a moment, then looked away, my jaw tightening slightly.
“I don’t want people who don’t believe me… or trust me,” I said, my voice calm, but heavier than I intended.
I let out a slow breath.
“If they needed someone else to come and explain my truth for them to believe me…” I shook my head faintly. “Then what’s the point?”
“I’m not going to go back and prove myself to people who already decided I was wrong,” I added quietly.
“They think I married you for your money,” I said, the words coming out heavier than I intended, my jaw tightening slightly. “Not once did they stop and think that their son… me… wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Okay… calm down,” she said softly. “I just asked. I don’t want to be the reason you got separated from them.”
The burning sensation on my temple grew sharper, the irritation spreading across my skin.
“I worked my whole life for them,” I continued, my voice quieter now, more tired than angry. “And now it’s just… like this.”
“I can’t even blame them,” I added under my breath.
She watched me for a second longer, then gently cut in.
“Okay… let’s not talk about that.”
I nodded faintly.
“This chain around my neck… it’s my mom’s,” she said, trying to divert the topic.
“I never take it off,” she added softly. “It’s the only thing I have of her.”
I looked at her, a small smile forming without thinking. “Seems like you love your mom a lot.”
“Yes,” she said.
“But the anger I have for her is more than the love.”
My smile faded slightly.
I didn’t push immediately.
I remembered what happened the last time I touched that topic.
Still—
“Why?” I asked, more carefully this time.
She exhaled slowly.
“Because she tolerated everything,” she said, her voice tightening. “All the toxicity from my dad… just because she married him.”
I stayed quiet, letting her speak.
“And my dad…” she started— but stopped.
Something changed.
Her hand trembled.
At first, it was subtle.
Then it got worse.
Her fingers started shaking visibly, her grip on the chain loosening as sweat began to form on her forehead, her breathing shifting slightly, uneven.
My chest tightened instantly.
“Viyana…” I called, reaching out and holding her hand, but it felt cold.
She wasn’t looking at me anymore.
Her gaze had drifted somewhere past me, unfocused, like she wasn’t here. As if she is looking at someone behind me.
“Viyana,” I called again, this time more urgently.
No response.
Her hands shook harder now.
Panic crept in fast.
I held her shoulders, shaking her gently at first.
“Viyana, look at me.”
Nothing.
“Viyana!” I said louder, my voice breaking slightly as I shook her again.
And then— she blinked.
Her eyes snapped back to me.
Filled with tears.
Breathing uneven.
Like she had just come back from somewhere she shouldn’t have gone.
My grip on her tightened.
“I’m here,” I said quickly, my voice softer now but firm. “Look at me… just look at me.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her fingers still trembling in mine as tears slipped down her face without warning.
She just sat there, still not fully here, her eyes drifting again and again to the corner of the room like something invisible was pulling her back, her breathing uneven, her fingers twitching faintly even as the tremors slowly began to fade.
“Viyana… look at me, you are here...with me...in our home. See there, we even have a cat." I said pointing towards Little Sinclair.
Her eyes flickered, uncertain, like she was trying to believe it.
She blinked.
And just like that, the tension in her hands began to loosen, the violent trembling fading into small, shaky movements before stopping completely.
I stayed right there, my hand still holding her face as I wiped the tears slipping down her cheeks, careful, slow, like she might break if I rushed it.
“You’re okay,” I whispered, more to calm her than anything else. “I’ve got you.”
Her eyes stayed on mine now.
I pulled her closer to me, letting her rest against my chest as my hand moved gently over her head, patting her slowly, carefully, like I was trying to calm something much deeper than just her breathing.
She didn’t resist.
She just stayed there.
Quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful.
The sharp sting on my temple didn’t fade—in fact, it only grew more noticeable now that everything else had slowed down, the itching spreading slightly across my skin, but I ignored it, completely.
This wasn’t the time.
My hand continued moving over her hair in slow, steady motions, giving her something constant to hold onto.
But my mind...it didn’t stay still.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
I had noticed it before.
She never reacted like this when she spoke about her mother.
There was pain.
There was anger.
But this…
This panic—
this fear—
this kind of reaction—
it only came when her father was involved.
My jaw tightened slightly.
What did he do?
What kind of father makes his own daughter react like this at just the thought of him?
I didn’t need answers right now.
And I wasn’t going to push her.
But one thing was clear— whatever it was…it wasn’t something small.
“I can’t even share a quiet moment with you without this… coming back,” she said, her voice muffled and breaking at the edges, frustration and pain tangled together. “Why am I like this? Why am I so useless… and messy?”
I pulled back just enough to look at her properly, my hands coming up to cup her face, steadying her, forcing her to see me instead of whatever was pulling her away.
“You are not useless,” I said firmly, each word clear and deliberate. “And you are not messy.”
Her eyes trembled, more tears slipping down despite her trying to hold them back.
I wiped them away gently, my thumb brushing across her cheek, slow and careful.
“What you’re feeling right now…” I continued, my voice softer but steady, “it’s not because you’re weak. It’s because you went through something that hurt you.”
She shook her head faintly, like she didn’t want to believe it.
“Look at me,” I said again, tilting her face slightly so she couldn’t avoid my gaze. “You didn’t choose this. None of this is your fault.”
Her lips quivered.
I exhaled slowly, resting my forehead against hers for a brief second, grounding both of us.
“Don’t cry, okay?” I murmured, my voice quieter now, not commanding—just asking.
My hand slid from her cheek to her hair again, smoothing it back gently.
“I’m here,” I added softly. “You don’t have to handle it alone anymore.”
I pulled away slightly, just enough to look at her properly, my fingers moving up to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
“I will not let anything hurt you anymore,” I said quietly.
She sniffed, her breathing still uneven, but she nodded, trusting me in a way that made something settle deep inside my chest.
But then—
her expression changed.
Her brows furrowed as her eyes fixed on my face, confusion replacing the softness from before.
“Your skin… it’s turning red,” she said slowly, her fingers lifting and brushing lightly against my temple.
The moment her fingers touched that spot—the sting flared sharply.
Oh shit.
I instinctively flinched, my hand coming up as if I could hide it, but it was too late.
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly, trying to brush it off, turning my face slightly away from her.
“It’s not nothing,” she said immediately, her voice sharpening as she caught my wrist before I could move away. “You said your skin is sensitive…”
Her eyes widened slightly as realization hit her.
“The paint—” she whispered.
I sighed, knowing there was no point hiding it now.
“It’s just a small reaction,” I muttered. “It’ll go away.”
But the redness was already spreading slightly, the irritation obvious now.
Her face fell instantly.
“I did this…” she said, her voice dropping.
Her eyes filled with tears instantly, the moment she saw how red my skin had turned, guilt washing over her face like she had done something unforgivable.
“I am the reason for this… I am troubling you so much,” she said, her voice breaking again.
I shook my head immediately.
“It’s nothing, Viyana. It’s just a small allergy,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, like it didn’t matter at all.
But she didn’t believe it.
She shook her head again, tears slipping down despite everything, her fingers curling into her palm as if she didn’t even know what to do with herself.
“Hey…” I started, but she didn’t stop.
I stood up and walked to the sink, quickly washing off the paint from my skin, the cold water hitting the irritated area and making the burning sting sharper for a second before it dulled slightly.
I looked up at the mirror.
That part of my skin was red.
Very red.
The irritation was obvious, crawling under my skin, burning enough to be uncomfortable—but not enough for me to make a big deal out of it.
I grabbed the ointment and applied it carefully, hissing slightly under my breath before exhaling.
“It’s nothing,” I said again as I walked back to her, sitting down like it was all normal. “Just a little burning.”
She looked at me, her eyes still wet, still blaming herself.
“It’s not your fault,” I said firmly this time, making sure she heard it. “It’s my skin’s fault.”
She stayed silent.
“That’s why I don’t even touch little Sinclair,” I added with a faint smile, trying to ease her. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”
I walked back to her and sat down beside her, close enough for our shoulders to almost touch, the silence between us no longer heavy but still fragile in its own way.
She looked at my face again, her eyes immediately going to that spot on my temple, her expression tightening all over again like she couldn’t let it go.
“I am sorry,” she said softly, her voice filled with guilt as her fingers gently tilted my face toward her, examining it like she was the one in pain.
“Please don’t apologize,” I said, my tone calm but firm.