LONG SLEEVE
“Viyana, what was your first impression of me?” he asked suddenly, his voice calm, but there was something thoughtful hidden underneath it that made me lift my head from his shoulder and look at him properly.
“First impression?” I repeated, slightly surprised by the question.
He nodded faintly, his fingers still holding mine as we stood there on that bridge with the whole city glowing beneath us.
“Like… what you thought about me when you first heard about me,” he said.
I let out a small breath and looked away for a second, thinking back to that time, to the beginning of all this chaos, when he was nothing more than a problem in my life and I was probably the villain in his.
“The first thing I heard about you,” I said slowly, “was that you had filed a police complaint against my brother, against me… and against our company.”
He let out a dry chuckle.
“Very romantic start.”
I smiled faintly.
“So obviously, I was angry,” I admitted. “Not normal angry. Rich girl with an injured ego kind of angry.”
He laughed softly under his breath.
“My ego was hurt. I kept thinking—how dare he? How does some poor man have the audacity to stand against us like that?”
I shook my head at my own past self.
“I was offended. Deeply offended. Like personally attacked by your existence.”
“But I was actually surprised,” I said, looking up at him properly now, my voice losing its teasing and turning quieter, heavier. “You did all of that… not for yourself, not for money, not because you wanted something in return—but for the welfare of seven families.”
He stayed silent, listening.
I swallowed slowly before continuing.
“At that time, I thought you were stupid. Honestly, I did. I kept thinking—who risks everything for people who are not even their own family? Who stands against powerful people knowing very well they can be crushed for it?”
I let out a faint, helpless smile.
“I thought you were reckless. Foolish. Impossible to understand.”
My fingers tightened slightly around his hand before I slowly let go and stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at me fully.
“But later I realized… you were not stupid.”
My voice softened.
“You were just humane.”
The wind passed quietly between us, but neither of us moved.
“There are people with money, power, influence… and still they cannot do one genuinely good thing for another human being. And then there was you—someone with almost nothing, still willing to risk your own peace so seven families would not lose theirs.”
I looked into his eyes, and for once, there was no pride left in me, no ego, no walls.
“Do you know how rare that is?”
His expression shifted slightly, but he still said nothing.
“Adithya…” I said softly, stepping a little closer, “do you still carry that vengeance from the hospital case? Against me… and my brother?”
I could feel my own heartbeat as I asked it.
Because this mattered.
Because no matter how close we had become, some wounds did not disappear just because feelings entered the room.
I pulled away completely then, standing in front of him instead of beside him, because I wanted to hear the truth looking straight into his face.
But he said nothing.
Then he looked away, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Not on you,” he said finally, his voice calm but carrying something dark underneath. “But probably… I still have the thirst to see your brother behind bars.”
The words landed heavily between us.
He breathed out slowly, his eyes still not meeting mine.
“Because what happened there was not just a mistake, Viyana. It destroyed lives. It broke families. It took away things people can never get back.”
His voice hardened.
“And power should not be allowed to bury that.”
I stood there quietly, feeling the weight of every word.
“Whenever I see your brother,” he muttered, his voice low and tight as he looked away from me, “I just want to punch him in the face because… what the fuck, Viyana? Seven people lost their lives.”
I stepped closer to him instinctively, like distance would only make the conversation colder.
“I told you… it was because of William,” I said softly, trying to make him understand, trying to defend the truth even if I knew how weak it sounded against death.
His jaw tightened.
“But still,” he said, turning to look at me now, frustration burning openly in his eyes, “your brother could have just—”
He stopped himself suddenly, dragging a hand over his face in irritation before letting out a sharp breath.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Let’s not talk about that.”
But I couldn’t let it go.
“Adithya,” I called softly.
He shook his head.
“No, because if I start talking about it, I’ll say things I don’t want to say to you.”
I stood there quietly, my chest tightening.
“That case wasn’t paperwork for me,” he said after a moment, his voice lower now, tired instead of angry. “It wasn’t some business issue. I saw those families, Viyana. I saw people standing outside that hospital crying because someone they loved wasn’t coming back.”
His eyes finally met mine.
“And the worst part? People like you… you guys just move on. You sign papers, hold meetings, pay settlements, and call it unfortunate. But for them? Their whole life stops there.”
I had no answer.
Because I knew.
I knew he wasn’t wrong.
“I know,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, quieter this time, but somehow heavier. “You know it happened. But I had to look at it. I had to stand there and feel how powerless ordinary people are when rich people decide their lives are collateral damage.”
My throat tightened painfully.
I stepped even closer, my voice barely above a whisper.
Fear crawled inside me so suddenly that it almost stole my breath, because for the first time, I realized that maybe the thing I was most afraid of was not illness, not pain, not even death—
it was the thought of him looking at me and seeing everything he hated.
Seeing me as part of that world.
That rich, powerful, careless world that had hurt so many people.
The thought of him hating me for that made something inside my chest tighten so painfully that tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.
Without thinking, my hand reached for the sleeve of his shirt, my fingers holding onto it lightly, almost like I was afraid he would walk away if I let go.
I looked at him, my heart beating so loudly it felt impossible to hide.
“Do you still hate me, for being a part of that rich world?” I asked, my voice small despite all my efforts.
He looked down at me then.
And for a moment, the silence between us felt unbearable.
Then he spoke.
“I don’t,” he said quietly. “And that’s the problem, isn't it”
My breath caught.
“If I had just hated you the way I hated your brother… it would have been easier for me.”
“Much easier.”
He gave a dry, almost bitter chuckle.
“I would have divorced you without thinking twice. I would have walked away, gone back to my family, and forced myself to rebuild whatever was left of my life.”
His jaw tightened.
“I could have told myself that you were just another rich, selfish person who ruined me, and maybe that would have made everything simple.”
He looked back at me then, and there was something in his eyes that made my chest ache.
“I tried to hate you,” he said, letting out a quiet, almost helpless laugh that held no humor in it, only exhaustion and honesty.
“I really did. I tried so hard to hold onto that anger, to remind myself of every reason I should stay away from you, every reason I should walk away and never look back… but I failed. Miserably.”
My fingers were still holding the edge of his sleeve, his eyes dropped to my hand before he looked back at me.
“I think I’m going insane,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “Or maybe I already am.”
He sighed and looked away for a second before speaking again.
“But you know what the most ridiculous part is?”
I stayed silent, waiting.
“I started wearing long-sleeve shirts, even in this unbearable summer heat… just because you always hold onto my sleeve.” He said, his voice almost embarrassed now.
He gave a dry smile.
“At first, I told myself it was nothing. Just habit. Just coincidence. But then one day I opened my cupboard, looked at all my full-sleeve shirts, and realized I had become a complete idiot.”
He shook his head, almost annoyed at himself.
“I would leave for work and think—if she comes running to argue with me, she’ll grab my sleeve. If she gets scared, she’ll hold my sleeve. If she wants to stop me from walking away, she’ll hold my sleeve.”
“And somewhere along the way… I started waiting for it.”
“So yes,” he said quietly, “I tried to hate you. But then I started dressing for your habits, and I knew I was completely doomed.”
His eyes dropped again to my hand, still holding onto the sleeve of his shirt like I had forgotten how to let go, and for a moment he just stared at it in silence before letting out a slow breath.
“You are still holding my sleeve,” he muttered, his voice lower now, rougher somehow, as if even that small contact was affecting him. He looked away, jaw tightening slightly. “And it’s fucking driving me insane.”
The words should have embarrassed me.
They should have made me pull my hand back immediately and pretend I had some dignity left.
But instead I held his sleeve even tighter.
I stepped closer to him until there was barely any space left between us, the cold wind of the bridge forgotten completely, and slowly, without asking, I rested my head against his chest.
My fingers stayed wrapped around his sleeve while my other hand rested lightly against him, and I closed my eyes for a moment, letting myself stay there, letting myself believe in this strange, quiet happiness.
“I think,” I whispered against his chest, my voice soft enough that the wind almost stole it, “I like driving you insane.”
A quiet laugh escaped him above me.
His hand slowly came up and rested on the back of my head, gentle, careful.
“I actually never noticed how you always wore long sleeves,” I said slowly as I pulled away from his chest and looked up at him properly, my eyes still soft, still carrying everything that had not settled inside me yet. “I just thought that was your fashion sense.”
He let out a short, breathy laugh, like even the idea of it being intentional amused him in a painful way.
“My whole body burns when I wear long sleeves during this summer,” he said, shaking his head slightly as if he could still feel it just by remembering. “It’s unbearable.”
I swallowed, trying to steady my heartbeat.
“So you suffer because of me?” I asked, attempting to joke, but my voice came out smaller than I expected.
He shook his head immediately.
“No,” he said. “I choose it.”
He stepped a little closer again, not closing the space completely, but enough that I could feel him there—present, grounded, real.
“I would rather burn in the heat,” he said quietly, “than take the chance of you reaching for my wrist one day and finding nothing there.”
I am feeding you all with delusion??