Chapter 26 The truth beneath the ice
The truth beneath the ice
SITARA
The doctor left an hour ago.
I know because I’ve been counting. Not minutes—breaths. The slow inhale and exhale of a room that feels too quiet, too full at the same time. The clock on the wall ticks softly, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the sound of my own thoughts.
Dhruv hasn’t said much since then.
He sits at the edge of the bed, focused on my ankle, a bowl of ice water resting near his knee.
His sleeves are rolled up, his movements careful, precise—like he’s handling something fragile.
Like I’m fragile. Every few seconds, he adjusts the cloth, checks my face without looking obvious, then goes back to icing, stopping just before it becomes unbearable.
He knows.
That’s the worst part.
The cold seeps deep into my skin, numbing the ache until it becomes a dull pressure. I hiss once, barely audible, and immediately his hands still.
“Tell me,” he says quietly. “Is it too much?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s okay.”
He watches me for a second longer, as if making sure I’m not lying again, then nods and resumes. Always attentive. Always careful. It makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
His jaw is clenched.
Not in the way it gets when he’s stressed or tired—but in that restrained, dangerous way. The way it does when he’s angry but choosing not to show it. I’ve seen that expression on him before, usually directed at people who deserve it.
Right now, it’s directed at the situation.
At me.
And that terrifies me far more than if he were yelling.
The room smells faintly of antiseptic and something herbal the doctor insisted would help. The curtains are drawn halfway, letting in soft evening light. It should feel comforting.
It doesn’t.
Dhruv finally breaks the silence.
“What happened?” he asks.
His voice is calm. Too calm. It’s the kind of calm that comes before a storm, the kind that makes your skin prickle because you know it’s being held back by sheer will.
I swallow.
“I was exercising,” I whisper. “And the dumbbell fell.”
The words sound small the moment they leave my mouth. Incomplete. Hollow.
He stops. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head and looks at me.
Our eyes meet, and something sharp cuts through me. His gaze isn’t loud. It doesn’t accuse. It sees. Straight through every excuse, every carefully placed word.
A shiver runs down my spine.
“That’s not what I am asking,” he says quietly.
Not angrily. Not even disappointed. Certain. My fingers curl into the bedsheet.
“We both know that,” he continues. “You hate gyms. You always make fun of me for going there.”
I almost smile at that—almost. Except my throat feels too tight, and my eyes sting.
“So I’m not taking that as an answer, Sitara.”
He shifts closer on the bed, setting the bowl aside. The space between us closes, and suddenly, I’m hyperaware of everything—his warmth, his presence, the way his attention feels like weight.
“Don’t ever lie to me.” His hand comes up, not touching me, just resting beside my leg. Close enough that I feel it. “Princess.” My chest tightens at the nickname. “I can read you like an open book.”
My lower lip trembles.
I bite it. Hard. It doesn’t help.
The truth presses against my ribs, heavy and suffocating, demanding to be let out. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t plan for it. I just—wanted to fix something. Wanted to be better.
My eyes burn.
I stare at the wall behind him, anywhere but his face. If I look at him, I’ll break completely.
“I…” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. “I wanted to do good.”
The words feel pathetic even as I say them.
His brows draw together, confusion flickering across his face. “Do good?”
I nod, my grip on the bedsheet tightening.
“I wanted to… I don’t know,” I whisper. “To not be a problem. For once.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I thought if I tried harder,” I continue, the words tumbling out now, messy and unfiltered, “if I fixed myself a little—then maybe things would be easier. For everyone.”
My throat closes.
“I didn’t mean to get hurt,” I add quickly, panic seeping in. “I wasn’t being reckless. I swear. I just—slipped.” I laugh weakly, the sound hollow. “I always do, don’t I?”
Dhruv doesn’t respond. That’s worse. I risk a glance at him, just for a second, and regret it immediately. He’s looking at me like I’ve punched something vital out of him. Not anger. Pain. And guilt crashes into me, hot and heavy.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, the words rushing to escape before I can stop them. “I wanted to do good and ended up becoming a problem for everyone.”
My vision blurs.
“I’m so sorry, Dhruv.”
The sob I’ve been holding back claws its way up my throat. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, desperate to keep it contained.
I fail.
My shoulders shake.
“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to be this… this mess.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears spilling despite my efforts. “I just wanted to be better.”
The room feels too small. Too full of everything I’ve been trying not to feel.
I wait for him to say something. Anything.
But all I hear is my own uneven breathing and the soft, awful sound of my heart breaking open.
And that’s where I stay—curled inward, embarrassed, ashamed, aching—waiting for the weight of my words to settle.