Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Advik
She’s leaning against her bike, clad in matte black biker gear, fingers moving over her phone like she doesn’t feel the weight of me staring at her.
She looks... lethal.
And fucking irresistible.
My mouth goes dry at the realization. Yes—I want her. But I can’t have her. Not really. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.
I finally start walking over, my boots crunching against gravel. I’m still a solid ten feet away when she speaks without looking up.
“You’re late. It’s 9:03.”
Her tone is cool. Neutral. But it prickles something in my chest.
I sigh, already bracing myself for how stupid I’m about to sound. The truth is embarrassing, but lying to her? That would feel worse.
“I couldn’t stop staring at you long enough to walk over.”
Her head snaps up, a frown tugging at her brows. “You’re choosing to say this... why?”
I give a half shrug, trying to play it off, even though my pulse is hammering. “You just looked badass. I wanted to take it in. The whole picture.”
I wave a hand over her whole body.
She pushes off the bike and closes the distance between us by a step—enough to make it feel deliberate. Measured. “I will give you permission one day, Vik. One day, I’ll want to hear everything you’ve been holding back. And I’ll do the same. But today is not that day.”
My chest tightens. I blink at her. She wants to hear it? One day?
“I’m ready when you are, Greesha.”
Her expression hardens, but her mouth twitches faintly at the corners. “Aadya. Don’t keep slipping.”
I meet her gaze, soft but steady. “It’s Greesha I wronged. And Greesha I need to talk to.”
Her brows knit tighter. “Yeah? You believe you wronged me?”
“I wronged myself,” I say quietly, without a beat of hesitation.
She snorts. “You’re deluded.”
I don’t respond right away. Instead, I let the silence stretch before offering, “You still talk like you did when you were pissed at the dhaba uncle for shortchanging you by ten rupees.”
Her expression falters.
A flash in her eyes.
I press gently, “You remember? You stood on your toes, pointed at him with your samosa still in your hand. You sounded so downright lethal when you said—”
“‘Mera paisa wapas kar, saale chutiye!’” she finishes the line before I can. (Return my money, you cunt!)
Her face sunlit, fire in her voice, samosa in hand like a weapon. She was fearless. And weirdly polite about her rage. That was the moment I first thought: God, I want to watch her win everything.
Her face darkens.
“Maybe I was pitiful that day or that uncle wouldn’t be alive today,” she says, voice even. Cold.
I take a half step back, startled.
She blinks hard, jaw clenched, breathing fast—then quickly steadies herself.
Her voice lowers. “Don’t do that again. We don’t want to shatter your illusions, now, do we?”
I nod slowly, chastened. “I didn’t mean to.... I just—”
“I know,” she cuts in, gaze flicking away. “Not the time.”
And for a second, just one, I see the corner of her mouth twitch. Not in a smile. In restraint.
Like she’s holding back the storm with the last thread of her self-control. Because maybe—maybe—that time with me meant something more to her. Unlike how it’s been seeming since she came back from the dead.
We’re sitting in the far corner of the café. A quiet booth where the sun barely filters in. She’s holding her phone like it’s a shield, her fingers curled tight around it, not even pretending to scroll. Just... waiting.
Waiting for me to speak. Probably so she can take notes and decide whether I’m wasting her time.
I take a breath and try not to overthink it.
“I found out almost a year ago that Sunrise Home was your orphanage.”
She doesn’t react much. Just a small nod. An acknowledgment, not an invitation. But it feels like a silent go on.
“I think I saw the signs properly four months ago. A ten-year-old girl who’d been adopted was found dead... during a cruise in Kerala. I know the reports said she drowned, but—”
I swallow.
“Her name was...” I clear my throat twice.
“Khushi. And she was... she was bright. One of the sharpest kids I’d ever met.
I wanted to make sure she had a good life, so I tracked her.
Quietly. Checked in from time to time. The police reports said she went overboard and drowned.
But the adoptive parents? They weren’t even in the state when it happened. ”
Still nothing from her. Just... typing. Calm. Mechanical. God, is she always this detached?
“So I dug,” I add. “Turns out, her listed adoptive parents were seventy-three and seventy-seven. That didn’t feel right. I assumed it was a trafficking mishap. But nothing like it came up again, so eventually I just... filed it away. I only ever brought it up with Pratham Uncle. You know—”
“That DGP. I remember,” she says, voice clipped.
The way she says it sends a ripple of unease down my spine.
That DGP?
He’s the highest-ranking man I know. Someone people panic over when his name shows up in their caller ID. But she talks about him like he’s just some mildly annoying bureaucrat. That casual dismissal?
Terrifying.
I force myself to continue. “He couldn’t do anything. Not officially. I’ve just been keeping an eye on things since,” I mumble. “Trying to catch anything suspicious.”
She nods again, then looks up. “Send me Khushi’s case file. If you have it. Or... fuck it. I’ll find it myself. Last name?”
My throat tightens, but I push the word out. “Joshi.”
She nods, already typing again—probably a background check.
We lapse into silence.
I fidget, and then ask the question that’s been gnawing at me for the last twelve hours.
“Are you... a cop? What are you?”
She looks up, brow furrowing like she’s surprised I had the gall to ask.
“You didn’t ask your boss?”
I shake my head. “It’s Saturday. And... I wanted to hear it from you.”
Something in her face changes. Like she’s weighing how much of herself she’s willing to hand over.
Then, softly. Almost reluctantly:
“RAW. Been a field agent for seven years.”
And just like that—my world tips.
Seven years.
Meaning... she was already in when we were together.
When she held my hand. Slept next to me. Told me she loved me.
Fucking hell.
I can’t stop the blur that fogs my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to keep it together.
“I was inactive when I was with you,” she offers, as if that would somehow ease the ache behind my ribs.
But I know what she’s doing—giving me something small to hold onto. A thread of sanity I can pretend is solid.
“I think...” I swallow. Hard. “I think I would’ve lost my mind sooner if I knew. I would’ve gone insane wondering what you were going through—went through.”
She looks down—not at her phone, but her lap. Her voice, when it comes, is flat but heavy.
“Most of the high-threat missions began around three years ago. That’s when I stopped having major backup.”
I shut my eyes.
Tactical speak. Tactful lies.
But I hear the truth under it:
She’s seen things. Done things. Suffered through things. Walked into hell with a blade in her teeth and no one watching her back.
And I had no fucking idea. I’m not even privy to that information anymore. I never was.
??????
“You know what’s worse than failure?” I mumble.
Probably not the healthiest way to start a session, but Dr. Reza doesn’t flinch. He just nods, waiting.
“It’s... being invisible after it.”
The words hang there, dry and brittle in my throat—even after I’ve spoken them.
This is the third time I’ve brought up Gree on my own. It still feels dangerous. Like dragging glass across my ribs.
“It’s not the blame,” I say slowly. “No one ever really... blames you. They just stop seeing you. You become the mistake. And then not even that. Just... absence.”
Dr. Reza tilts his head, gently. “Advik... are we talking about your parents? Or Greesha being back?”
What the actual fuck?
My stomach clenches.
Shit. I thought I was talking about Greesha. But I guess I wasn’t.
Not entirely. What the hell?
I feel the threads. The echoes. The way everything folds in on itself.
The patterns are the same. And I’ve been too blind—or maybe too scared—to recognize them.
“I thought I was talking about Gree,” I admit, voice hoarse. “But maybe it’s also about... Khushi.”
He nods. Softly. No pressure. Just... knowing.
“I think your sister’s death, and the way it was.
.. brushed aside because she was ‘only’ four months old, plays a deeper part than you let on.
You’ve told me your parents never said it was your fault.
But maybe that’s because she... stopped existing?
They never acknowledged your place in it either. ”
I try to laugh, but it sounds more like a cracked sob. “We never even said her name after that, Dr. Reza. Khushi. Vikram was eight. I was six. And no one ever called us three siblings again. It was like... those four months didn’t count. Like she didn’t count.”
I bite my lip, feel it sting.
“Or maybe they wanted to forget that their own son—” I stop. My throat closes.
“Say it,” Dr. Reza urges gently. “Even if it’s not true. I want to hear what you feel.”
I look up, stunned. “Not true? I killed her, Dr. Reza. I held her in my arms. She was a baby. Took her into that stupid pillow fort I built. Left her there for a nap like she was a damn doll. And then I just... forgot her.”
My voice cracks fully. And I hate it. I hate how easy it is to remember the details. The carpet pattern. The marble. The blur of guilt that’s lived inside me like a parasite.
“I went to play with that dumb neighbor kid—don’t even remember his name. I forgot Khushi was there. When I came back, she was gone. She rolled off the fucking couch. Face down on the marble floor. Four months old.”
My voice breaks completely by the end.
Dr. Reza says nothing. Just lets it hang. Because there’s nothing to say yet.
“Two days later, everything baby-related vanished from the house. Like magic. Crib, bottles, photos... gone. We never mentioned her again. No stories. No memories. Sometimes I feel like I made her up.”
I rub my hands down my jeans like I’m trying to rub the guilt out of my skin.
“But Vikram remembers. A little. I’ve heard him talk about her with my parents. And my parents—well—they obviously remember too. Just not out loud. Not to me. They didn’t want to bring her back.”
“Advik,” he says, voice lower now. Firmer. “We’ve discussed how your parents coped with grief. They didn’t memorialize. They tried to erase. And in that attempt to erase her, they erased you too. You made a mistake, yes—but it was a mistake no six-year-old should be carrying.”
I keep my eyes down.
“Look at me,” he urges.
I force myself to lift my gaze. Shame weighing on every muscle.
“You didn’t kill her. Think about this. As a father—would you ever leave your infant child in the care of a six-year-old? Would you leave your home, for any reason, because you believed a six and eight-year-old could manage a baby for two hours?”
I go rigid. Because no—I wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t. If I had a kid... if Greesha had a baby and I had to care for her—I wouldn’t let a child hold that responsibility. Not ever.
“No,” I whisper. “I wouldn’t.”
The words feel... awful and freeing all at once.
Because if I wouldn’t—then maybe my parents shouldn’t have either.
Maybe some of that blame I’ve carried wasn’t mine to begin with.
But I still remember her.
I still forgot her.
And that’s the truth.
Because I let myself slip. For just a moment. And I didn’t do that just once in my life. I did it thrice.
Once with Khushi, my sister, and then again with... Gree. My Gree. Then again with Khushi Joshi. The little girl who thought I was her savior. I wasn’t.
They all fucking died, didn’t they?
“Have you ever talked about this with Vikram?” Dr. Reza’s voice cuts in gently, never forceful. Just a question. A nudge.
I let out a slow breath and rub the side of my neck. “No. He never mentions her. Not once in all these years. I don’t think... it was something he actively thought about.”
Dr. Reza nods thoughtfully, then tilts his head. “But you don’t talk about her either. Not to him. Not to anyone. And yet here you are... Could you be wrong about Vikram? Maybe... he remembers more than you think.”
That idea doesn’t sit right. Or maybe it sits too right, and I don’t want to look at it. I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek, thinking.
“But he wasn’t to blame,” I say. “He wasn’t even home. He was already out, cycling with his friend. I was the one who had her. It was on me.”
Reza leans forward slightly. “And do you blame him for not being there for Khushi?”
I look up, startled. “No!” The word comes out more forceful than I mean it to. “God, no. He was just a kid. He was out riding his bike. Enjoying his damn Saturday like a normal eight-year-old. He didn’t know.”
Silence laps between us. Heavy but not suffocating. Just enough room for the next realization to land.
“Then if Vikram isn’t to blame,” Reza says softly, “why are you?”
I blink.
I blink again.
My jaw slackens just a little.
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. No clever retort. No defensiveness. Just air.
Because the logic is there. Clean. Unflinching. And still, it feels like swallowing glass.
I drop my head into my hands. Let the weight of that question settle.
I’ve been here before. Sitting with the same ache in my chest. A different name on my lips, but the exact same question chewing at my insides.
If Greesha had actually died, would I have blamed anyone but me? I blamed myself for both Khushis, didn’t I?
Because I was the one who killed my own sister. Who didn’t take proper care of a four-month-old.
Because I was the one who let Gree go first. Who made her doubt her place in my life. Who thought I had time.
Then I was the one who didn’t make sure Khushi Joshi was taken care off. Even when I saw things not lining up.
Who got depressed instead of asking questions. Who stopped reaching out because the grief had teeth and I let it bite first. And then I... gave up. I couldn’t save anyone.
I link the three like a sick timeline etched in guilt:
Khushi.
Greesha.
Khushi Joshi.
All lost.
All preventable.
All... my fault.
Maybe not fully.
But my decisions, my mistakes, could’ve prevented an outcome. But could it have prevented everything? The non-answers are heavy. I don’t know if centralizing everything in my decisions is the right way to go. But blame is a bitch.
I press the heels of my palms to my eyes until I see stars.
Dr. Reza doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
Because the silence has spoken loud enough.