⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟗˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
The clatter of utensils echoed through the small kitchen. Vidyut stood there, sleeves rolled up, staring down at a pan of something that was supposed to be poha—except it looked more like a half-burnt jumble of rice and oil.
Ritvika leaned against the counter, arms folded tight across her chest, watching every wrong move he made. Her expression was a mix of stern disapproval and sheer irritation.
He sprinkled a little too much salt, then quickly tried to scoop it out with a spoon. Of course, it didn't work. The more he stirred, the worse it looked.
"Yeh kya bana rahe ho?" (What are you making?) Ritvika's voice was flat, sharp.
Vidyut frowned, sweat forming on his temple as he desperately tried to adjust the heat on the stove. "Poha..." he muttered, though it sounded more like a question than an answer.
Her brows shot up. "Poha? Isse toh zyada achha Tara khilona pakad ke bana degi."
(Poha? Even Tara could make better food holding her toys.)
Vidyut clenched his jaw, trying to hold his patience, but the truth was obvious—he had no idea what he was doing. He attempted to add lemon juice, only to spill half of it on the counter.
Ritvika pinched the bridge of her nose. "Gas band karo."
(Turn off the stove.)
He looked at her, genuinely lost. "Par—"
(But—)
"Gas. Band. Karo." (Turn. Off. The stove.) Her tone brooked no argument.
With a sigh, Vidyut obeyed, turning off the stove. The half-burnt mess sat between them like proof of his failure. He glanced at her, almost childishly defensive. "Itni bhi buri koshish nahi thi..."
(It wasn't that bad of an attempt...)
Ritvika gave him a glare so sharp it could cut steel.
Vidyut immediately looked away, muttering something under his breath, clearly embarrassed.
Ritvika finally shoved him aside, exhaling sharply. "Hato, main banati hoon. Tumse na ho paayega."
(Move, I'll make it. You clearly can't do this.)
Vidyut stepped back, lips pressed together, guilt heavy in his chest. She had asked him to do one simple thing—make breakfast—and he couldn't even manage that.
His broad frame leaned against the counter, watching silently as she moved with swift precision, chopping onions, rinsing the flattened rice, and tempering the spices.
Her every movement screamed experience, while his failed attempt still lay in the trash bin.
"Dekha? Itna bhi tough nahi tha," (See? It wasn't even that tough,) she mocked without looking at him, her voice sharp but not cruel. "Ek kaam diya tha, aur woh bhi bigaad diya." (You were given one job, and even that you ruined.)
Vidyut didn't reply. He simply lowered his eyes, guilt tugging at him stronger than her words.
Within minutes, the aroma of freshly made poha filled the room. Tara clapped her little hands excitedly from the dining table, and Ritvika smiled faintly at her, serving a plate. Vidyut quietly sat down beside Tara, his silence a contrast to her cheerful banter with the toddler.
They ate together—Tara messily, Ritvika gently scolding her now and then, and Vidyut eating quietly, the weight of his failure pressing on him.
Vidyut went to wash his hands.
Just as Ritvika finished her last bite, her phone buzzed on the counter. She wiped her hands and picked it up absentmindedly.
The subject line made her blink twice: "Job Confirmation – Starlight Corporation"
Her brows furrowed as she opened it. The words felt surreal.
We are delighted to inform you... confirmed position... starting Monday... work hours: 4 hours/day... salary package: 1.5 lakh/month.
Her eyes widened, disbelief flooding her face. "Sirf 4 ghante kaam... aur 1.5 lakh?" (Just 4 hours work... and 1.5 lakh?) she whispered under her breath, her fingers scrolling up and down to reread it.
She checked it again. And again. Three times, just to be sure she wasn't imagining things.
Her heart thudded in her chest. No, this couldn't be real. How could such an offer land in her lap so easily? Yeh galti se likh diya hoga... (This must've been written by mistake...) her mind argued.
Still staring at the screen, her brows knit in suspicion, her lips parted in shock.
And that's when she heard his footsteps behind her. Vidyut.
Vidyut's deep, steady voice broke the quiet from behind her. "What happened?"
Ritvika blinked, the phone still clutched tightly in her hand, her fingers curling around it as if it were a lifeline.
Her heart raced, a mixture of nervous excitement and disbelief.
She debated whether to keep the email to herself, a tiny secret she could revel in alone—but the thought of sharing it, of seeing his reaction, won over.
She exhaled softly and turned to face him.
"I got the result of that interview I gave," she began, her voice low but steady.
"I've been selected..." Her brows furrowed slightly, almost involuntarily, as if the truth of the email itself was too surreal.
"But... the strange part is—the email says a salary package of one and a half lakh. .. and only four working hours."
Her fingers shook slightly as she unlocked the phone and handed it over, holding it out with a tentative, almost pleading look. "See for yourself," she said, her voice trailing, unsure of what to expect from him.
Vidyut's eyes flicked to the phone, scanning the lines of text carefully.
The edges of the screen reflected a hint of her anxious expression, but his own face remained unreadable, stoic, almost calculating for a long moment.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his lips curved into a slow, controlled smirk, just enough to catch her attention.
Ritvika's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in. "Maybe... they wrote it by mistake," she murmured, almost to herself, her voice layered with uncertainty and hope, as if repeating it out loud could make it feel more real.
"Nahi, unhone galti se nahi likha." The words slipped out of Vidyut's mouth before he could stop them, low and sure.
("No, they didn't write it by mistake.")
Ritvika's head jerked up, her wide eyes locking onto his. Confusion, disbelief, and sudden suspicion twisted her expression into a knot of tension. "How... how do you know?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, half from curiosity and half from the sudden sense that something was amiss.
the unshakable mask Vidyut usually wore faltered.
His smirk faltered, eyes darting away for a fraction of a second, betraying a flash of regret.
His jaw tightened, and he exhaled slowly, as if carrying the weight of words he hadn't intended to reveal so soon.
The silence between them stretched long and heavy, filled with unspoken truths, secrets, and the flickering tension of a hidden plan just uncovered.
Ritvika's gaze didn't waver, sharp and probing, sensing the hesitation, the guilt, and the flicker of control behind his calm exterior.
In that charged silence, the air seemed to hum, each of them aware of the invisible tug-of-war—the knowledge he held and her growing suspicion, both circling, waiting for the other to make the next move.
Vidyut's eyes met hers fleetingly, the corner of his mouth twitching, almost involuntarily, before he looked away, trying to regain composure. He knew the delicate balance had shifted; her trust, her curiosity, and her doubt all converged into a single pointed question that he couldn't ignore.
Ritvika's heartbeat quickened, the earlier excitement of the job now tinged with an uncomfortable tension. She didn't say anything further, but the weight of her stare, intense and questioning, pressed against him like a silent demand—he had to explain, or risk losing her to suspicion entirely.
Vidyut cleared his throat, masking the tension in his voice. "These companies don't make such errors. If it's written, then it's intentional. You should be happy, Ritvika."
She nodded slowly, though her expression didn't relax. "Still... four hours, that salary? It doesn't add up."
"Maybe they realized your worth," he said quickly, almost too quickly. "Sometimes talent is obvious in just one meeting."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "But they hardly asked me anything... they only focused on why I resigned."
He waved a hand dismissively, forcing a light tone. "Then they must have checked your background themselves. Big firms do that."
That's when he slipped.
"They would never risk rejecting someone like you."
Ritvika blinked. "Someone like me?" she repeated, her voice low.
For a fraction of a second, his composure cracked. He looked away, jaw tight. "I mean... someone capable. Dedicated."
But the damage was done. Ritvika's suspicion sharpened. She didn't say anything further, but the way her eyes lingered on him spoke volumes—something about this job confirmation wasn't as simple as Vidyut was making it sound.
Vidyut moved first. He leaned back against the chair, forcing a casual tone. "Don't overthink it. You deserved that mail. Companies recognize talent, that's all."
Ritvika hummed softly in reply, but her gaze stayed locked on him for a beat longer before she looked away. The weight of her stare followed him, though, gnawing under his skin.
He reached for his glass of water, masking his unease, but when his eyes flicked back to her, she was still lost in thought—brows faintly furrowed, lips pressed together, as if piecing a puzzle.
Vidyut's heart gave an uneasy thud. He knew that look. She was suspecting.
And once Ritvika suspected, it was only a matter of time before she found the truth.
Later that afternoon, Ritvika sat on the floor with Tara, stacking blocks into uneven towers. Her mind, though, wasn't on the toys. That one line of Vidyut's—"Someone like me"—kept echoing.
She glanced at him, lounging on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone as if the morning's conversation had never happened.
Ritvika, sitting with Tara stacking blocks, said casually, almost as if testing him, "You know... they rejected me yesterday. And today... they confirmed my job."
Vidyut, still absorbed in his phone, glanced up briefly and replied without thinking, "I know... and they regretted it."
Ritvika froze, her brows knitting in confusion and suspicion. "Wait... what? I didn't even tell you I got rejected. And how do you know they regretted it?"
For a fraction of a second, Vidyut's composure cracked. His jaw tightened, his eyes darted away. "Uh... I... might have... heard something? Or maybe I just... knew it would happen?" His voice was hurried, defensive, awkward.
Ritvika tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp, voice calm but cutting. "Right... you just knew."
Vidyut swallowed, feeling the weight of her eyes on him. His small slip had done exactly what he feared—her suspicion had grown. He forced a nod, muttering softly, "Yeah... something like that."
Ritvika didn't say more, but her mind was racing. She turned back to Tara, stacking the blocks carefully, yet her thoughts were fixed on Vidyut. Something about this job confirmation wasn't ordinary—and her instincts were screaming that Vidyut had something to do with it.
Ritvika stood up, eyes blazing, her hands on her hips. "Vidyut... tell me! What did you do?" she demanded, her voice sharp.
Vidyut froze, confused, trying to gauge her tone. "I... what are you talking about?" he asked cautiously.
Ritvika took a step closer, her patience snapping. "Don't play dumb! You know exactly what I'm talking about. Yesterday they rejected me, and today... today it's confirmed. How do you explain that?"
Vidyut hesitated, trying to cover up. "I... I don't know... maybe they reconsidered themselves—"
Ritvika's eyes narrowed, anger flashing. "Don't lie to me! I didn't tell you yesterday, yet you knew they regretted it? Huh? How do you know that?!"
He opened his mouth to deflect again, but Ritvika wasn't letting him. Her voice rose, trembling with fury. "Vidyut! Stop acting innocent! If you had anything to do with this... I swear—"
Ritvika blinked rapidly, frustration building. "You—answer me! How... how could you even—what did you do, Vidyut? Tell me!" Her voice rose, sharp and strained, but her words didn't shake him.
He let out a slow, controlled breath, his eyes scanning hers, unwavering. And still, he said nothing.
Her heart raced. Confusion mixed with fury as she took another step closer, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "You don't get to just—stand there! I need to know! I didn't tell you yesterday, and today... how—how did they confirm?!"
Vidyut's hands tightened at his sides. The silence between them stretched, heavy with tension. He knew explaining now would only make it worse, and he also knew she would not understand, not fully, not yet. So he let the weight of his presence speak for him.
Ritvika's breathing grew faster, her mind spinning. She could feel her anger bubbling, hot and raw. Her eyes narrowed. "You... you did something, didn't you? Don't you dare deny it!"
Still, he remained quiet, not a word escaping his lips. The deliberate calmness, the almost defiant stillness, enraged her further. Her cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and fury.
"I—" she began, then cut herself off, shaking her head in disbelief. Her voice became lower, sharper. "I swear... if you've done anything, Vidyut, anything at all to—"
At that, his jaw clenched, and his resolve broke in a single moment of raw honesty. His voice, low but firm, cut through the tension like steel. "Yes. I did."
Ritvika froze mid-step. The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Her eyes darted to him, then to the floor, then back, as if trying to see through the truth of his statement.
"What... what do you mean?" she whispered, her tone now shaky. Shock had overtaken her anger for the moment. "Explain yourself... how... why?"
Vidyut's gaze softened slightly, but he still didn't speak.
He simply let her stare, let her try to untangle the knot of guilt, obsession, and protection that had driven him.
His silence was a wall, his presence a force, and Ritvika could feel it pressing against her chest like a weight she couldn't push away.
Ritvika's eyes narrowed, her pulse quickening. "Wait," she said, taking a step closer, her voice sharp. "You... you what? What did you do?"
Vidyut's jaw tightened. He avoided her gaze for a fraction of a second, then slowly looked back, his expression unreadable. "I... I made sure," he said quietly, as if testing her reaction.
Ritvika's brow furrowed, her anger simmering. "Made sure? Made sure what, Vidyut? Spit it out!" Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and her voice rose, trembling with frustration. "Don't dance around it!"
He hesitated, knowing there was no graceful way to phrase it. His eyes darkened as he met her fiery gaze. "I... I got you the job," he admitted finally, his voice low but firm.
Ritvika's breath hitched, but not with relief—anger flared through her veins. Her hands shot up, pointing at him. "What? You... what?! You interfered in my career? Do you have any idea how... how audacious that is?"
Vidyut flinched slightly at her intensity but didn't back down. "I didn't want anyone to hurt you," he said evenly, his tone calm, almost pleading.
Ritvika stepped closer, her face red with fury. "Hurt me? You decided for me? Without asking? Without even telling me?" Her voice cracked at the edge, a mix of disbelief and rage. "Do you even understand how controlling that is? How insulting?"
Vidyut's hands curled into fists at his sides. He tried to explain, tried to reason, but every word felt like it would inflame her more. "I just... I couldn't take the risk," he said, his voice low, almost strangled with guilt.
Ritvika's eyes narrowed even further. "You couldn't take the risk?
That's your excuse for manipulating my life?
My choices?" She stepped back sharply, pacing a few steps, as if putting physical distance between them could shield her from his interference.
"You decided what was best for me.
.. without me. Do you even hear yourself? !"
Vidyut's chest tightened. He felt the weight of her anger like a physical blow. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he had done it to protect her. But hearing her words, seeing her disbelief and fury... he realized he had overstepped in every possible way.
Ritvika spun around to face him fully, her eyes blazing.
"Do you have any idea how this makes me feel, Vidyut?
Like you don't trust me to make decisions for myself?
Like I'm... nothing?" Her voice shook, and a single finger jabbed toward him.
"I trusted you! And this—this is how you repay that trust? "
Vidyut swallowed hard, guilt coiling around his chest like a vise. He wanted to speak, to justify, to explain... but he knew there were no words that could make this right. All he could do was stand there, silent, and let her fury crash over him.
Ritvika took a deep breath, her fists trembling at her sides. Her anger didn't fade—it sharpened. "You think just because you call yourself 'protective' or 'careful' you get to control my life?!" Her voice was raw, every syllable a strike against him.
Vidyut's gaze fell to the floor. He said nothing, knowing any words now would sound hollow. She had every right to be angry. Every right to hate what he had done—even if he had done it with the best intentions.
The room fell into a heavy, tense silence. Ritvika's eyes didn't leave his face, fiery and accusing. Vidyut's jaw clenched, his hands twitching, but he remained frozen, letting her vent, letting her anger hang between them like a storm waiting to break.
Vidyut's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he finally spoke, low and controlled.
"I did this... because they rejected you.
Because of me." He paused, letting the words sink in, his voice heavy with guilt.
"My company... they thought the problem was because of something else.
But the truth... the problem was because of me. So I had to solve it, didn't I?"
Ritvika blinked, trying to absorb what he was saying. She exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and reluctant acknowledgment. "Okay... fine, let's accept that. But what about... that four hours of work? And the salary?" Her tone was pointed, sharp, yet underneath it all, there was worry.
Vidyut's eyes softened, guilt creeping further into his expression.
He leaned slightly forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Ritvika... your condition... your health.
.. it doesn't allow you to bear stress, to take on a heavy load.
I've already given you more than enough stress.
.." His fingers clenched unconsciously, a sign of the tension coiling in him.
"That's why... the four hours. Please... try to understand."
Ritvika's lips pressed into a thin line, her brow furrowed. "And the salary, huh?" she asked, her voice softer now, but laced with concern.
Vidyut's eyes flickered away, his throat tightening. He swallowed hard before speaking again. "Ritvika... you have expenses... your health... then Tara... everything. You won't let me help you, I know that." His voice was low, heavy with guilt and care, almost pleading.
Ritvika's chest tightened, anger and disbelief mingling. "It's... unfair to others! I work four hours, and yet... still get full salary? How is that right?" Her hands clutched at her sides, voice rising slightly.
Vidyut's expression hardened, eyes blazing with both authority and protectiveness.
"That shouldn't be your concern," he said firmly.
His voice was calm, yet carried the weight of absolute certainty.
"You... are the wife of Vidyut Rajvansh.
Not anyone else. One wife—my world isn't for others.
You are the only one who matters here."
Ritvika's eyes widened at the force of his words. Her chest heaved as she tried to respond, but the conviction in his tone and the weight behind every word left her momentarily speechless. He wasn't just asserting power—he was declaring his care, his priority, and his unwavering protectiveness.
The room fell silent for a moment. Ritvika's eyes softened, though her jaw remained tense.
She understood now that the four hours, the salary—everything was his way of protecting her, of shielding her from further stress, from any burden.
And yet... her pride and stubbornness kept her heart conflicted, simmering between gratitude and indignation.
Vidyut's gaze never wavered, unwavering and resolute, as if silently daring her to argue further.
Ritvika opened her mouth, as if to voice her thoughts—perhaps to argue, perhaps to question, perhaps to remind him that she could handle her own responsibilities. But before a single word escaped, Vidyut's low, commanding voice cut through the space between them.
"Go... take your medicines, Devi Jii," he whispered, the intensity in his tone softened only slightly by the underlying care.
Ritvika blinked, taken aback by the nickname, the whisper, and the weight of authority in his words.
A part of her wanted to resist, to insist, to show that she could manage—but her body betrayed her pride.
She paused, eyes narrowing slightly, weighing her options, but before she could respond, Vidyut continued, sharper this time, the edge of frustration threading through his calm:
"No. First, you listen. But I'm telling you... I'm here only to loosen things, not to question your strength. Your health comes first. Now go and take your medicines. Otherwise..."
His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Ritvika's breath hitched slightly, her stubbornness warring with the undeniable truth in his tone. She could see it—his gaze, unwavering, unflinching, silently daring her to defy him.
Reluctantly, with a small, tight nod, she turned toward the medicine cabinet, her movements measured, every step a silent acknowledgment of the boundary he had set—not over her autonomy, but over her safety.
Ritvika's fingers trembled slightly as she opened the drawer where she always kept her medicines.
But instead of seeing neatly stacked strips and bottles, there was only emptiness.
Every compartment she opened was barren; not a single tablet, capsule, or vial remained.
Her brow furrowed, her heartbeat picking up, a small panic creeping in.
Vidyut, who had been standing silently a few steps away, noticed the subtle tension in her movements.
He saw her hands hover over the empty strips, her gaze scanning the drawer as though expecting some miracle to appear.
He understood immediately. The medicines were over.
The thought of her running out of them, of her potentially compromising her health, made his chest tighten.
Without a word, he stepped forward, watching her closely. Ritvika didn't notice him at first—her mind was spinning. She traced her fingers along the edges of the drawer, almost in disbelief, as if the emptiness itself were a cruel joke.
Then, in a fluid motion, Vidyut turned and left the room, moving swiftly to the living area. Minutes—or perhaps seconds—later, he returned, carrying the familiar box he had sent earlier, the one that held her medicines. He walked back toward her, each step measured, almost reverent in its gravity.
He held out the box carefully, as though it were more than just a collection of strips and bottles.
"Here," he said softly, his voice low but firm.
"Your medicines. And before you even think to deny it.
.." he paused, letting the words hang between them, heavy with unspoken meaning, "this is from the money that came from your salary at VR. "
Ritvika froze mid-step, blinking in shock.
Her mind processed his words in slow, jagged fragments.
"My... salary?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The realization sank in—she had worked there barely twenty days, and yet, somehow, he had taken that meager earnings to buy all of these medicines.
Her eyes, which had been soft with surprise a moment ago, hardened instantly.
She stepped forward, snatched the box from his hands, and placed it firmly on the bed.
Her movements were precise, deliberate, almost surgical in their intensity.
She turned to face him, her expression now sharp, her jaw tight, and her eyes blazing with restrained anger.
"And who are you," she began, her voice steady but seething, "to decide to spend my money anywhere? This was my salary! You should have given it to me. Why did you—why would you even—buy this much medicine from my earnings without asking me?"
Vidyut opened his mouth to speak, to explain, but Ritvika cut him off before a single word could leave his lips.
"No, listen to me first!" she said, her voice rising slightly, her fingers gripping the edge of the bed as though to anchor herself.
"You brought enough medicines to last three, maybe four months.
And what if... what if I don't survive even one of those months?
What then, Vidyut? What happens to all of this? "
Her words hit him like a physical blow. He felt his body tense, his jaw locking sharply as her anger and concern collided with his own guilt. Her eyes weren't just glaring—they were raw, truthful, and piercing straight through him.
"Don't..." he began, his voice low, but Ritvika's storm didn't pause.
"And what about the money?" she continued, her tone now edged with frustration and incredulity. "If you had given me the money, I could have saved it for Tara. At least, if something happened to me, she would have had something. But you—without asking—decided for me. Spent it all yourself. Why?"
Vidyut blinked, momentarily stunned. Her accusation didn't sting; it pierced, it unsettled him. A pang of guilt crawled up from his chest, twisting itself into every muscle, every fiber of his being. She was right. He shouldn't have acted unilaterally. It wasn't his decision to make.
He swallowed hard, trying to form words that could even begin to bridge the chasm his impulsive actions had created. But Ritvika wasn't done.
"You took my money, my earnings, and you bought all of this," she said, her voice now trembling with the force of her indignation and concern.
"And if... if something happens to me before these three or four months are up, all of this will be wasted.
The money, the medicine... everything. Do you even realize that? !"
Vidyut felt the weight of every word. Her reasoning wasn't just angry; it was practical, rational, unyielding. He could feel the guilt creeping like a shadow, settling over him. She wasn't just mad at him—she was pointing out the consequences of his unilateral decision. And he couldn't deny it.
"I... I..." he stammered, the words faltering in his throat. How could he defend this? How could he justify his actions when the truth of her argument hit harder than any of her words ever could?
Ritvika's chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, her eyes never leaving his. She wanted to make him understand, wanted him to feel the weight of what he had done, the intrusion into her autonomy, the assumption that he could make decisions for her—even for her own good.
Vidyut's gaze dropped to the floor, the guilt now undeniable. He could see it in her eyes, the disappointment, the fury, the rightness of her argument. For once, he didn't have a shield of control, didn't have the upper hand, didn't have the power to smooth over the situation with his authority.
Ritvika stepped closer, her voice softer now but no less firm, no less accusatory. "You should never—ever—use someone else's money without asking them first. Not even for their 'own good.' You don't get to decide that for me, Vidyut. You just don't."
He swallowed, his throat dry, his chest tight.
Her words weren't a scolding—they were a mirror, reflecting the flaw in his well-intentioned but misguided actions.
He felt each syllable reverberate through him, crawling through his body, settling deep in his chest. He had crossed a line, and now, he had to sit with it.
Ritvika's hands rested lightly on the bed, next to the box, her stance firm. "Do you understand?" she asked quietly, almost too quietly, yet there was no mistaking the weight of her meaning.
Vidyut's lips parted slightly, then closed.
He nodded, barely perceptibly, his head dipping forward in acknowledgment.
No words could fully encompass the guilt, the regret, and the understanding that had just settled over him.
She was right. She always had been. And this time, he had no shield, no authority, no excuse.
The room was silent except for the faint rustle of the box on the bed, Ritvika's controlled breaths, and Vidyut's steadying heartbeat.
The weight of her words lingered, pressing against him, and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel it fully—the depth of his misstep, the intrusion into her autonomy, the lesson she had so clearly laid out before him.
And Ritvika? She exhaled slowly, her anger tempered by reason, her eyes softening just a fraction.
The confrontation had been necessary, the reality laid bare.
She didn't smile, didn't relax fully, but she had made him understand.
And in this fragile, tense quiet, the two of them understood the boundaries and the care that had to exist alongside their chaos, love, and connection.
The room felt unusually heavy, as if the walls themselves were absorbing the weight of unspoken words. Vidyut stood a few steps away from Ritvika, his posture rigid yet hesitant, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the floor rather than meeting her gaze.
"I..." he began softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm... really sorry." The words trembled slightly, carrying the weight of a guilt that seemed too heavy for one man to bear. He swallowed, fighting against the lump in his throat, yet the apology poured out, raw and unfiltered.
"I'm really... very sorry for hurting you," he continued, his tone low and vulnerable, almost fragile. "For making you cry... and for using your money without your permission." His words stumbled over themselves, as if each one carried a shard of his own regret.
He lifted his eyes for a fraction of a second, but quickly dropped them again, unable to meet Ritvika's gaze.
"I just... I thought that I was helping, protecting you.
.. but I see now... I see how wrong I was.
" He paused, taking a slow, heavy breath, as though gathering the strength to continue, each word weighted with remorse.
"Never mind all that I thought... I'm sorry. Please... please forgive me. Forgive me... for making your life... hell."
The words hit Ritvika harder than she had expected. Her body froze mid-step, her hand hovering over the medicine box. Her mind struggled to comprehend the intensity of his guilt, the honesty in his voice, and the sharp edge of those last words—making your life hell.
She remembered her own words from yesterday, the anger and frustration she had unleashed.
And now, hearing them reflected back in Vidyut's apology, with such raw, painful sincerity, made her chest tighten.
She could feel a strange, stabbing ache mix with her anger, leaving her momentarily speechless.
Vidyut's voice softened even further, the sound almost breaking him. "I'm... really very sorry for invading your space. For the first time, I see... I made your life hell in my house. And now, when you decided... to be happy... I came here too. I... I'm really sorry."
Ritvika's hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails pressing into her palms, but she didn't speak.
Her breath hitched slightly, stunned not just by his words but by the weight behind them—the realization that Vidyut, despite his pride and control, was standing completely bare in his remorse before her.
He took a slow step toward her, then stopped, as though the courage to speak further had evaporated into the tension of the room.
His voice wavered, low and almost hoarse.
"I... I didn't mean to hurt you like this.
I... I just..." He let the sentence trail off, the air between them heavy with everything left unsaid.
Then, almost mechanically, as if forcing himself to do something concrete, Vidyut turned slowly and moved to gather his things.
Every movement was careful, restrained, almost fragile.
His large hands clutched at his jacket and bag, the act of leaving deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if he needed to remove himself from the space he had tainted with his mistakes.
Ritvika watched him, frozen, unable to speak. The room felt impossibly still, the silence punctuated only by the soft rustle of his belongings. And then he paused at the door, glancing back one last time.
"I... I'll go," he said softly, his voice carrying a sadness that made her heart ache. "I don't want... I don't want to make it worse. I just... needed you to know... how sorry I am."
And with that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality. The soft click echoed in the room, leaving Ritvika alone with the medicine box, her racing thoughts, and a heart heavy with shock, guilt, and an unexpected pang of longing.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the closed door.
For the first time in a long while, she realized the depth of his remorse, the weight of the decisions he carried silently, and how profoundly he cared—despite everything.
Her chest tightened, a mix of emotions swirling inside her, leaving her stunned, conflicted, and painfully aware of the fragile distance that had suddenly grown between them.
The room remained quiet, save for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. Ritvika's eyes lingered on the door a little longer, the box of medicines sitting untouched beside her, a silent testament to the choices, regrets, and unspoken apologies that had just passed between them.
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