CHAPTER 36
ABHIMAAN
Something sharp tugs at my hair, jerking me awake.
My heart stutters. The room swims in a haze of sleep and panic.
My chest tightens, breath catching mid-way as I jerk up.
My hand instinctively flies to the side of my head, fingers brushing against warm, small hands tangled in my hair.
My vision is still adjusting to the morning light pouring faintly through the curtains when I hear her voice.
“Rudrani, no!” Aditi.
That one word. That one voice. My chest loosens a fraction, even as my pulse continues to race.
I blink rapidly, heart still thudding in my ears as I try to make sense of what’s happening.
The small figure in front of me giggles, completely unbothered by the sheer terror she just put me through.
A child. A little girl. Her curls bounce as she leans forward, her mischievous fingers reaching again until Aditi swoops her up into her arms.
“I’m so sorry,” Aditi says softly, her cheeks pink from embarrassment, her eyes wide with concern. “I should’ve stopped her sooner.”
I shake my head, still too overwhelmed to speak. My hand stays close to my chest, fingers twitching slightly, muscles tense. I can’t move yet. Not fully. The remnants of my past—the cold sweat, the soundless screams—cling to me like a second skin.
She steps forward carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. She kneels slightly and reaches toward me, fingers barely grazing my shoulder before I instinctively flinch. She freezes.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, her voice almost broken by guilt. Not pity. Just concern. Soft. Familiar.
I force my eyes to meet hers. Her face is full of quiet understanding. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what she already knows I won’t tell.
“I’m alright,” I manage, though the words feel heavy, foreign.
She studies me, her gaze searching but gentle. And somehow, without saying a word, I know she sees right through me.
“Your fever has gone down,” she says with a small smile. “I checked a while ago when you were still asleep.”
Her voice grounds me. So does the faint scent of her—the lavender shampoo she always uses, the subtle warmth of home and familiarity.
“I brought upma and coffee for you,” she adds, standing. “You should eat something.”
I nod mutely, and she walks to the small tray on the table. Her steps are careful, almost rehearsed. As if she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will.
She brings the plate and cup to my bedside. When she hands me the spoon, our fingers brush. Just that. A touch. But it sends a wave through me. Something raw and fragile.
Her eyes meet mine.
And for one suspended moment, the world narrows down to that single connection. Her pupils dilate slightly. Her breath catches. Mine does too.
“I’m sorry,” I say before I can stop myself. The words burn my throat.
Her jaw tightens. She sets the plate down on the bedside table and stands, pulling away.
“Let’s focus on you getting better,” she says evenly. It’s not cold. But it’s not forgiving either.
She turns, starts to walk away.
I can’t let her go. Not again. My fingers wrap around her wrist.
She stops.
I sit up straighter, the blanket falling off my lap. I grip her hand like it’s the only solid thing in a world constantly slipping away.
“I didn’t tell you because…” I inhale shakily. “Because it seemed like you wanted to hide your surname. And I wanted to protect that choice. Not from me, but from the people around us.”
She doesn’t speak. Her eyes glisten, but her expression is unreadable.
“I never meant to hurt you, Aditi. I could never,” I continue, and something in my voice breaks on its own.
Her lips part, but I don’t let the silence linger.
“I didn’t let you off the hook at all. If I really wanted to, I wouldn’t have given you the hardest assignments. I wouldn’t have asked you to stay late, make coffee, run around departments delivering files. I was—” I falter. “I was holding onto you in the only ways I knew how.”
She swallows, her chin quivering.
“I let you speak to me the way you did because at first it… intrigued me. You were honest. Unfiltered. Everyone else either feared me or flattered me. But you? You cut through all that. And slowly… it became something I needed.”
A pause. Her hand remains in mine, trembling slightly.
“Every day used to feel the same, Aditi. Just… existing. Ticking minutes. Meetings. Numbers. Empty praise. But then you walked into my life like a storm. Loud, infuriating, chaotic—beautiful.”
She closes her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“You made me feel the moments. Not just count them.”
I shake my head, the confession flowing without restraint now.
“I always thought I had it all figured out. Like a finished puzzle. But I never knew I was missing the most important piece until you. You—” my voice cracks, “you were the part I didn’t know I was looking for.”
Her breath hitches. Another tear falls, this time without resistance.
“I’m not an easy man, Aditi. All I’ve ever known is pain, silence, trauma that echoes when I try to sleep. I’ve never loved someone. I don’t know how. So I understand if you can’t… if you won’t…”
Her hand curls tighter in mine.
“You deserve someone who knows how to love. Who doesn’t come with broken edges and sharp memories.” A sad chuckle escapes my lips, “Anyways, you’re out of my league.”
“Stop,” she whispers.
“But if—if you can let me in,” I continue, heart pounding, “if you can teach me how to love you, I’ll learn. I’ll fight every instinct I’ve ever had just to be better for you.”
She lets out a shaky sob and falls to her knees in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” she cries, “I’m so, so sorry.”
I look down at her, stunned.
“I walked away. I didn’t even give you a chance to explain. I just—left. I told myself it was strength. That I was taking control. But truth?” She laughs bitterly, wiping her tears. “I was scared. You broke me without meaning to, and I didn’t know how to handle that.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I blamed myself,” she says, voice thick. “I thought maybe I was foolish to believe we had something real. But I could not stop feeling the way I feel for you,” She smiles softly, “It scared me, I have never felt so strongly about someone.”
I lift my hand and wipe her cheek gently.
“And I never stopped needing you.”
I hear a cough behind her, I look up to find a woman smiling as she looks between us.
Aditi almost stumbles as she gets up and I hold her hand tightly so she doesn’t fall, she wipes her face with the other hand and turns around, “Bhabhi,” she exclaims, “Abhimaan, this is Shivani Bhabhi,” she introduces, “Bhabhi this is my boss, Abhimaan,” Shivani smiles at me sweetly.
“And also the reason behind all the crying yesterday?” She wiggles her eyebrows and I physically see Aditi turn red.
“Bhabhi,” she yells as she rushes towards her, “He is just a tough boss and I was tired of his shit,” Aditi tries to cover up. I chuckle.
“I agree,” I say, “I can be a bit uptight.”
“A bit?” Aditi gasps, “You are VERY uptight,” she rolls her eyes, but I can see the smile she is trying to hide.
“You manage my uptightness well though,” I look into her eyes, amused by her remark.
“That I do,” she flips her hair, Shivani laughs beside her.
“Is it okay if I call you Abhimaan?” Shivani asks.
I nod. “I came here to apologize for my daughter’s behaviour, she told me, it’s safe to say, she has been educated on how to wake someone up,” Shivani smiles apologetically at me.
“It’s okay,” I say, as I get up from the bed, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. I don’t usually have much human interaction, that too this domestic kind.
“You can freshen up and meet us downstairs for lunch?” Shivani asks.
My eyes travel to Aditi who is noticing the interaction between us.
I don’t know what to reply, am I supposed to have lunch with them?
I am not very human friendly, and it’s her family, so I don’t want to impose anything unless she wants me to be here.
A warm breeze stirs the edge of the curtains as Aditi says those words, her voice soft but sure: “He will have lunch with us.”
Something loosens inside me. Not entirely, not all at once—but a thread that’s been pulled taut inside my chest for weeks begins to ease. It’s not the lunch. It’s not even the invitation. It’s that she said it. She wants me there.
I nod—more to her than to Shivani—and Aditi gives me a small, reassuring glance, the kind you give a skittish dog who's finally come close enough to take food from your hand.
I return it with a weak smile, unsure of how to handle any of this warmth curling around me like sunlight in a place long shut off from it.
Shivani, perceptive and smiling, nudges Aditi with her elbow. “I’ll go down and prep the table,” she says, and before turning to leave, she winks at me. “Don’t take too long. Rudrani’s been preparing her ‘magic show’ for you.”
My brows lift. “Magic show?”
“She’s five,” Aditi mutters, blushing again as she walks to the wardrobe and pulls out a towel, placing it on the edge of the bed. “Everything is either magic or disaster.”
I give a soft chuckle—an actual, genuine laugh. That doesn’t happen often.
“Sounds like someone else I know,” I say quietly, but she catches it anyway.
“Excuse me?” she asks, mock-offended.
“You heard me.”
She huffs, but there’s a smile curling at her lips as she turns away to give me space.
I head into the bathroom to wash up, and while the mirror reflects someone gaunter and wearier than I’m used to, I see something else too—color.
Something warmer returning to my eyes. I haven’t felt this human in years.
I kind of like this. This feeling, the lightness, the urge to go see her again, see her smile at me again.
I like it and I want to keep it this way.