16 What Broke Us
Ansh’s POV
I hadn’t realized how hard I was pressing the cloth against the bike until the strain in my fingers turned into a dull ache.
My knuckles had gone pale, the fabric dragging over metal that was already spotless, yet I kept at it anyway—slow, repetitive movements that felt less like cleaning and more like trying to scrub away something that refused to leave.
The late afternoon sun bore down on me, heat settling into my skin, but it barely registered. The restlessness inside me had nothing to do with the weather.
It was everything else.
The kind of weight that didn’t lift, no matter how much time passed. The silence that had taken over the house, stretching too far, too deep.
The tension that lingered in every corner, in every glance, in every word left unsaid. It followed me everywhere, pressing in until even something as simple as standing still felt unbearable.
I exhaled sharply, dragging the cloth across the handle one last time before stepping back. For a brief moment, there was nothing—just the faint hum of the neighborhood, the distant sounds of life continuing as usual.
And then I heard it.
A car pulling up.
The low crunch of tires against gravel as it came to a stop right in front of the house.
Every muscle in my body went still.
I didn’t need to look. Something in me already knew.
But I turned anyway.
The moment my eyes landed on the car parked outside our gate, something inside me tightened so suddenly it felt like it snapped into place. My jaw clenched instinctively, my grip around the cloth hardening again as a familiar surge of anger rose, fast and unforgiving.
He stepped out like nothing had changed.
Like this was still his home.
Like he still had a place here.
My father.
The sight of him standing there—calm, composed, unaffected—set something off in me that I hadn’t been able to control in a long time.
I didn’t think. I didn’t pause. The cloth slipped from my hand as I started toward him, my steps quick, sharp, fueled entirely by the anger that had been building for weeks.
“What are you doing here?” The words came out before I even reached him, low and edged with a fury I didn’t bother to hide.
He barely reacted.
Just a brief glance in my direction before he adjusted his watch, like my presence—my anger—was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
“I came to take some files,” he said evenly, his tone calm to the point of indifference. “I left a few things here.”
For a second, I just stared at him.
That was it?
That was all he had to say?
After everything?
I took another step forward, my hands curling into fists as the urge to grab him, to demand something more—an explanation, an apology, anything—rose uncontrollably within me. The anger burned through me, hot and reckless, threatening to spill over in a way I knew I wouldn’t be able to take back.
“Ansh.”
My mother’s voice cut through the moment before I could act.
I froze.
It was immediate, instinctive, like something in me still responded to her before anything else. She had stepped out of the house, her presence alone enough to halt me in place.
There was something in her eyes when I looked at her—not fear exactly, but a quiet, tired plea. A silent request for me not to make things worse than they already were.
For a moment, I didn’t move. My breathing was uneven, my gaze shifting between her and him, the conflict inside me sharp and suffocating.
Then I looked at her properly.
She gave me a small nod.
That was all it took.
The fight drained out of me just enough for me to step back, even though every part of me resisted it.
Not because he deserved it.
But because she did.
“Go,” I muttered under my breath, moving aside just enough to let him pass.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t say anything more. He simply walked past me and into the house, like he still belonged there, like nothing had been taken from us.
I followed a few steps behind, the anger still simmering beneath the surface, refusing to settle completely. It clung to me, heavy and persistent, as we stepped inside.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
Diya was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, something in her hands that she seemed to forget the moment she looked up. Her eyes landed on him, and for a second, there was a flicker of something—something familiar, something that used to be there without question.
“Papa…”
The word left her lips softly.
Too softly.
There was no excitement in it. No warmth. No rush to her feet the way there used to be. No bright smile, no laughter, no unfiltered joy that once defined her every reaction.
Just a quiet acknowledgment.
I felt something tighten painfully in my chest.
He smiled at her, as though nothing had changed, as though the distance between them didn’t exist.
“How are you, Princess?” he asked gently, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to rest against her hair in a familiar gesture.
Once, she would have leaned into it without thinking.
Once, she would have lit up at that simple touch.
But now—
She didn’t move.
“I’m good,” she replied, her voice flat, polite in a way that didn’t belong to her.
I stood there, watching it unfold, a heaviness settling deeper within me with every passing second.
She wasn’t like this.
She had never been like this.
Diya had always been the loudest one in the room, the one who filled silence without even trying. She laughed easily, spoke without hesitation, loved without holding back. She used to run to him the second he walked through the door, her happiness uncontainable, her presence impossible to ignore.
Now she barely reacted.
Barely spoke.
Barely felt.
And I knew exactly when that had changed.
My gaze drifted away from them, my jaw tightening as the memory surfaced again, sharp and unrelenting, as clear as if it had happened yesterday.
Because everything—
everything we had—
had started breaking that day.
Flashback..
The memory didn’t return in fragments—it came all at once, loud and suffocating, just like that day had been.
The house hadn’t known silence then. It had been filled with raised voices that clashed against the walls, each word sharper than the last, each accusation tearing through whatever peace we once had.
I just came home after dropping Niyati at her house as we came back from Goa. I had barely stepped inside when I heard my mother’s voice, trembling yet piercing enough to root me to the spot. There was something in it I had never heard before—hurt so raw that it didn’t even try to hide itself.
“How long, Rajeev?” she demanded, her voice echoing through the living room. “How long has this been going on?”
I had stopped near the doorway, my heartbeat quickening for reasons I couldn’t yet understand.
My father stood a few feet away from her, his posture rigid, his face carefully blank in a way that immediately felt wrong.
He looked like a man trying to hold control over something that had already slipped out of his hands.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, but even to me, the words sounded hollow, lacking the conviction they needed to mean anything.
My mother let out a broken laugh that didn’t carry even a trace of humor. “Don’t lie to me!” she snapped, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face. “I saw the messages. I know everything!”
Messages.
The word lodged itself in my mind, heavy and confusing. My chest tightened as a strange unease crept in, growing stronger with every passing second. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but I knew—instinctively—that whatever it was, it wasn’t small.
“What is she talking about?” I asked, stepping forward despite myself, my voice sharper than I intended. The tension in the room seemed to shift instantly as both of them turned toward me, their expressions telling me more than their words ever could.
And in that moment, something inside me sank.
There was no clarity yet, no full understanding—but there was certainty.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
My father looked away first.
That was all it took.
My mother broke down completely, the strength she had been holding onto crumbling in front of me. “He’s been cheating on me, Ansh,” she cried, her voice breaking with every word. “For months… maybe longer. I don’t even know anymore.”
For a second, the world felt unsteady beneath me, like the ground had shifted without warning. The words didn’t settle immediately—they hovered, unreal, refusing to fully make sense.
Cheating.
My father.
It didn’t fit. It didn’t align with anything I had known, anything I had believed about him, about us.
“No…” The denial left me instinctively as I shook my head, my eyes locking onto him, searching for something—anything—that would prove her wrong. “Tell her she’s wrong.”
I needed him to say it.
Needed him to deny it.
Needed him to fix it.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there, silent, his gaze avoiding mine.
And that silence spoke louder than any confession ever could.
Something inside me snapped in that instant, the disbelief turning into anger so fast it barely gave me time to breathe. I stepped toward him, my fists clenching as the reality crashed into me all at once. “How could you—” The words barely made it out, choked by the fury rising in my chest.
“Ansh, stop!” my mother’s voice cut through, but it felt distant, like I was hearing it from somewhere far away.
Everything around me blurred except for him.
Except for what he had done.
And then—
Another voice broke through.
“Papa…?”
Soft.
Shaking.
Uncertain.
I turned, my anger faltering just enough to register Diya standing near the stairs.
She looked frozen in place, her small frame trembling, her eyes wide and glassy as tears slipped down her cheeks without restraint.
There was confusion in her expression, fear, and something even worse—something that didn’t belong there.
Disbelief.
That one word from her—barely above a whisper—hit harder than anything else in that moment.
Because it wasn’t just about me anymore.
Or Mom.
It was about her.
About the way her world was shattering right in front of her eyes without her even understanding why.
And for the first time, I truly saw it.
The damage.
Not just to a relationship.
Not just to a marriage.
But to everything we were.
To everything we thought we had.
The image of a family I had always believed in cracked beyond repair in that moment, leaving behind something unrecognizable. Trust, love, stability—things I had taken for granted—were suddenly fragile, slipping through our fingers no matter how tightly we tried to hold on.
Nothing felt the same after that.
Nothing ever could.
Back in the present, I clenched my jaw, forcing the memory away, but its weight didn’t leave. It lingered, heavy and suffocating, just like the silence that had followed in the weeks after.
Things had changed in ways that couldn’t be undone.
My mother wasn’t the same woman anymore—there was a quiet exhaustion in her now, a sadness that never fully left her eyes. Diya had lost her light somewhere along the way, her laughter replaced with a distance that didn’t belong to someone like her.
And me—
I had learned how to hold everything in.
How to carry anger without letting it show.
How to stand in the middle of it all and pretend I wasn’t breaking too.
My gaze drifted toward the living room again, where he now stood, moving through the house like a stranger who no longer belonged but refused to acknowledge it.
And in that moment, the truth settled deeper than ever before.
He hadn’t just broken a promise that day.
He hadn’t just hurt my mother.
He had broken us.
Our family.
Completely.
The tension in the room didn’t ease even after the conversation with Diya faded into silence. It lingered, stretched thin between the walls, between the three of us standing there with too much unsaid and too much already broken.
He moved around the house quietly after that, collecting what he had come for—files, documents, things that once belonged here but no longer felt like they did.
I stayed where I was, my arms crossed, my gaze following him without really wanting to. Every movement of his felt out of place, like he was a visitor pretending to remember where things used to be. And maybe that’s what he was now.
A visitor.
Nothing more.
By the time he stepped back into the living room, my mother was already there, standing near the doorway, composed in a way that only made the exhaustion in her eyes more visible.
There was a finality in the air that hadn’t been there before, something quiet but unmistakable.
“I’ve filed for divorce,” she said.
Her voice didn’t waver.
It didn’t break.
And somehow, that made it heavier.
For a brief moment, he just stood there, the words settling over him. Whatever he had expected, it clearly hadn’t been that. His grip on the files tightened slightly, his composure slipping just enough for it to show.
“Listen…” he began, his tone softer now, uncertain in a way I had never heard before. His gaze moved between all of us before settling on her. “I know I made a mistake. I know I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I didn’t think things would go this far.”
A bitter scoff almost left me, but I held it back.
He took a step forward. “I’m sorry,” he said, and this time, it sounded real. “For everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Any of you.” His eyes flickered toward Diya, then briefly toward me before returning to my mother. “Just… give me another chance. We can fix this.”
Fix this.
The words felt almost absurd.
My mother didn’t react immediately. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable, as if she was searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
And then she shook her head.
“No,” she said quietly.
Just one word.
But it carried more weight than anything else.
“I’ve given you enough chances,” she continued, her voice calm but firm. “I’m not doing this again.”
There was no anger in her tone.
No shouting.
No accusations.
Just a quiet, unwavering decision.
And that was what made it final.
He stood there for a moment longer, as if trying to find something to say, something that could change her mind. But there was nothing left. Whatever needed to be said had already been said—weeks ago, in tears, in arguments, in silence.
Now, there was only acceptance.
Or at least, something close to it.
Without another word, he nodded faintly, adjusting his grip on the files before turning toward the door. He paused for just a second, glancing back at us—at what used to be his family.
Then he left.
The sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have.
And just like that—
he was gone.
For a moment, no one moved.
The house fell into a silence so deep it felt almost unfamiliar.
And then—
Diya broke.
She rushed forward without warning, wrapping her arms tightly around Mom, burying her face into her shoulder as the tears she had been holding back finally spilled over. Her small frame shook with the force of it, the weight of everything crashing down all at once.
“Ma…” she cried softly.
I stepped closer, my hand coming to rest on her shoulder, gripping it gently but firmly—an attempt to ground her, to remind her she wasn’t alone in this.
Mom closed her eyes for a brief second, holding her tightly, her own strength wavering just enough to show. But then, like she always did, she pulled herself together. Slowly, she ran her hand through Diya’s hair, her voice steady when she finally spoke.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “We’ll be okay.”
I wasn’t sure if she was convincing Diya—
or herself.
After a few moments, she gently pulled back, wiping Diya’s tears before glancing at both of us.
“Go on,” she said softly, her composure settling back into place. “You both have things to do. Don’t let this affect your day.”
It already had.
But we nodded anyway.
Because that’s what she needed.
Because that’s what we all needed—to pretend, even if just for a little while, that things could still move forward.
Diya sniffed, wiping her face before turning toward me, her voice quieter now but steadier than before. “Bhai… can you drop me at Niyati’s? We’re going to apply for college. We thought we’d do it together.”
Niyati.
The name hit me harder than I expected.
Something shifted instantly, subtle but undeniable, the fragile balance inside me tipping just slightly off-center. My jaw tightened, my gaze dropping for a second before I could stop it.
Memories didn’t come slowly.
They rushed in.
Uninvited.
Uncontrolled.
And just like that—
I was back there.
Back to the days I had started pulling away.
Back to the messages I had seen and ignored.
Back to the calls I had let ring until they stopped.
It hadn’t happened all at once.
I hadn’t woken up one day and decided to shut her out.
It had started small.
A delayed reply here.
A missed call there.
“I’ll text you later.”
“I’m busy.”
“Not now.”
At first, I told myself it was temporary. That I just needed time. That things would settle, and I’d go back to her, back to us, like nothing had changed.
But things didn’t settle.
They got worse.
Every day at home felt heavier than the last. Mom barely slept. Diya tried to act normal but failed in the quiet moments when she thought no one was looking. And me—
I was stuck in the middle of it all, trying to hold things together in a way I didn’t even understand.
And somewhere along the way, I made a choice.
A selfish one.
Or maybe a necessary one.
I stopped trying to balance everything.
I stopped trying to be everything for everyone.
Because I couldn’t.
I didn’t have it in me.
So I focused on the only two people who needed me the most.
Mom.
Diya.
Apart from them—
nothing else mattered.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
That it was better this way.
That pushing Niyati away would hurt less than letting her stay and dealing with everything falling apart around us.
I didn’t want to hurt her.
That was the truth.
But there was already too much on my plate, too much I was trying—and failing—to handle.
And in the middle of all that—
I chose to let her go.
Even if it meant breaking something that once meant everything to me.
“Bhai?”
Diya’s voice pulled me back so abruptly that it felt like I had been dragged out of somewhere deep and dark without warning. I blinked, my surroundings coming back into focus slowly, the weight of the past loosening its grip just enough for me to breathe again.
She was standing right in front of me now, her brows slightly furrowed, her hand still lightly gripping my arm from where she had shaken me.
“Niyati’s house?” she repeated, a little more carefully this time, as if unsure whether I had even heard her the first time.
For a second, I just looked at her.
Then I nodded.
“Yeah… go get ready,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’ll drop you.”
She studied me for a brief moment, like she wanted to ask something more, but then she simply nodded back. “Okay,” she murmured before turning and heading toward her room.
I watched her disappear down the hallway, the soft click of her door echoing faintly in the quiet house.
And just like that—
I was alone with my thoughts again.
I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I leaned back against the wall, staring at nothing in particular.
It’s been two months.
Two months since that day.
Two months since I last saw her.
Since I stood in front of her and said the words I never thought I would.
Since I walked away.
The memory didn’t hit as sharply this time, but it lingered—heavy, persistent, impossible to ignore.
Niyati.
Even thinking her name felt different now.
Distant.
Like something that used to belong to me but didn’t anymore.
I let out a quiet, humorless breath, my gaze dropping to the floor.
How am I supposed to face her?
The question settled in my mind, unanswered and uncomfortable.
Because I knew this wasn’t just about seeing her after a long time.
It was about everything that had been left unsaid.
Everything I had avoided.
Everything I had chosen to walk away from without giving her the closure she deserved.
I had convinced myself back then that I was doing the right thing. That distancing myself was better than dragging her into the mess my life had become. That she would be better off without me showing up half-present, distracted, burdened.
But standing here now—
I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Because no matter how much I had tried to push it aside, one thing hadn’t changed.
She still mattered.
More than I wanted to admit.
More than I had allowed myself to think about.
And now, in just a few minutes, I was going to be standing in front of her again like nothing had happened.
Like I hadn’t been the one to break it.
Like I hadn’t been the one to walk away.
I closed my eyes briefly, my jaw tightening as the weight of it all settled in.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
Not for her.
And definitely not for me.