Chapter 3 #2
“Trust me, you’re not.” He takes in a shaky breath. “Loving you doesn’t mean expecting you to love me back. I just… couldn’t keep it inside me anymore.”
My throat tightens with the effort of holding back tears, and as if he can feel it, he gently cups my cheek.
“Hey… don’t worry,” he murmurs. “My love won’t ruin our friendship. You hear me?”
I nod slowly.
He taps my nose with his finger like he always does when he wants to lighten the mood. “Good. Now stop looking like you’re attending my funeral.”
A weak laugh escapes me, and I hit his chest lightly. “Shut up.”
“Come on,” he says, straightening. “Work calls.”
I nod, and we walk back to the car. He starts the engine and hums along to his favourite Bollywood songs, trying to make everything feel normal. But I feel anything but. My thoughts are scattered, still tangled in his confession.
When he finally pulls up in front of the office building, he shifts into park and turns to me.
“Listen, I’ve got an outdoor meeting, so I won’t be in the office for a few hours,” he says. “But I’ll try to come back before closing so we can talk to Mr. Keshav about your article together.”
I shake my head, gripping the strap of my bag. “I want to talk to Mr. Keshav on my own.”
He hesitates for a moment before agreeing. “Alright. If that’s what you want. Just keep me updated, okay?”
“I will.”
He gently ruffles my hair. “Go rock it. I’ll see you later.”
I smile softly and swat his hand away. “Later.”
I step out of the car, but his voice stops me.
“Meera?”
I bend a little, leaning back towards the open door. “Yup?”
His eyes search mine, worried and a little unsure. “We’re still the same… right?”
My throat constricts, but I force the words out. “Yeah… we are.”
He smiles back as I straighten and close the door, watching his car pull away, feeling both steady and shaky at the same time. Drawing in a deep breath, I turn and walk into the office.
I step into the glass building and take the elevator to the tenth floor, where our office is. Through the ride, my heart twists, caught between Samarth’s confession and the article.
The moment the doors slide open, the usual office buzz greets me. I walk straight towards the chief editor, Mr. Keshav’s, cabin.
Reaching his door, I knock once, and he immediately calls out, “Come in.”
I push the door open and step inside. He looks up from the draft he’s reading, his glasses sliding halfway down his nose.
“Meera, come in,” he says.
I step inside, closing the door behind me.
“Sir, there’s something important I need to discuss,” I say, standing in front of his desk.
He gestures towards the chair. “Sit.”
I do. For a second, I rehearse the beginning in my head as I study him. Mr. Keshav is in his late fifties, with streaks of silver running through his neatly combed black hair. His sharp eyes, framed by thin-rimmed glasses, miss nothing, and the faint lines around them speak of years of experience.
“I’ve got a lead,” I finally say, choosing my words carefully. “A strong one. Concrete evidence. I even have the article ready.” I slide the printed papers into a folder with the attached picture, and push it towards him.
His brows knit slightly, but he doesn’t even look at the folder. “On what subject?”
“On the Rathores and their involvement in—” I start, but he lifts a hand, cutting me off.
“Meera, drop it.”
“But sir, please, just read the story,” I plead, leaning forward and pressing my palms against the desk. “You have to see this.”
He removes his glasses and sets them on the table. “I am rejecting the story.”
I knew convincing him wouldn’t be easy, but I came prepared. “Give me a chance to explain. Please,” I press, leaning slightly forward. “Sir, you haven’t even heard the details.”
“I don’t need to. You’re heading into dangerous territory, and we’re not touching it,” he says firmly, his eyes sharp, warning me without raising his voice.
“You’re not getting it, sir. I have a lead that’s credible. I have proof. I just need—” I insist, but he cuts me off again.
“No.”
“Sir—”
He sighs. “Look, you’re good at what you do. But not every battle needs to be fought.”
I feel heat rise behind my eyes. “Then what’s the point of being a journalist if we can’t bring the truth to the people?”
He holds my gaze. “The point is to be smart enough to survive.”
“This article is important, sir.”
“So is my company,” he replies, lifting the folder and tossing it into the bin next to his desk. “Meera, I am not allowing this story. That’s final.”
I sit there, stunned, anger and disappointment swirling in my stomach like a storm.
Finally, he puts his glasses back on. “Work on the education reform piece. That’s your assignment now.”
I stand slowly.
“Understood,” I say, even though every part of me screams that I won’t back down.
I push the cabin door open when I hear his voice from behind.
“Meera.”
I pause and glance over my shoulder.
“It’s for your own good,” he says.
I don’t answer. I turn back to the door and step out.
This time, I don’t need anyone’s permission to tell the truth. I’ll find a way to tell it anyway.