31. THE GEOGRAPHY OF SCARS
VEERAJ
It's sometime after three in the morning when a strange noise pulls me out of a light sleep.
At first, I think I'm imagining it. Then I hear it again.
A soft, broken whisper. I turn my head toward the other side of the bed. Moonlight slips through the sheer curtains, filling the room with a pale glow.
Diya is tangled in the sheets, tossing restlessly. She's mumbling something I can't understand. Her breathing is uneven, coming in short, shaky breaths.
Then I see it.
Tears. They're sliding silently down her face even though she's still asleep.
My chest tightens. I've seen this woman walk through life with more courage than most people I know. But right now . . . She looks so painfully small.
"Diya," I say quietly.
I move closer and rest my hand gently on her shoulder. She's burning up with warmth, her muscles tight beneath my palm.
"Diya . . . wake up."
"You're dreaming." She frowns in her sleep, "it's okay, you're okay." She gasps. Her eyes fly open, and she jerks upright so suddenly that the blanket slips into her lap.
For a few terrifying seconds she doesn't seem to know where she is. Her eyes dart around the room, wide with panic. She's breathing too fast. Her hands clutch the sheets so tightly her knuckles turn white.
"Breathe," I tell her gently as I sit in front of her.
"Look at me."
She doesn't. She's still trapped somewhere between the nightmare and reality.
I carefully take hold of her wrists. Not tightly. Just enough to ground her.
"Look at my chest," I say softly.
"Match my breathing."
"In . . . " I take a slow breath.
" . . . hold it."
" . . . and out."
She tries.
The first attempt is shaky. The second is a little better. I keep breathing slowly until she follows my rhythm.
Minute by minute, the panic begins to fade. Her shoulders slowly relax. Her breathing steadies.
Finally, she lets out one long, trembling breath before lowering her forehead against my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. Her voice is rough from crying.
"I didn't mean to wake you." She pauses. "And . . . I'm sorry for making a scene in your bed."
Something inside me immediately bristles. Not because she woke me. Because she's apologizing. I gently place my fingers beneath her chin until she looks at me. "Don't do that."
My voice stays calm, but firm. "Don't apologize for something you can't control."
"If you have a nightmare, you wake me." I circle my arms around her shoulders expecting her to pull.
"If you're scared, you tell me." I gently tighten my hold when she doesn’t.
"You're allowed to cry in this room, Diya.
" Slowly I reach for her fingers, "You're allowed to have bad nights. " And I interlock them.
She lets out a tiny laugh, but it sounds more tired than amused. Her eyes fall to our hands. She doesn't move away.
If anything . . . She leans into my touch just a little.
"It was the orphanage," she says after a long silence. Her voice is barely above a whisper. "The old dormitory."
I stay quiet. She needs someone to listen.
"When I was little . . . before my father brought me home . . . nobody knew who I was."
"I was just . . . the strange girl with white patches on her skin."
She swallows hard. "The other children were told vitiligo was contagious."
"They wouldn't touch me."
"They hid my clothes."
"They called me horrible names."
Her voice breaks. "Sometimes . . . "
She closes her eyes. "Even the adults there locked me inside the storage room under the stairs." I feel every muscle in my body go rigid. "There were days when they forgot I was in there." Her breathing trembles again. "I stayed inside for two . . . sometimes three days."
"No food."
"No light."
"I screamed until my throat hurt."
She laughs softly. It's the saddest sound I've ever heard. "No one came."
"No one ever came."
For a long moment . . . I can't speak. My jaw locks so tightly it hurts. A hot wave of anger crashes through me. Not the controlled irritation I'm used to. Something far uglier.
Far more dangerous.
All I can picture is a little girl sitting alone in a dark room.
Hungry.
Terrified.
Waiting for someone who never comes.
I want to find every single person who allowed that to happen. Every child who laughed. Every adult who ignored her. Every person who failed her.
Diya looks up at me. She notices the anger on my face. Before I realize what she's doing, her fingers reach for my wrist. They lightly touch my palm. "Veeraj . . . "
Her voice is small. "Can you . . . hold me?"
She hesitates before finishing. "Just tonight."
"I don't want to sleep alone."
My heart stumbles. She isn't asking because she's teasing me. She isn't trying to win an argument. She's asking because she's frightened. Because tonight she simply doesn't want to be alone.
I don't answer with words. Instead, I pull the quilt back and open my arms.
She doesn't hesitate. She moves closer until she's tucked safely against my chest. Her knees curl toward mine. Her hands gather the front of my T-shirt, right above my heart.
She buries her face against my neck with a quiet sigh that sounds almost like relief.
I wrap my arms around her. One hand rests against the middle of her back.
The other slips around her waist, holding her close. She fits there so naturally that it almost scares me.
I rest my chin lightly on top of her head. Slowly, I run my hand up and down her back in quiet, reassuring circles.
Little by little, her breathing evens out. Within minutes, she's asleep again. This time peacefully.
I don't sleep.
I lie awake listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing against my chest.
Feeling the trust in the way she holds onto me. She still thinks she's difficult to like. Still thinks she's a burden. Still believes the scars on her skin make her less worthy of kindness. She couldn't be more wrong.
The prince who once believed he needed no one . . . The man who built walls around every part of himself . . . Didn't break the day she put salt in my tea.
He gave up the fight long before that.
I tighten my arms around her just a little more and press a soft kiss to the top of her head.
In the quiet darkness, I make myself a promise.
No one will ever make her feel alone again.
And no one will ever leave her crying in the dark.