BREATHLESS
ANAMIKA
I make it through three corridors before my body gives up pretending it's fine.
My feet stop moving without asking me first.
The silver tray feels unbearably heavy in my hands, my chest is tight enough to hurt, and every breath catches somewhere halfway—refusing to go any deeper.
I know this corridor.
Even before I properly look around, my feet have already brought me here.
A narrow stretch near the old library, tucked away from the main passage where the palace traffic rarely reaches.
As children, this had been my hiding place.
Whenever I cried after being scolded, whenever life inside these walls became too loud, whenever I needed five minutes where nobody expected anything from me, I'd slip into this little alcove and wait until my heart settled.
Apparently, even after eight years . . . My body remembers where it once felt safe.
I step into the shadowed corner and lean back against the cool stone wall.
The cold seeps through my uniform immediately, grounding me for all of two seconds before another shaky breath escapes my lips.
No.
Not here.
Please, not here.
I close my eyes and try to breathe properly.
Slowly.
In.
Out.
Again.
My lungs refuse to cooperate. The air comes in uneven bursts, each breath shorter than the last, until it feels like I'm chasing oxygen that keeps slipping just out of reach.
My knees buckle. I don't even try to stop them. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, pulling my knees against my chest on instinct. The rough fabric of the uniform gathers awkwardly around my legs, but I barely notice it.
I wrap both arms around myself. As though if I hold on tightly enough . . . the rest of me won't fall apart too.
I knew this could happen. The moment I accepted the job. The moment I realised there were no more options left. No miracle waiting around the corner. No interview call. No last-minute opportunity. Just this.
This palace.
These walls.
And him.
I had prepared myself for returning here. Or at least I thought I had. I'd repeated the same thing to myself over and over during the train ride back to Devgarh.
You're staff now.
People like you disappear into the background.
Kings don't notice the women serving tea.
You'll lower your eyes. He'll walk past. Life will go on.
Simple.
Manageable.
I could do manageable. What I hadn't prepared for . . . Was carrying coffee into his study. I hadn't prepared for hearing his voice tell me to come in. I hadn't prepared for looking up . . . and finding him looking back.
Most of all . . . I hadn't prepared for the way he recognised me. Instantly.
No hesitation.
No confusion.
No searching.
One look. That was all it took. I press my forehead against my knees and close my eyes.
Just thirty seconds. That's all I allow myself.
Thirty seconds to stop pretending. Thirty seconds to feel everything instead of pushing it back down where it belongs.
Because if I'm being completely honest .
. . Isn't this exactly what I'd secretly wanted?
Some tiny, foolish part of me—the part I thought life had beaten out of me years ago—had wished for this.
Not for him to love me.
Not even for him to speak to me.
Just . . . To know me. To look past the extra weight. Past the brown hair. Past the years that have left exhaustion where confidence used to live. To somehow see the girl underneath all of it and think—There you are.
He did. And now I don't know what to do with that. A laugh threatens somewhere inside me. It never reaches my lips.
Funny.
You spend years convincing yourself you've stopped hoping . . . until hope suddenly looks you in the eyes and says your childhood nickname.
I tighten my arms around my knees until the ache in my shoulders gives me something else to focus on. A memory slips in anyway.
I was almost sixteen, hiding on the palace ramparts after escaping another unbearably dull and frustrating scolding session. Yuvaan was supposed to be studying. His economics notebook was open in front of him, though I don't think he read a single page because I kept stealing it every five minutes.
"Stop," he complained, trying to pull it back.
"I just need one page."
"You've said that about six pages."
"I'll become famous one day, and you'll sell this notebook for crores because it has my original sketches."
He had snorted. "I'd rather frame it to remind myself how much of a menace you were."
I stuck my tongue out at him and continued drawing anyway. A crooked little shop. Books spilling from wooden shelves. A window seat buried beneath cushions. Potted plants hanging near the entrance.
Nothing extravagant.
Just . . . peaceful.
He watched me for a long time before quietly asking, "You already have the whole place planned, don't you?"
Every tiny detail. Down to the smell of coffee near the entrance and the cat that would absolutely ignore customers. I remember smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. Back then, dreaming had been effortless.
I didn't stop to wonder whether life would allow it. I simply assumed it would. The memory fades, leaving behind an ache that's difficult to name.
Maybe that's what I miss the most. Not the bookshop. Not Mumbai. Not even the future I'd imagined.
I miss the girl who believed the world was something she could shape with nothing more than stubbornness and hard work.
She never stopped to calculate what things would cost her. She never looked over her shoulder before laughing. She never measured every decision against survival.
Somewhere along the way . . . that girl became someone I only meet in memories. I draw in a slow breath and look at the blank stone wall opposite me.
For a strange, painful moment, it feels as though Yuvaan had recognised her before I could. And I don't know whether that thought comforts me . . . or breaks my heart a little more.
My breathing has steadied. My thoughts haven't.
He recognised me.
That thought keeps returning no matter how many times I push it away.
How?
I don't even recognise myself some mornings. There are days I catch my reflection unexpectedly and have to look twice. Life has a way of changing you in places mirrors can't explain.
It changes how you stand. How quickly you smile. How tightly your shoulders stay pulled together, even when no one is threatening you anymore.
And yet . . . He looked at me for barely a heartbeat.
And he knew. All those ridiculous scenes from old films Maa and I used to watch suddenly don't seem so ridiculous anymore. I'd always laughed when the hero recognised the heroine despite a disguise, a haircut, or years apart.
Life doesn't work like that, I'd thought. Real life lets people disappear.
Apparently . . . Not always.
Stop.
I close my eyes again. Enough. You're not here for him. You've never had the luxury of being here for him. Not after that day. Especially not after two pink lines quietly rearranged the future I'd spent years planning. Everything after that had revolved around one tiny heartbeat.
Everything still does.
You're here because Sara needs food.
School fees. A roof that doesn't leak every monsoon. A childhood better than yours. Every decision you make from now on belongs to her. Only her.
I let out a slow breath. Calling Yuvaan a distraction almost feels insulting.
Distractions are temporary. They come and go.
What I feel for him has never been temporary.
It shaped my entire adolescence. Sat quietly beneath every dream I ever built.
Found its way into every version of my future without asking permission.
I've loved him for so long that I genuinely don't remember when it began. I loved him in Devgarh. I loved him in Mumbai. I loved him through hospital waiting rooms, tiny rented apartments, unpaid bills, sleepless nights, and every single moment I told myself I'd finally moved on.
Love didn't leave.
Life simply grew around it. I laugh softly. Bitterly. Who exactly am I trying to fool? He is the Maharaja of Devgarh now. Not just by title. By every expectation resting on his shoulders. By every newspaper article. Every public appearance. Every decision.
He belongs to an entire state.
And I'm . . . A kitchen maid.
A single mother.
A woman with a daughter whose world begins and ends with me.
There isn't a future where those two lives meet. Not anymore. Years ago, sitting in the palace sunroom, I'd made him a promise.
Half teasing.
Half serious.
"One day," I'd declared proudly, "I'll come back bigger, better . . . and you'll have to pretend you always knew I'd become famous."
I smile despite myself.
God.
How young we were.
I didn't come back bigger. I came back carrying burdens instead of achievements. Dreams replaced by responsibilities.
Hope replaced by survival.
And tucked quietly behind all of it . . . A truth that could destroy whatever impossible hope still refuses to die inside me.
Sara.
Just her existence would be enough. Enough to draw a line between our worlds that no amount of love could ever cross. I press the heels of my palms against my closed eyes until little bursts of colour dance behind my eyelids.
One breath.
Then another.
Then one more.
Slowly . . . The pressure inside my chest begins to loosen. Not disappear. Just settle into the familiar ache I've learned to carry.
I can't stay here forever.
Sara is waiting for me.
The kitchen is waiting for me.
Lunch service won't stop because the Maharaja remembered the nickname he'd given me when we were children.
I wipe beneath my eyes before any tears can actually fall.
Push myself to my feet. Smooth the wrinkles from my apron with hands that are finally steady enough to pass unnoticed.
One last breath. Then I step back into the corridor. I don't look behind me. I never do.
Because if the last seven years have taught me anything . . . It's that every time I've looked back, I've found another reason to miss the life I couldn't keep.
And missing it has never once made it easier to carry.