Chapter 32 Through the Fracture
The past never dies; it waits in shadows to remind us.
- Adhrita Vritant Vardhan
Hey everyone! ??
Navratri has started today, so I'll be a bit busy. Chapter updates might be slightly delayed, but I won't keep you waiting for too long. Just a heads-up! ???
She was getting ready at her vanity when Vritant came out of the washroom and tossed his towel onto the bed. She caught the movement in the mirror but said nothing. He changed quickly, disappeared into the dressing room, and returned while she was combing her hair.
"I'll be leaving for Mumbai in two days," he said. She only hummed in reply.
Opening the drawer, she took out the car key.
He stepped up to the vanity, dropped his wristwatch there, then his tie. She glanced at him but stayed silent. He went back to the wardrobe and returned with three more watches. One by one, he tried them on, studying himself in the mirror, then discarded them all on her vanity.
"Where's my black tie?" he asked, adjusting his cufflinks.
She knew he was only teasing her - he had hundreds of ties and had never cared about any particular one. Wordlessly, she walked to another wardrobe, pulled out a random black tie, and handed it to him.
"Yes, this one," he said, knotting it around his collar.
She sighed, picked up her bag, and was about to leave when his voice stopped her again.
"My wallet? Where did you put it?" he asked, running a comb through his hair.
She halted, fetched his wallet from its usual place, then opened another drawer and gathered the rest of his essentials - the black deck of cards, his lighter, the paperweight, his phone, and his car key. She set them neatly on the table for him, within reach.
He had never asked for anything this way, never behaved like a husband. And now, suddenly, he was making her fetch and arrange it all. Why? Since their return from the lake house that morning, he had been doing everything to unsettle her.
She thought perhaps he wanted her attention, but not her heart.
He had drawn a line she could not cross, and now he was daring her to step over it.
Every discarded watch, every misplaced tie, every question he already knew the answer to - it was not carelessness.
It was his way of keeping her near, binding her without ever saying so. And she, foolishly, obeyed.
Her fingers trembled when she placed the last of his things in order. It wasn't the weight of the objects but the weight of what he withheld. Love unsaid was louder than love denied.
She came downstairs and walked to the home temple. Karma ran up to her, refusing to sit still no matter how she tried.
"Karma, sit properly," Adhrita murmured as she settled beside Daadi.
But Karma, wide-eyed and restless - never having been in a temple before - squirmed until he finally sat at her side. Adhrita pressed a red tilak on his forehead, then bowed as Daadi touched a small dot of vermilion to hers. Together, they performed the aarti.
When Adhrita stepped out, she saw everyone was already gathered. She quietly took her seat, poured herself tea, drank quickly, and rose just as Vritant appeared at the top of the stairs.
She bent to kiss Karma, who immediately ran toward Vritant. Without waiting, Adhrita picked up her bag and left in haste - her phone was still ringing with calls from the hospital.
"Ma'am, your driver will be here in a few minutes. You're early today," one of the drivers said as he spotted her.
"No, it's fine. I'll drive," she replied, placing her bag in the backseat. Sliding into the driver's seat, she started the car.
The radio came alive, music filling the silence.
"Piya tose naina lage re..."
Her hands tightened on the wheel as her thoughts slipped back to last night at the lake house.
His warmth beside her, the way he held her, the brush of his lips on her hair.
A tremor ran through her. She closed her eyes - and the memory sharpened, crueler now.
His lips on hers, that fleeting peck, before he had pulled away.
She startled, opening her eyes quickly, the road blurring.
"Raat ko jab chaand chamke, jal uthe tan mera
Main kahoon mat kar o chanda, iss gali ka fera..."
Her foot eased off the accelerator, and she pulled the car to the side of the road. She lowered her head onto the steering wheel, shutting her eyes.
"Aana mora saiyan jab aaye
Chamakna us raat ko jab milenge tan mann...
Piya tose naina lage re, naina lage re..."
A few tears slipped free, wetting her cheeks. Her fingers dug into the steering wheel as her phone buzzed. She answered with a whisper.
"Yes?"
"Mam, what happened?" one of the security men following behind asked.
"Nothing... I'm fine." She hung up quickly, restarted the car, and drove on, carrying the weight of the song in her chest.
At the hospital, she walked into her cabin, checked her schedule, and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. His words returned, sharp and merciless:
"I can't let you burn in my flame."
She jolted upright and rushed to the washroom. Staring at herself in the mirror, she whispered, "Am I not worthy of him?"
Her reflection stared back, silent but unforgiving. She clenched the sink.
"Worthy ki baat kaha se aa gayi, Adhrita? Tu pehle se jaanti thi - yeh shaadi tune sirf doctor bane rehne ke liye ki thi. Aur usne ek promise nibhaane ke liye. Usne kabhi jhoothe vaade, jhoothi umeedein di hi kahan? Tujhe sirf ek zimmedaari maana - aur tu... tu usmein pyaar dhoondhne lagi. Kyun?"
(Where did this talk of being 'worthy' come from, Adhrita?
You already knew - you got married only to remain a doctor.
And he did it to keep a promise. When did he ever make false promises or give false hopes?
He only considered you a responsibility - and you...
you started looking for love in it. Why?)
Her sobs echoed in the tiled walls. She splashed water on her face, wiped it with a towel, but when her gaze lifted back to the mirror, her eyes fell on the tiny cluster of moles on her neck.
Her fingers brushed them gently. "Wahin chhua tha usne... pehli baar, jaise ek pati apni biwi ko."
(That's where he touched me... for the first time, like a husband touches his wife.)
Her throat tightened. She slid down onto the cold floor, knees drawn in.
"It was my fault. I kissed his neck first. Woh kyun chahega mujhe?
Woh kyun pyar karega mujhe? Main hi apne daayre ke aage badh gayi...
Aur main hoon hi kya? Sirf ek doctor. Ek padhaku ladki.
Aur normal bhi kya hai humare beech? Hum bas do log hai, jo ek rishtay mein baandh diye gaye, jo ek doosre ka sahara ban sakte hai. Sirf... sahara."
(It was my fault. I kissed his neck first. Why would he want me?
Why would he love me? I overstepped my boundaries...
and what am I anyway? Just a doctor. A studious girl.
And what is normal between us anyway? We're just two people bound in a relationship, who can be a support for each other. Just... support.)
Her tears refused to stop. She pressed her forehead to her knees, whispering, "I have to control myself.
I can't let my emotions destroy me. I know, Adhrita, you want your husband, his protection, his presence - but his safety is not love.
Tera pyaar hamesha kitaabon mein tha, aur wahi rahega.
Tu khud ki zindagi nahi sawar sakti, toh kisi aur ki bana de. That's who you are."
(I have to control myself. I can't let my emotions destroy me.
I know, Adhrita, you want your husband, his protection, his presence - but his safety is not love.
Your love has always lived in books, and it will always remain there.
If you can't make your own life meaningful, don't try to make someone else's. That's who you are.)
Wiping her face, she pulled herself up, steadied her shoulders, and walked out of the washroom - the ache of the song still clinging to her heart.
When she stepped out of the washroom, her secretary was already waiting, tablet in hand, voice calm but urgent.
"Dr. Adhrita, there's an emergency case. The chief of ER has requested you in the trauma bay. Patient is critical."
Adhrita inhaled, shoulders straightening as she slipped effortlessly back into her professional skin.
"Details?"
"Male, 32, massive internal bleeding from a highway accident. Preliminary scans suggest liver laceration and suspected vascular tear. The ER team is stabilizing, but they need you in OT immediately."
She gave a single nod, decisive.
"Prep the OT. Inform anesthesiology and call the vascular team on standby. I'll scrub in within five minutes."
With that, she walked toward her private changing suite attached to her office, shedding her outfit and slipping into sterile scrubs with practiced efficiency.
By the time she entered the operating theatre, the room fell into quiet respect.
Nurses straightened, assistants paused mid-step, and all eyes followed her as she took her place at the table.
She did not intimidate out of cruelty-her authority came from skill, precision, and an unwavering calm.
The surgery began.
The surgery stretched on. Hour after hour, her hands moved with precision, steady even as the tension in the room thickened. Nurses replaced instruments, monitors screamed warnings, but Adhrita's voice stayed calm, firm, decisive.
She walked swiftly into her private changing suite and into fresh scrubs. The mask, cap, gloves - her armor - went on in seconds. By the time she pushed open the OT doors, the atmosphere had shifted. Nurses stood straighter. Junior surgeons fell silent. Her presence commanded the room.
"Vitals?" she asked, already scrubbing in.
"BP 80 over 60, pulse thready. He's crashing, ma'am."
"Not on my table," she said, voice firm. "Scalpel."
The first incision was made.
Hours blurred. The bright surgical lamps bore down as her hands moved with practiced grace, stitching, clamping, suturing.
Blood loss threatened at every turn. Once, the monitor flatlined, and a nurse gasped.
Adhrita didn't flinch. "CPR. Adrenaline.
Charge to 200." Her voice cut through the chaos like steel.
The patient's heart stuttered back. She continued, unshaken.
Six hours in, her back ached, and sweat clung beneath her mask, but her hands remained steady. Every vessel sealed, every torn tissue repaired, every risk anticipated before it could spiral out of control. The team around her stole glances - they were exhausted, but she was relentless.
By the ninth hour, the bleeding was finally under control. Sutures closed the last wound. The monitors steadied into a rhythmic beep. Relief spread like a ripple through the OT, but Adhrita only allowed herself a single deep breath.
"Close him up. Shift to ICU," she instructed, stripping off her gloves.
The final sutures were tied. Monitors steadied. The patient was wheeled toward ICU. Adhrita stripped off her gloves and mask, her shoulders tight with fatigue but her expression calm, controlled.
Outside, day turned into dusk, and dusk into night. Ten long hours passed before the last suture was tied, the bleeding controlled, and the patient stabilized. She exhaled deeply, fatigue pressing down on her, but her spine remained straight.
She glanced at the clock. Ten hours of unbroken battle - her body was aching, but her heart felt strangely lighter. In the sterile brightness of the OT, surrounded by beeping machines and exhausted faces, she had found her escape, her anchor: her work.
She walked back to her private suite, stripped off the blood-stained scrubs, and slipped into her saree once more. The transformation was practiced, but her body was heavy from ten hours of unbroken focus. She adjusted her hair, inhaled deeply, and pushed open the door to her cabin.
Her steps halted.
Vritant was there - seated casually in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, as though the office belonged to him. The dim light from her desk lamp caught the sharp lines of his face, unreadable, perfectly composed.
It was 10:30 PM.
He looked up as she entered.
"Tired?" he asked simply.
Adhrita just nodded, her throat too heavy for words. She moved past him, gathering her laptop, files, and essentials with quiet efficiency.
When they reached the basement, Vritant walked ahead and opened the car door. "I'll drive," he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
She didn't argue. Sliding into the passenger seat, she leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes, and let the silence fill the space between them. Not a word was exchanged during the ride. Only the steady hum of the engine carried them home.
As soon as they arrived, Adhrita went straight upstairs. She shed the weight of her day in the washroom, changing into her night suit, her skin still damp from the cold splash of water.
Stepping into the balcony, she found Karma waiting eagerly, his tail wagging, eyes bright. The moment he saw her, he bounded forward and leapt into her arms. A faint smile curved her lips as she gathered him close, his warmth seeping into her weariness.
"I missed you, Karma," she whispered, pressing her cheek against his soft fur.
She sank onto the daybed, curled into the cushions with Karma snuggled against her chest. The cool night air brushed her face, the quiet of the balcony wrapping her like a lullaby. Within moments, her eyes drifted shut, sleep claiming her before she could even think of Vritant again.
She stirred when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Someone was calling her name softly.
"Adhrita..."
She turned to the other side, refusing to open her eyes. The cushion dipped as someone sat down beside her. With a faint sigh of irritation, she blinked open - and saw Vritant.
"You forgot to have dinner," he whispered.
"I don't want to eat. I just want to sleep," she mumbled, eyes already closing again.
"Doctor sahiba, dinner," he repeated, his voice firmer this time.
When she still didn't move, she suddenly felt his arm slip around her waist, pulling her gently upright.
Startled, she rubbed her eyes, her body instantly alert.
Without saying a word, she got up and walked toward the sofa, where the dinner had been laid out.
He followed, quiet and unhurried, and sat beside her.
Taking the plate, he served for her. The moment he lifted the spoon toward her, she intercepted, taking it from his hand.
"You must be tired. I'll eat myself," she said softly, and began eating.
He didn't argue. Instead, he served himself a small portion and ate beside her. The silence between them was comfortable, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery.
After dinner, Adhrita returned to the bedroom. She lay down on the bed, Karma curling loyally by her side. A moment later, she felt the mattress dip - Vritant had settled behind her. She closed her eyes quickly, not wanting her thoughts to spiral.
Then she felt it - his hand on her back, massaging gently over the fabric of her night suit.
"It's fine, Vritant. I'll apply the spray myself," she murmured, fumbling for the side drawer. She managed to spray her back awkwardly, wincing at the angle.
Before she could continue, he took the bottle from her hand. With quiet efficiency, he shifted her shirt slightly and sprayed evenly across her tired muscles. The cooling sensation spread, and her body finally relaxed.
Her lips parted to say something, but exhaustion drowned her words. Her eyes fluttered shut, and within moments, sleep pulled her under - his touch lingering like an unanswered question.
??? V ? A ???
When Adhrita woke the next morning, the space beside her was empty. She blinked, adjusting to the pale light seeping through the curtains, and her gaze wandered around the room.
He was there - on the sofa, half sitting, half lying, his laptop still balanced on his lap. One arm dangled to the floor, fingers loosely curled around his lighter.
She pushed the covers aside, yawning softly, and padded toward him. Carefully, she lifted the laptop from his lap and placed it on the table. Then she gently pried the lighter from his grip and laid his hand back on the sofa cushion.
For a moment, her eyes lingered on him. There were faint dried tear stains at the corners of his eyes. Her chest tightened. She reached out, hesitantly, and with the pad of her finger caressed the corner of his eye - erasing what remained of a night she could not know.
Her gaze softened as she studied his troubled face, his hair falling across his forehead in unruly strands. Almost unconsciously, she brushed them back, her touch feather-light.
Then awareness struck her. Her hand stilled. She straightened quickly, drawing back as though she had crossed a boundary. Without another glance, she turned away and hurried into the washroom, shutting the door behind her.
Adhrita dressed quickly and was already coming down the stairs before Vritant had even stepped out of the washroom. The sharp click of her heels against the marble floor was suddenly drowned by Aasha Tai's panicked voice.
"Vedashree Tai gir gayi!"
(Vedashree Tai has fallen!)
Adhrita's head snapped up. Her heartbeat quickened as she descended the remaining stairs two at a time. Near the dining table, Vedashree lay on the floor, her face pale, sweat glistening at her temples. Aasha Tai was bent over her, trembling.
"Adhrita, dekhna!" Tai grabbed Adhrita's hand desperately as she reached them.
(Adhrita, look!)
Adhrita dropped to her knees beside Vedashree, her training overriding her panic. She pressed two fingers to her wrist - pulse was rapid, weak. She leaned closer, her eyes scanning every sign: clammy skin, shallow breathing, pupils slightly dilated.
Her own palms grew damp. This isn't just anyone. This is the Prime Minister. And my mother-in-law.
"She's conscious but extremely weak. Likely stress-induced syncope," Adhrita murmured, her voice low but commanding. "We'll need to get her to the hospital immediately for observation."
Security and staff scrambled, but Dev Vardhan, Vritant's uncle, took charge, arranging the convoy and personally helping Adhrita carry Vedashree into the car. Adhrita stayed close, monitoring her vitals and speaking soothingly during the ride.
At the hospital, Vedashree had regained some color but remained fragile. Adhrita quickly ran a bedside check - pulse, blood pressure, neurological responsiveness, and ordered a quick blood sugar and ECG. Everything was normal.
She addressed the team calmly, "It's stress. Overwork and exhaustion caused this episode. She's physically fine, but she needs rest, hydration, and monitoring for the next few hours."
Dev Vardhan and Aasha Tai both visibly relaxed, and even Vedashree managed a weak smile. Adhrita allowed herself a brief sigh, tension still coiled in her shoulders, knowing she had handled the crisis efficiently.
Just as Adhrita opened the door to step out, she saw Vritant standing there.
"She's fine - it was because of stress," she whispered.
He gave a small nod, his eyes steady on hers. She glanced around; the corridor was swarming with security. Her mother-in-law was the Prime Minister, after all.
Sudarshan Rao arrived, and Adhrita quickly briefed him on the situation. Moments later, Dr. Gupta approached. "We can discharge her in some time." Sudarshan ji nodded, and government security seamlessly took over.
Adhrita turned toward her cabin, and Vritant followed silently behind.
Inside, he spoke at last, his voice low. "I wanted you to see Dr. Radhika Mehta."
She settled into her chair, frowning slightly. "For what?"
"After the riots, you never spoke about it," he said, taking the chair opposite hers.
Adhrita kept her eyes on her laptop. "I'm fine. Yes, it scares me sometimes... but I'm fine." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Just then, a nurse entered and placed Vedashree's file on the desk before leaving. Vritant reached for it, scanning the numbers quickly.
"You'll be alone tonight," he said absently, still reading.
"I already scheduled night shifts," she replied, watching him put the file back on the table. She studied his face, searching for something - concern, softness, anything - but it revealed nothing.
He didn't say another word. Rising quietly, he walked out, leaving the room heavy with silence.
Adhrita sighed, sinking back in her chair.
After some time, the door opened again. Vritant stepped in, carrying a bag. Without a word, he sat down opposite her, opened the containers one by one, and slid them across the desk toward her.
"I understand you don't want to talk to me or even see my face," he said quietly, pushing a glass of juice to her side, "but please... have food."
"Vritant-" she began, but the words died on her lips. She had noticed it: a faint tremor in his hand.
Her chair scraped softly against the floor as she stood and walked over to him. Sitting beside him, she caught his hand gently in hers.
"Why tremors?" she asked, her brows knitting.
"Probably I'm hungry," he muttered, avoiding her eyes as he pulled his hand back.
"Pagal hoon main?" she snapped, her voice low but firm.
(Am I crazy?)
Instead of answering, he picked up the plate and offered her poha. She sighed, realizing he wouldn't share until she complied. Resigned, she opened her mouth, letting him feed her the first bite. She ate silently, then accepted the juice he held out.
When she was finished, she rose to leave, but his hand caught her wrist. She turned, startled, meeting his gaze.
"If you're free... would you come with me?" he asked, his voice carrying a weight she couldn't quite decipher.
She hesitated, her eyes softening. "I'll see Mummy first," she murmured.
He nodded, releasing her hand.
By evening, the hospital had settled back into its rhythm. Vedashree had been discharged and was already on her way to the office. Adhrita reviewed her schedule, then packed up.
When she stepped back into her cabin, she found him there - head bent over his laptop, fingers flying across the keys.
"We can go," she said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
He closed the laptop without a word and rose. Together, they walked out of the hospital side by side.
??? V ? A ???
When they reached Mrigtrishna, Adhrita smiled at the sight of the little house - and then stopped, the memory of the lake house that night catching like a stone in her throat.
A carved board above the steps read MRIGATRISHNA.
So this was its name. She remembered, dimly, him once calling her that - a mirage, a longing.
She climbed the creaking wooden stairs. In daylight the place looked different: the shadows that had seemed to swallow corners last night were gone.
Candle-stands sat in the alcoves, a small chandelier tinkled faintly overhead, and the house felt like something set between two worlds - half dream, half memory.
"Sit," he said. She sank onto the bed. Vritant went to the cupboard and returned with a wooden box. He sat down on the floor at her feet and opened it carefully.
He took out photographs one by one and handed them to her.
The color drained from her face. The images showed two young men in suicide jackets. Adhrita's breath hitched.
"He was my brother... my echo," Vritant said in a voice that had the brittle edge of remembered terror. "You know him. He died in the car blast. He was wearing the bomb."
He handed her another photograph - the same man, this time without the jacket. Adhrita's fingers trembled so badly the photos slipped from her grip and scattered across the floor.
"Terrorists had plans," Vritant whispered.
"They told me to leave him. I wanted to die with him.
He wouldn't listen. I crawled out of the car - my shoelace caught, I fell - and then I saw him, burning.
I was spared because of him. He saved me.
We... we could only collect what remained.
We cremated the pieces, not him." His voice broke; he could not make it gentler.
The photos slipped from her hand and fluttered onto the planks. Adhrita felt the room narrow. She sank to her knees beside him.
"Main apni biwi ko hurt nahi dekh paunga," he said, the words raw and wet, and then he rested his head against her knees. She bent down and folded him into her arms.
(I won't be able to see my wife hurt)
"I am cursed, Hrita. I will take you down with me." His confession was a confession and a warning.
"Please - nahi," she said, voice shaking.
(Please - no)
"Look at your hands, look at your neck. You still want more examples?" he asked, eyes hollow with the weight he carried.
She pressed her palm to his mouth to silence him. He gripped her hand hard, as if anchor and lifeline could be one.
"One wrong step and you will lose everything. Your hands - they are your life," he said, but his sentence stalled beneath all that grief.
She cupped his face, lifted it to hers, and kissed his brow. Again and again she kissed him, letting her tears fall on his cheeks. He leaned into her, and they held each other as though that embrace might rewrite what had been written.
"Vrit..." she whispered through her sobs.
"Haan, Hrita?" he answered, voice small.
"Can you postpone your Mumbai trip?" she asked, sudden and desperate.
He let out a short, almost bitter chuckle, then gave her a look that was equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement. "Oh, sure - because my wife is asking me, for the first time," he said, the sarcasm soft but unmistakable, as if mocking both himself and the rare intimacy of the request.
For a long moment they sat like that, the house around them holding its breath.
"I thought you rejected me," she whispered, moving to sit beside him.
Vritant silently gathered the scattered photographs, placed them back into the box, and returned it to the cupboard. As he did, his wallet slipped to the floor. Adhrita picked it up, her eyes catching on a faded photo tucked inside - him and his echo, smiling in a moment that no longer existed.
Her fingers traced the worn edges, recalling everything he had just confessed.
Something hard pressed beneath the photo.
Curious, she slid it out and found a small silver coin, smeared faintly with vermillion.
Her breath stilled. It was the very coin he had used to fill her maang on their wedding day. He had kept it close all this time?
Before he returned, she quickly slipped it back into place and set the wallet where it had been.
Vritant came back to her side, lowered himself slowly, and rested his head on her lap. For a moment, the weight of him there made her chest ache.
"If I wanted to reject you," he murmured, eyes closed, "I wouldn't have made you my wife." His hand found hers, fingers idly tracing hers as if they were a puzzle he never solved.
Silence stretched, heavy and fragile. Then, in a voice softer than her heartbeat, she asked, "Vritant... you can't love me, but I can... right?"
He stopped fiddling with her fingers, his grip tightening instead.
"I told you, Hrita - I can't watch you ruin your life for me.
Protecting you doesn't just mean from bombs or bullets, it means from yourself too.
Unrequited love... that's slower, crueler.
And you-" he let out a humorless laugh, "you deserve sunshine, not this...
pitch darkness I am. Khubsurat cheezon ka saaya utna kaala hota hai, main toh pura andhera hoon.
You had New York, a clean slate, a future.
But no - you chose me. So maybe let's just draw the line here before you make the Guinness record for worst life choices. "
(Beautiful things cast the darkest shadows, and I'm nothing but darkness.)
He took the hand towards his mouth and bit her palm and she yelled.
"What? You bit me the other day" she laughed and pushed his hair back from his forehead.
She bent down and pecked his lips and he stopped.
"I kissed you again, what now?", she whispered near his lips and then again a peck
"Don't, Hrita," he warned, his voice low, his jaw tight.
She leaned closer, her lips grazing his again, soft laughter escaping her. His eyes shut for a second, as though fighting with himself.
"Don't..." he repeated, but it came out shakier this time.
Her breath warmed his skin; her laughter brushed against his mouth. The restraint in him trembled, fraying at the edges. He tried to turn his head away, but she followed, lips brushing his again - light, insistent, impossible to ignore.
At last, something inside him snapped. He leaned forward, closing the final inch between them. His hand slid behind her head, gripping tight as if he could no longer let her escape, and he kissed her - not gently, but with the force of everything he had been holding back.
He lifted himself slowly from her lap, pulling the pin from her hair. Her long tresses cascaded down her back, and she broke the kiss to catch her breath.
Without a word, he twisted her hair around his hand, tugging gently to expose the nape of her neck. He took the delicate skin between his teeth, and she let out a sharp yelp.
Then, softer now, he pressed a fleeting kiss to the hickey he had left and rested his forehead against her shoulder.
"Hrita... I..." His voice faltered; he had lost control, and he knew it.
"If you're not regretting it, allow yourself to feel something else... other than pain," she whispered, her fingers threading into his hair, soothing.
"Never. I never regret... but I said I can't ruin you... I..." he stammered, torn.
Her lips brushed his ear as she murmured, "I could feel unrequited love on my lips... on my neck." She paused, letting the weight of her words hang when he remained silent.
She teased, a small smirk in her voice, "Seems I've made Mr. Vritant Vardhan speechless."
He remained still for a moment, forehead pressed to her shoulder, fingers tangled in her hair. The room was quiet except for their breaths, heavy and unsteady.
For once, words failed him. And for once, she didn't need them.
Adhrita felt the weight of everything unspoken - his restraint, his fear, his care - and allowed herself to simply be there with him, in that suspended, fragile moment.
Outside, the world could wait. Inside Mrigtrishna, for now, there was only this - only them.
He carries guilt, she carries longing, and Mriga Trishna carries too many candle shadows.
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