CHAPTER 38
ISHIKA
By the time I reach home, the city has softened. The traffic is thinner, the noise less aggressive, the sky slipping into that dusky gray that makes everything feel like it’s exhaling after a long day. I should feel the same. I usually do.
Home has always meant quiet. Control. A place where nothing unexpected waits for me. I unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind me with a soft click. For a second, I just stand there, back pressed to the wood, eyes drifting shut.
Silence greets me. Silence that should feel familiar and comforting.
So why does it feel…loud tonight? I push myself off the door and slip my heels off, nudging them into their usual corner without looking.
My bag follows, dropped onto the chair by the table.
Everything falls into place the way it always does, muscle memory guiding me through the routine.
I turn the lights on and draw the curtains. I tie up my hair in a lazy bun and quickly fill a glass of water taking a sip as I lean against the kitchen counter, staring at nothing in particular.
It should end here. The day. The thoughts. Him. But it doesn’t.
Because the moment I stop moving, my mind goes right back to that office.
To him leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world.
To the way he calls me—Sunshine—like it belonged to him.
To the stupid tiffin sitting on my desk like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to bring me food.
I press my lips together and look away, like the memory is something I can physically avoid. It doesn’t work. I can still see it. Him watching me before I noticed. That quiet, unguarded look in his eyes. Like I was worth his attention even when I wasn’t performing for it. My chest tightens.
I set the glass down a little harder than necessary. This is exactly what I didn’t want. This…slipping. This softening. This constant awareness of him, even when he’s not in the room. I push away from the counter and walk toward the bedroom, forcing my thoughts back into something practical.
I change into something comfortable and sit at the edge of the bed for a moment before finally lying back.
The ceiling comes into view. I stare at it, waiting for my mind to quiet.
It doesn’t. Instead, it replays everything.
The way he walked in like he belonged there.
The way he didn’t even hesitate before telling me I hadn’t eaten.
The way he used his mother as an excuse like it wasn’t obvious he had arranged the whole thing.
A small, reluctant part of me presses at that thought.
Sure, he did bring tiffin for me occasionally before too but things have…changed. I shift on the bed, turning onto my side, then onto my back again, like changing positions will somehow rearrange my thoughts into something easier to deal with. It doesn’t work. It never does.
That night refuses to stay buried.
I can still feel it if I let myself. The warmth of him standing too close, the way the air had changed, like something was about to happen and the world had paused just to watch.
The sound of his voice had been different—quieter, steadier, like he wasn’t trying to joke his way out of it for once.
And I hated that. I hated how real it sounded.
Hated how it made everything inside me go still.
That’s the part that unsettles me the most.
I close my eyes, but it only makes it worse.
I remember the way my breath had caught when he leaned in.
The way my body didn’t move, didn’t fight, didn’t push him away immediately like it should have.
There had been a second—just one—where I had leaned into it.
Where I had wanted it. My fingers curl slightly against the bedsheet as I press my lips together.
Because it wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t him catching me off guard.
I knew exactly what was happening. And I still didn’t stop it in time. I turn my face toward the wall, exhaling slowly, like I can push the memory out with it.
He had looked at me like I was something worth staying for.
Like I wasn’t temporary. Like I wasn’t someone people eventually leave behind.
And that’s where everything goes wrong. Because I don’t know how to exist in that kind of space.
I don’t know how to stand in front of someone who says they’ll stay and not immediately prepare for the moment they won’t.
It’s not even about him, not really. It’s about patterns.
About history. About knowing how these things end before they even begin.
I let one moment exist. Then another. Then another.
I tell myself it’s harmless, it’s controlled, it’s temporary.
They stay because it feels good. Because someone is being kind.
Because someone is choosing you. And then one day, they don’t.
And I am left standing in the same place, wondering how I didn’t see it coming.
I know this pattern. I have lived this pattern.
And yet—I exhale slowly, the tension in my chest not easing the way it should.
He doesn’t fit into that pattern neatly.
That’s the problem. He doesn’t disappear when things get uncomfortable.
He doesn’t back off when I push. He doesn’t get offended when I snap or shut him down.
If anything, he just…adjusts. Softens. Waits.
Who does that? Who stays when it’s not easy? I turn my head slightly, staring at the wall now instead of the ceiling.
He does.
That thought settles in quietly, without drama.
He shows up. Again and again and again. And I don’t know what to do with that.
Because it leaves me with no excuse. If he were careless, I could dismiss him.
If he were shallow, I could ignore him. If he were predictable, I could manage him. But he’s none of those things. He’s…
steady. And that makes him dangerous in a completely different way.
I am tired. Not physically. Something deeper than that.
Tired of holding everything so tightly. Tired of always being the one who leaves first. Tired of building walls and then living inside them like they’re the only safe place left.
Tired of pretending I don’t want what everyone else seems to have so easily.
Connection. Presence. Someone who stays.
The thought feels foreign. Uncomfortable.
But also…tempting. I let out a slow breath, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little.
I don’t want to fight him anymore. For once, I don’t want to push someone away just because I can.
I turn onto my side, pulling the blanket closer, curling into it slightly.
What if…The thought is quiet. Fragile. What if I don’t run this time?
What if I just…let it happen? Not everything.
Not all at once. Just a little. Let someone see the parts I usually hide.
The messy ones. The ones I keep locked away because they’re too much, too complicated, too difficult to explain.
I close my eyes. If there is someone I could even consider trusting, even briefly—It’s him.
And that realization doesn’t feel as terrifying as it should. It feels…quiet. Like something inside me has stopped fighting for just a moment. Just long enough to breathe.