CHAPTER 53
ISHIKA
My head is throbbing.
Not the dramatic, everything-is-blurry kind. Just a steady, annoying ache that sits right behind my eyes and pulses every time I move too fast or think too hard or—apparently—exist.
Which would have been manageable.
If not for Aryan Khanna.
“Aryan,” I say slowly, gripping the edge of the hospital bed as I push myself up, “I can go to the washroom without your assistance.”
He doesn’t even blink.
“No.”
I stare at him. “No?” I repeat.
“No,” he says again, calmer this time, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “You got into a car accident two days ago, you have a concussion, and you nearly passed out twice this morning. You’re not walking anywhere alone.”
“I did not pass out,” I snap.
“You slumped.”
“I was tired.”
“You were unconscious for three seconds.”
I narrow my eyes. “You counted?”
“Yes.”
Of course he did. I open my mouth to argue again, because this is ridiculous and unnecessary and suffocating and—
“Nonsense.”
I freeze.
We both turn.
His mother stands at the door, arms crossed, expression firm in a way that immediately makes me feel like I’m about to be overruled in my own argument.
“Let him take care of you,” she says, walking in like this is her house and I am a mildly disobedient child.
“You should be lying down, not wandering around proving points.” I glance at Aryan and he looks entirely too pleased.
Traitor. “If it were up to the Khannas,” I mutter under my breath, “you would chain me to this bed.”
“That is not a bad idea,” Aryan says thoughtfully.
I glare at him.
His mother laughs softly, shaking her head as she walks closer. “Drama,” she says, but there’s warmth in her voice. “Both of you.” I huff and sit back against the pillows, because apparently I am outnumbered.
And…tired.
The kind of tiredness that isn’t just physical. The kind that settles somewhere deeper. I don’t remember the last time someone insisted on taking care of me like this.
Not out of obligation.
Not out of politeness.
But because they wanted to.
Because they couldn’t help it.
It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable but dangerously nice. I shift slightly, pulling the blanket closer around me as Aryan adjusts the pillow behind my back without asking.
These past two days have been too much. I have been kidnapped by Aryan because he's not sure if I can manage my own self when I have been obviously doing that since I was fifteen but I can't complain because I feel...full.
I have had visitors. Radhika finds her way into my room occasionally forcing me to eat fruits and that makes me wonder if feeding people is the love language of all Khanna's.
I have barely been alone, Aryan had refused to go to the office but I asked his mother to convince him that I am fine, which thankfully she did but still there's someone with me at all points I think.
His mother, his sister, Shivani, even his friends have come to visit him.
Vedant, who lives in the same house but I have rarely seen him speak except if there's some sibling rivalry going on, has also brought some dark chocolate because magnesium helps in head injuries.
I didn’t realize how quiet my life had been until now. How empty. How…used to it I had become. I’ve spent years taking care of myself. Fixing everything myself. Handling things before they could spiral. Being enough for my own life.
And now—Now someone else is stepping into that space.
Not replacing me.
Just…standing beside me.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
It feels wrong. It feels right. It feels like something I’ve wanted for so long that I stopped admitting it even to myself. His mother's hand on my shoulder breaks me out of my thoughts. She places a container on the side table. I shoot her a grateful look.
She smiles back gently.
“Now,” she continues, opening the tiffin, “you will eat.”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I don’t remember the last time someone fed me. “I can—” I start.
“No,” she cuts me off, her tone soft but firm in a way that reminds me of something I can’t quite place. “Just sit.”
I go quiet.
Aryan steps back slightly, giving space but he doesn't leave which I am grateful for. I take the first bite she offers.
And something inside me shifts. It’s small. This is what it feels like to not be alone. And I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it was right in front of me.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. I blink it away. But she notices. She studies my face for a second longer than necessary. Then, very gently, she sets the spoon aside. And pulls me into a hug.
I freeze. Just for a second. But then I give in because like Aryan she also radiates warmth and I miss it. “I don’t know much about you,” she says softly, her hand coming up to rest on my head, fingers brushing carefully around the bandage.
My breath catches.
“But I can see it.”
I don’t ask what.
I don’t need to.
“The fear,” she continues gently. “The loneliness.” My chest tightens.
I don’t respond. Because if I do, I might break something open that I won’t be able to close again.
“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore, beta.” The word hits harder than it should.
Beta.
“I won’t force anything on you,” she adds, pulling back just enough to look at me properly. “No matter how desperate I am for my children to settle down.” A small, broken laugh escapes me despite everything. She smiles, relieved.
“But if things don’t work out,” she continues, her voice softer now, more personal, “you can still come to me.” I blink it rapidly as I feel my eyes watering.
She brushes a strand of hair away from my face.
“I’m not your mother,” she says. I look up at Aryan finding his soft expression as he gazes at me only makes me want to sob more. “But I would like to be your friend.”
My vision blurs.
“I'm very old,” she adds with a small smile, “definitely not up-to-date with today’s trends kind of friend.”
I let out a shaky laugh.
“But you can count on me.”
There’s no hesitation in her voice and right now I can see the similarity between her and Aryan. How selfless they are, to offer this love, this...care without any conditions. No expectations.
“And one more thing,” she says quietly.
I meet her eyes.
“I have not raised my son to walk away from people who matter.”
My breath stills.
“And you matter to him.” She smiles gently and Aryan beams at me as he throws a wink in my direction. I don’t know what to say.
So I nod. Because anything else would break my voice. And I am not ready to cry in front of her. Not yet.
But something in my chest—Something that has been tight for years—loosens just a little.