CHAPTER 63
ARYAN
Coming home feels stranger than I expected. Not because anything has changed. Everything is exactly where it should be—same furniture, same faint smell of incense Ma insists on lighting every evening, same quiet hum of a house that has always been full of people even when it pretends to be calm.
But I’m different.
Slower. Aware of every step, every movement, every slight pull in my side that reminds me I’m not supposed to forget what happened.
I barely make it past the living room before she’s there. “Careful.”
Her hand is on my arm before I can even shift my weight properly, her brows drawn together like I’m about to collapse at any second.
“I am being careful,” I mutter, but I don’t pull away.
Because the truth is—I like this. Too much. She doesn’t believe me anyway. “Sit,” she says, already guiding me toward the couch like I don’t have a say in this.
I glance at her. “You’ve gotten bossier.”
“You’ve gotten reckless,” she shoots back instantly, helping me lower myself down despite the fact that I’m very capable of doing it myself.
I let her. Because arguing would take more effort than I’m willing to put in right now. And because watching her like this—focused, annoyed, worried—it does something to me that I don’t feel like analyzing too closely.
She grabs a pillow, adjusts it behind my back, then pauses, frowning like it’s not good enough. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ishika.”
She narrows her eyes at me. I raise both hands slightly in surrender, wincing a little at the movement. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she mutters, but her voice drops a notch. Her fingers brush against the edge of the bandage near my stomach, careful, almost hesitant, like she’s afraid of hurting me just by touching.
“You should’ve just let me die,” I say casually, because apparently I have no self-preservation when it comes to annoying her.
Her head snaps up. “Don’t,” she says immediately, her voice firm in a way that shuts down any follow-up before I can even think of one. I hold her gaze for a second.
“Okay.” I reply softly. She exhales slowly, like she’s been holding that breath for longer than necessary.
“Idiot,” she mutters under her breath.
I smile. There she is.
She disappears into the kitchen for a minute and comes back with a glass of water and my medicines, placing them in front of me like she’s managing a very uncooperative patient. “Take these.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She glares at me. I take the pills.
Win. She watches me like she doesn’t trust me to do it properly, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg in that familiar stance she slips into when she’s trying to stay in control.
“Happy?” I ask.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real irritation behind it anymore. Just…habit. She moves around the room after that, straightening things that don’t need straightening, adjusting curtains that were perfectly fine two minutes ago, picking up a book and putting it back down in the exact same spot.
Restless. I watch her. Take it in. The way her movements are sharper than usual, like she has too much energy and nowhere to put it. The way she keeps glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking. The way she exhales a little too slowly every time she does. “You’re hovering,” I point out.
“I am not.”
“You’ve circled this room at least five times.”
“I’m just…doing things.”
“There are no things left to do.”
She stops and turns to look at me. Opens her mouth to argue—Then closes it. Because she knows I’m right.
“I love you.” I say gently. It slips out easily. Like it belongs in the middle of this moment. She freezes. Just for a second. And then something shifts. It’s subtle. But I see it.
Her shoulders drop a fraction. The tension in her face softens, like those three words undo something inside her she didn’t realize was wound too tight.
“I like you too,” She walks back toward me, slower this time, less frantic, and sits on the edge of the couch, her fingers brushing against mine like it’s accidental.
It’s not. I lace our fingers together anyway. She doesn’t pull away. There’s a knock on the door, she shifts away from me as the door opens softly. Ma walks in.
“I’ll get tea,” Ishika says quickly, already standing up like she needs a reason to move again. Ma watches her go. Then looks at me and smiles. Not the teasing one. Not the knowing one she usually gives when Ishika is around. Something quieter.
“Finally,” she says softly.
I huff out a breath. “Ma—”
“No,” she waves me off, sitting down beside me. “Let me say it.”
I lean back slightly, already knowing I’m not winning this. “I have waited a long time to see you like this,” she continues, her voice calm but weighted with something real. “With someone you don’t have to…perform for.”
I glance toward the kitchen. She’s there, moving around, probably pretending she can’t hear us. “She’s stubborn,” Ma adds.
I grin. “You have no idea.”
“She cares,” she says simply.
That—lands differently. I look back at her. Ma studies my face for a second, then continues, softer now. “You didn’t see her in the hospital.” Something in my chest tightens. I don’t interrupt.
“There was fear on her face,” Ma says quietly. “Not the kind people show easily. The kind that comes from thinking you’re about to lose something you didn’t even realize you needed this much.”
I swallow. My grip on the cushion beside me tightens slightly. “She was shaking,” Ma adds. “Apologizing to me like she had done something unforgivable.”
That…sounds like her. And it hurts in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “I don’t know everything about her,” Ma continues. “But I know loneliness when I see it.”
My jaw clenches. “She’s lived with it for a long time,” she says gently. “You can see it in the way she holds herself. In the way she doesn’t expect people to stay.”
I close my eyes briefly. Because I’ve seen that too. Every single day. “And yet,” Ma says, a small smile touching her lips, “she stayed for you.”
I open my eyes. Look toward the kitchen again. She’s still there. Still moving. Still pretending she’s not listening. My chest feels…full. In a way that’s hard to explain. “I won’t mess this up,” I say quietly. Ma places her hand over mine, squeezing it lightly.
“I know you won’t. Just don’t let her feel alone again.”
I nod. Because that’s not even a question. That’s a promise. And across the room, Ishika glances up at me for a second. Just a second. But it’s enough. Because in that look—There’s something steadier now. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s about to disappear. And I hold onto it.