Chapter 8
Sidharth
It’s been a month since I saw Nisha fall apart in that corridor. A month since I held her in my arms and realized just how fragile she really was. Since then, I’ve tried to be there for her, tried being the key word. Because every time I took a step closer, she took five steps back.
I think back to the past few days—how I’d offer to take her to physiotherapy.
Hell, I insisted. Told her there was no way she was taking a cab alone.
But she argued, stubborn as ever, saying, “I’m fine doing this on my own,” with that rehearsed calmness that fooled everyone but me.
Since then, I’ve been showing up outside her house, parked like a damn stalker.
She’d glare, I’d smirk, and we’d argue all the way to the clinic.
She called it controlling. I called it caring.
Neither of us ever really won that fight.
A smile tugs at my lips as another incident flashes in my mind.
The day she refused to take her meds, claiming they made her feel foggy.
As usual, I played deaf, refusing to leave until she took them.
She shot daggers at me, cursed me under her breath, but I didn’t budge.
I just shrugged and said, “Hate me later. Just get better first.”
After their wedding, Reyansh and Kavya flew straight to Dubai, and since then, I’ve been keeping Kavya updated on Nisha’s recovery.
But I never told her the full truth, never told her how my chest tightened every time I saw Nisha flinch at loud voices, how her silence was louder when she zoned out, and how she’d scroll through the photos of Suman and herself with a heart so visibly wrecked.
And I sure as hell didn’t tell Kavya how my feelings were growing day by day into something deep, overprotective, and possessive.
Sitting in my room on the recliner, I drag a hand over my face.
Damn, this woman is wrecking me. I’m a detective.
I’m trained to keep my emotions at bay. But with Nisha, there’s no detachment.
There’s only this war inside me—wanting to protect her and wanting to pull her into my arms and tell her I’ve got her. That she’s safe.
The buzz of my phone jerks me out of my thoughts. I blink, dragging myself back from the mess in my mind, and glance at the screen. Mom.
A sigh escapes me before I even swipe to answer.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Did you decide when you’re coming back?” she asks without acknowledging my greeting. But I’m not surprised. It’s the same every time she calls.
Not wanting to get into an argument, I stay silent and lean back in my leather recliner, my gaze wandering around the room.
It’s the same apartment I’ve been living in since I moved to Mumbai.
Grey walls, bare minimal furniture, and a king-sized bed dominating the room.
The white curtains are drawn halfway, letting in the late afternoon light.
“Sidharth, I’m waiting for your reply,” she presses.
I run a hand through my hair. “Ma… we’ve been over this. I’m not coming back to London.”
There’s a pause before she speaks again, firmer this time. “You were her brother, Sidharth. Not her savior. Kyra made her choice.”
“Mom, can we not do this today?” I mutter, my jaw tightening at the mention of my sister’s name.
“We’re having this conversation,” she snaps, the hurt cracking through.
“Do you know what it’s like for a mother to lose both her children in one accident?
One dead and the other burying himself in another country, away from us.
Tell me, Sidharth, when will you stop punishing yourself and us?
” Her voice wavers at the end, and it punches straight into my chest.
My mother, Pranali, has always been the strongest woman I know.
But after my sister’s death, she hasn’t been the same.
Her brown eyes still carry a grief that refuses to fade, and her once bright, full-of-life smile now feels rehearsed.
She’s aged overnight, the grey strands more visible in her short hair, her voice softer, almost weary, as if she’s grown tired of the world.
And my father, Manoj, the once unshakable businessman, now moves through his days in silence, following the same routine.
As if life hasn’t given him much to live for anymore.
I couldn’t bear to watch them like this. So I did what cowards do. I left.
“Ma, you know I’m not trying to punish you. You know how much I hate seeing you hurt.”
“Then why are you still there?” she asks, almost pleading now. “Every day I keep thinking, today you’ll book a ticket. Today, you’ll come back home, to us.”
“I can’t.” My voice hardens. I know I’m being rude, but I just don’t want to get into a conversation about why I can’t come back to the city where I blame myself for losing my sister. “I have my business here.”
She sighs defeatedly. “You always say that.” There’s a pause. Then, she ventures softly, “What about settling down? Have you even thought about it?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “We’re not discussing that either.”
“Sidharth—”
“I have to go, Ma,” I interrupt gently, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “But I’ll visit soon.” I finally say the words, knowing they’ll give her the peace I’ve been depriving her of.
“Soon?” she asks, her voice laced with hope, like that one word is a promise she’s been waiting to hear.
I let out a breath, the guilt sinking in. God, I feel like the worst son for pushing my parents away when they need me the most. It’s time to step up. Time to make things right. I need to visit my parents. They deserve that much, at the very least.
“Promise,” I whisper finally.
Before she can ask when, I end the call and let the phone fall to the bed beside me.
I sit there for a while, debating when I should visit, especially now, with Nisha in the picture.
Just then, an alert pings on my phone. I glance at the screen.
Physiotherapy: Nisha – 4:30 PM.
“Another war,” I murmur, somewhere between a sigh and a muttered curse, dragging a hand across my jaw. I grab my car keys from the side table and slip my phone into my pocket. Time to remind the stubborn woman, yet again, that taking help isn’t a sin.
???
As I pull into the driveway of her home, the sight in front of me makes my jaw clench, hard enough to crack.
Nisha is standing at the edge of the footpath in ripped jeans and that same checkered T-shirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail as she taps away on her phone. I don’t even need to look at the screen to know she’s booking a cab. Again.
We’ve had the same damn fight three times already this week, and by the look of her now, round four is about to begin.
I take a deep breath, reigning in my temper the way I’ve learned to do with her, and kill the engine. Stepping out of the car, I march towards her.
“Cancel the cab,” I say evenly, trying to mask the irritation storming through me. “We’ve been over this.”
She doesn’t even look up, her fingers scrolling across her screen. “I’m not doing any such thing.”
I arch a brow. “You are literally about to sit in a stranger’s car when I’m standing right here.”
She glares at me. “And I’m literally capable of doing that without your permission.”
“You need to stop this…” I say, exhaling sharply. “This habit of pushing me away. You should’ve realised by now that it’s not working.”
She scoffs and crosses her arms. “Well, sorry if it bruises your ego, but I’m perfectly capable of handling myself without your help. I don’t need a knight in shining armour.”
“I know you don’t need saving, Nisha. But—” I don’t even get to finish. She cuts me off mid-sentence.
“Don’t bother to explain. All you need to know is that I’ve figured out how to survive without anyone swooping in. I don’t need you playing protector. So please, just leave.”
Time to play my dirty card.
I step in, close enough that she has to tilt her head to look up at me.
My voice drops to a low whisper. “You know what? I’ve got a better idea than leaving.
” I pause just long enough to watch her eyes narrow.
“I’ll call Kavya. Tell her how her lovely sister is arguing with me again about taking a cab alone to physiotherapy. ”
Her nostrils flare. “That’s low, even for you. Dragging Kavya into this.”
I shrug, completely unapologetic. “You left me no choice. You don’t listen to reason, so yeah, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“You’re a devil in human form,” she hisses.
“Meh,” I shrug with a lopsided grin. “I’ve been called worse. You’re still being kind.”
That earns me a full-on glare. I just gesture towards my car.
“Let’s go, warrior. Today’s battlefield is physiotherapy, not me.”
“I hate you,” she mutters.
“No, you don’t.”
She stands there for a moment, arms crossed, probably weighing whether she can still win this one. Then, with a dramatic groan of defeat, she brushes past me, walks to the car, and slides into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut.
“Don’t you dare try to make conversation with me,” she warns, fastening her seatbelt with unnecessary aggression, just as I settle into the driver’s seat.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say with a smirk, as I fasten my own seatbelt. “I was planning to blast Punjabi rap all the way anyway.”
She shoots me a sideways glare. “I swear to God, Sidharth, you are insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are,” I say, putting the car in gear. “Riding shotgun.”
She shakes her head and stares out the window, muttering something under her breath that I’m sure isn’t a compliment.
But a grin tugs at my lips anyway, because to me, it’s another battle won.
Not that I’m keeping score. Okay, maybe I’m.
But only because each win brings me a step closer to her.
To the walls she keeps up. To the heart she’s still protecting.