06.

𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚

It hurts.
Hurts like hell—
To know that you are the reason behind someone’s tears.
That you are the reason behind his broken voice, his shaken breath, his bloodshot eyes.

Yuvraj’s face...
That worried, helpless face hasn’t left my mind even for a second.
The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing keeping his world from collapsing.
The way he forgot the blood on my hands, the confusion in my words... and only focused on me.

His selfless love—
It’s too much. Too pure. Too painful.
And I know... it’s going to be the death of me.

Because I remember.
Everything.
And I know Yuvraj knows that I remember too.
But he won’t say it. He won’t confront me.
Because that’s what he does—he protects me, even from myself.

It’s 7:24 AM.
The tik-tik sound of the wall clock echoes in this haunting silence.
Every tick reminds me of time lost—
Time I let slip away, time I’m still losing.

I want to shut my eyes, escape to a peaceful dream.
But the moment I do...
All I see is his face.
The one from the past.
The one who made me laugh like a kid and blush like a fool.

Flashback
Age: 21

“Stop staring at me, Yuvraj!” I snapped, flipping the book shut with irritation.
But of course, when does this guy ever listen?

He sat there, right across from me in the library, arms folded on the table, giving me that look—soft, mischievous, completely unbothered.

I got up, marched away toward the far shelf section, pretending to search for a new book—anything to escape his gaze.
But I could hear his footsteps trailing mine, unhurried, casual... annoying.

“Yuvraj ji,” I turned around dramatically, adding extra sugar to my voice,
“Aapko kuch kehna hai? Kyun mera peecha kar rahe hain?”

As I reached for a book, his hand appeared from behind mine—gently taking the book, placing it back on the shelf with care.
My breath caught.

“Stop ignoring your dear, sweetest boyfriend,” he murmured softly, the corners of his mouth lifting in that smug little smile.

“Tell my boyfriend he deserves the silent treatment,” I snapped back, half serious, half teasing.

But then—
He took my hand. Just like that.
His fingers wrapping around mine, warm, grounding...
And started walking, tugging me along. I followed, heart pounding in betrayal of my pride.

We stopped in front of a bike.

He turned, still holding my hand.
“Ab kya main apni ruthi hui girlfriend ko ek bike ride pe le ja sakta hoon?” he asked with the most innocent expression he could fake.

I had to look up—curse that 6’2” height of his. I’m 5’4 and already emotionally short-tempered.

“Are you asking me on a date?” I narrowed my eyes at him, pretending to be mad.
But he just chuckled. And leaned in closer, face so near I could feel his breath.

I braced for some irritating whisper in my ear, but instead—
He placed the softest kiss on my cheek.
A gentle peck. Nothing over-the-top.
But it exploded in my chest like Diwali.

And of course...
I blushed.
Because how could I not?

He leaned back to admire his handiwork, watching the red flood my cheeks like he’d just won a battle.
Another chuckle escaped him.

“Toh chale, madam?” he asked, cocking his head.

I rolled my eyes, trying to act indifferent, but my heart was already on that bike.
“Fine,” I said, as if he hadn’t just short-circuited my soul.

And we rode off, the wind in my hair, his laughter in the air, and my heart betraying me with every second.

Now—

I can’t sleep.
Not with this crushing weight sitting on my chest.
Not with the guilt that clings to me like a second skin.
The guilt of leaving him.

Of walking away from the only person who never did.
From the one who stayed, even when I gave him a thousand reasons not to.

And what did I do?
I turned my back.
Left him standing in the middle of the storm—alone.

It’s not insomnia.
It’s regret.
A never-ending loop of “what ifs” and “why did I’s” playing behind my eyes.

Yuvraj.
In every memory.
In every breath.
In every damn heartbeat that still echoes his name.

And what hurts the most?
He never stopped loving me.
Not even when I gave him nothing but silence.
Not even when I forgot us…
And especially not when I remembered everything and still walked away.

Now tell me—
How am I supposed to sleep…
Knowing I left the only person who would’ve burned the world for me?

Maybe in another universe, I don’t push him away, don’t let the foolish part of me take control, don’t let confusion drown my soul. Just maybe in another universe, I don’t carry this grief, I don't drown in tears I can’t stop, I don’t watch him from a distance, wishing I hadn’t let him slip through my fears.

Maybe in another universe, I don’t hurt him, don’t break his heart, maybe in that world, I am brave enough, brave enough to love without fear, to hold him close, to make him stay, and maybe, just maybe, in that universe, he smile, and I, I love him.

My head is pounding—like a thousand drums echoing inside my skull. The world feels like it’s spinning off balance, and even the soft pillow beneath me feels like a rock pressing against my skin. The weight of my head is too much to bear. I sit up slowly, grabbing my hair tightly in my fists like a frustrated child, clenching them as the pain grows unbearable.

I don’t even know why it hurts this bad. Maybe it’s not just a headache… maybe it’s karma—showing up in the form of a migraine.

Knock knock.
A soft, almost hesitant knock snaps me out of the storm in my head.

Dragging myself to the door, I open it slowly—my legs feel heavy. And there she stands—Yuvraj’s mom. Dressed in a soft, elegant kurta that makes her look like she’s walked straight out of a Santoor ad. She’s glowing, graceful, the kind of beauty that doesn't fade with time. And here I am, with puffy eyes, aching temples, and guilt weighing down on my chest.

Before I can fumble out a greeting, she speaks, her voice gentle yet hesitant.

“Yuvi uth gaya?” she asks, a warm smile playing on her lips.

I shake my head. “Nahi aunty ji, he’s still sleeping” I reply softly.

She nods and then begins, carefully choosing her words. “Baccha… humare yahan ek parampara hai. Shadi ke pehle din, dulha-dulhan ko hamare kul ke mandir le jaaya jaata hai… par agar tumhe kisi baat ki dikkat ho, ya mann na ho, toh please bata dena. Hum nahi chahte ki hamari rivaaz aap par bojh ban jaaye.”

That hits. Right in the heart. The way she’s being so considerate… it’s making my guilt ten times heavier.

Before she can say another word, I cut in gently, “Nahi aunty ji, aisi koi baat nahi hai. Main... hum dono taiyaar ho jaayenge. 9 baje tak.”

"Sar dard ho raha hai?" she asks worriedly, probably guessing from the way I keep frowning and touching my head repeatedly. I simply nod in response.

"Aao, main tel laga deti hoon. Sar halka ho jaayega," she offers gently. God, she’s so considerate—I'm genuinely on the verge of crying from this unexpected warmth and care.

"Nahi, zarurat nahi hai... aap takleef mat lijiye," I protest, but being Yuvraj’s mom, just like him, she’s stubborn. Now I know exactly where he gets it from.

After a few attempts of trying to convince her she doesn’t need to, I lose the battle. She gently makes me sit on the bed and goes to bring the oil to massage my head.

I drag myself off the bed and walk toward the couch where Yuvraj is sleeping like he has no stress, no deadlines, just vibes. I nudge him gently, hand on his shoulder.

“Yuvraj… Yuvraj!!”

He flinches and suddenly wakes up, eyes locking onto mine like something’s wrong. His whole body tenses, panic rising in seconds.

“Aliya? Are you okay? Kya hua?” he blurts, pulling me down onto the couch next to him like I’m made of glass. His hands are scanning my face, my arms, like he's checking for bruises life might’ve left on me.

Ugh.
He’s unreal.
Too good. Like... Karan Johar hero-level good.

I shake my head with a soft chuckle, “Main toh bas keh rahi thi uth jao. Aunty ne bola mandir jaana hai… naha lo.”

“Aunty?” he repeats, dazed.

“Tumhari mummy,” I roll my eyes.

“Kaun mummy?”
My husband went from SRK to SpongeBob in 0.2 seconds.

I smack his shoulder lightly, bringing him back from whatever goofy dreamland he was stuck in.

“Achha… mummy,” he mutters like it just clicked.

I sigh and stand up, pulling his hand to get him moving. I drag him to the bathroom door, open it, and shove him in.

He groans, all dramatic, “Are yaar… subah-subah pati ko pyaar karte hai. Kitni cruel biwi ho tum!”

Cruel biwi.
His words. Not mine.
He LOVES calling me his biwi, like it’s his favorite hobby.
And lowkey? Every time he says that, a part of me melts, another part panics.

Because, holy shit.

I’m married.

Married to the guy I...

Before that thought even gets to finish its sentence, the door creaks. Yuvraj’s mom walks in holding a bottle of oil and a glass bowl. She sits on the bed like it’s routine, like this is just another Sunday morning.

“Aa ja beta, thodi der mein sar halka ho jaayega.”

And I don’t even argue. My head is killing me. My heart is heavier.

I sit on the floor between her legs, too tired to pretend I’m fine, too drained to smile.

She notices.

“Arey neeche kyun baithi ho? Upar baith jaa, faltu mein pareshan mat ho.”

I don’t reply. I just sit. Still. Silent. Small.

She doesn't ask again. Her hands dip into the oil and start working through my hair—slow, warm, grounding.
And it’s comforting.
Too comforting.

But my brain?

It doesn’t know how to chill.

What if she’s judging me?
What if she’s thinking—what kind of bahu lets her saas massage her head?
What if she was just being nice and now she’s regretting it?
What if she thinks I stole her son?
What if… she hates me for how fast all of this happened?

And suddenly, I’m not in that room anymore.
I’m in my head.
Overthinking, spiraling, questioning every smile, every silence.

What if—?

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐡𝐢 𝐓𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚

The gunshot.

It doesn’t just echo —
It tears through the air, like a scream that was never allowed to exist.

And for a second, maybe more, everything freezes.
My ears ring, a shrill, maddening hum. My body? It’s no longer mine. Just a shell — shaking, breathless, drenched in fear and blood.
I can’t feel my limbs.
But the tears?

The tears come anyway.

They fall — disobedient — as if they’ve waited years to finally pour. And I can’t stop them. I try to blink them away, to wipe them, to pretend I’m strong — but they just keep falling. Hot. Silent. Relentless.

And I hate this.
I hate how pathetic I look — a trembling, bruised girl, cornered in a room that reeks of sweat, rust, and blood. A girl they would call weak.
A girl he thought would break.

I want to scream.
But the darkness wraps itself around my throat like a noose. It’s everywhere. In the corners. In my lungs. In my mind.
So thick, I can’t breathe.
So loud, it drowns my heartbeat.
So cruel, it mocks me.

Then — the impact.

His fist. My stomach.

I jolt forward, all the air punched out of me like I was nothing but a rag doll.
Before I can react, my back slams into the wall. A crack. A thud.
My bones rattle. The wall feels colder than death.
And for a second — I think maybe this is it.

Blood trickles from the corner of my lips, slow and warm — bitter like the truth I never wanted to face.
My legs are barely holding.
My arms ache.
The world around me fades at the edges, like I’m slipping out of existence.

But I’m still crying.

Because the pain…
The pain is real.
Unforgiving.
Searing.
And it’s not just physical — it’s the pain of every moment I stayed silent. Every time I didn’t run. Every time I let myself believe I was safe.

I want to give up. God, I do.

But then — I see him.

Smiling.

Not the kind of smile that holds joy.
No — this one is twisted. Rotten. A predator’s smile, knowing the prey can’t escape.

And suddenly, I don’t feel weak anymore.

I feel rage.

Burning. Blistering.
Ancient.
Rage born from every scar, every cry, every girl who never got the chance to fight back.

My fingers, trembling just moments ago, now wrap around the knife.
The metal is cold. Unforgiving. A promise.

My lungs fill with fire.

And I lunge.

The blade slices his throat — not cleanly. Not softly. Cruelly.
The way he hurt others.
The way he hurt me.

Blood spurts. His eyes widen in disbelief, in pain, in fear — the same fear he once etched into others.

And I watch.

I watch as he falls. As his knees hit the floor.
As his life spills out of him the way mine almost did.

And I don't look away.

Because he deserved it.
He did.

No, even death is too kind. He deserved to rot in his own nightmares. To hear the cries of the girls he broke every single day and night. To feel every wound he gave, multiplied.
To beg.
And be denied.

My breath is shallow. My hands are still shaking.
But my eyes — they’re clear now.

And I see him.

Lying there in a pool of his own blood, lifeless.
The monster, silenced.

And me?

I feel the energy drain from my body like water escaping through cracks I didn’t know I had.
The reason — the very purpose — for holding on this long… is gone.
The adrenaline leaves. And the pain?
It comes crashing down like a tsunami. Bone-deep. Sharp. Ruthless.

I can feel the blood loss now — in the tremble of my fingers, the way my heart stutters.
Death.

It’s here. Watching. Creeping closer with every sluggish beat of my heart.

Everyone fears death. Even though we know it’s inevitable.
But when it’s this close? When it starts whispering in your ear?
It’s terrifying.

I don’t want to die.

Not like this. Not now.

My lungs are giving up.
My heart feels like it’s whispering a goodbye.
And that suffocating darkness, the one that took everything — it’s swallowing me again.

"NOO!"

I jolt awake.

Eyes wide. Gasping like I’ve just broken the surface of deep, deep water.
My chest rises and falls like I’ve run miles. My skin is drenched in sweat. My throat burns.

A nightmare.
Or no — worse.
A memory wearing the mask of a dream.

I sit still, trying to stop the tremors in my hands.
God, I’m so tired. So tired of this routine — waking up in fear, trapped in this loop of nightmares and memories.
Tired of remembering.
Tired of waking up alone, without a voice whispering, “You’re safe now.”

I want out.
Out of this head.
Out of this trauma.

Out of this… darkness.

The light in the room is too harsh, it stings my eyes — but I won’t turn it off.
I can’t.
The dark terrifies me. More than anything.
So I let the artificial glow hug the corners of my room. It’s not comforting, but at least it’s not the dark.

It’s been years since I have been sleeping with the lights on.

"Okay… breathe. Distract. Just distract yourself, Aarohi." I whisper to myself

And suddenly — one word enters my head.

Vivaan.

I reach for my phone with shaky fingers.
My lockscreen glows with the picture of red tulips — they say it symbolizes passion and true love.

I type in my password, and there he is.

Vivaan Oberoi.
On my home screen. That candid I secretly screenshot from our last zoom meeting.
His messy hair. His smug smirk. That stupid hoodie.
He’s not even looking at the camera — but God, why does he look like he belongs in a Bollywood movie with Tum Se Hi playing in the background?

My heart — that same tired one — feels lighter.

I miss him.

Okay correction: I miss irritating him. I miss fake fighting with him.
I miss hearing his voice that makes me forget my trauma for a few minutes and feel… normal. Human. Soft.

Without thinking, I click on his contact.
Saved as '❤️' — no name. Just a red heart. As if even my phone knew what he meant to me.

It starts ringing.

One… two… three… four—

FUCK.

My eyes fly to the clock.

6:21 A.M.
Aarohi what the actual hell are you doing?

I hang up immediately and scream into my pillow.

“Stupid, stupid Aarohi,” I scold myself, “now he’s going to think you’re an obsessed lunatic who stalks him and calls him at sunrise like a creep.”

And just then —
My phone rings.

His name — or well, his heart emoji — glows on the screen.
Oh. My. God.

Abort mission. ABORT MISSION.

My brain is racing, fumbling to make up any excuse.

I pick up the call, and silently pray he doesn’t notice the panic in my breath.

“Taparia?”
His voice. Low. Sleepy. Raspy.
The kind of voice that could end wars and start love stories.
I swear I physically melt.

“Haanji?” I say, too quickly.

“You called?”

“Uhh… by mistake, yes. I called by mistake.”
Even I cringed at how lame that sounded.

There’s a pause.
Then—

“Really, Taparia? Like really? I think I need to send you a PDF titled ‘How to Lie Without Sounding Like a Dumbass.’ Now tell me the actual reason.”

God, his sass. I should hate it.
But it’s so hot.

“Nothing, just had a tiny doubt while going through some docs but I figured it out. You can cut the call.”

“Wow. Working at 6 A.M.? What are you trying to prove, Miss Workaholic? Want me to nominate you for Workaholic of the Month or what?”

He’s so annoying.
So cocky.
So hot.
So mine in every daydream I’ve ever had.

“Can you shut your stupid mouth already? It’s actually irritating at this point,”
Which is a lie. I just don’t want to blurt out “marry me, Vivaan.”

He laughs — that ugh laugh. The one I secretly listen to on voice notes.
“Make me, sweetheart.”

I swear my brain short circuits.

Did he… did he just call me sweetheart?
He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I’m blushing. Full-on tomato cheeks.
And obviously, I panic.

“Kisi din bohot pitoge mere haathon,” I mutter like a warning, hoping he doesn’t hear my heart doing bhangra inside my chest.

“You seriously need to come out of your delusions, Taparia.”
Typical him.
He thinks he’s irritating me.
Little does he know, he’s the only one who can pull me out of a panic attack with a single text.

“Bakwaas band karo. Aaye bade—”
And I cut the call before my brain-to-mouth filter betrays me.

I throw the phone on the bed and cover my face with my hands.
God, he’s going to be the death of me.

His voice. His sarcasm. The way he just knows how to get on my nerves.
It’s all so… warm. Familiar. Like home wrapped in chaos.

And just like that — I forget the nightmare.
The pain.
The trauma.

Now, I’m just a girl with a crush.
A loud, chaotic crush.
Blushing like I’m in 10th grade again and saw my crush walk past in slow motion with Bol Na Halke Halke playing in the background.

He’ll never know.
Maybe I’ll never confess.
But I’m the closest one to him among all his business partners — the only one he breaks his ‘strict professionalism’ rule for.

He doesn't know how hard I fought to get this collaboration to happen.
All the strategic moves, the emails, the "accidental" meetings and planned situations — just to talk to him.

And God, it was worth it.

I curl into my blanket, phone still on my chest, his voice echoing in my ears.
And maybe… just maybe, I smile.

Because he’ll never know he’s the only thing that keeps the darkness from eating me alive.

Vivaan Oberoi, you annoying, sarcastic, pookie man — you’re my calm in chaos.

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