Soft—so soft I almost miss it.
“I’m sorry that it hurt you.”
I freeze. Not physically—but something in me stutters.
What am I even supposed to say to that?
It’s okay, I deserved it?
No big deal, you can hurt me?
You don’t have to be sorry because this was different from what I did?
They all sit on the edge of my tongue. They’re not untrue. But they’re notrighteither. They’re self-flagellating lines designed to burden her even more.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned—the brutal, bleeding-hard way—it’s this:
Never leave the truth unsaid. Never hide.
Not anymore. Because when I kept things inside, I hurt her. When I swallowed my feelings, I became themonster. When I lied to protect myself, I ended upshatteringher.
So I go with what feels honest. Painfully honest.
I pull the car over outside the shop, kill the engine, and just sit there. Neither of us moves.
“And I’m sorry I broke your reality,” I say quietly. My hands grip the steering wheel even though the car’s off.
I stare ahead, too afraid to see her face. Too afraid not to.
“But you deserve to know... the man who desired you—wanted you? He wasreal. The man who couldn’t keep his hands off you? Real. The man who fell—hard, hopelesslyin love with you...” I exhale, “he was real too.”
There’s a beat. I should stop. Every instinct tells me to shut up.
But I can’t.
Not this time. Not ever again.
“And so was the man who lied to you,” I continue, jaw tight. “Misguided. Vindictive. Selfish. Butreal. The guilt that ate me alive afterward? That was real too. The spiral. The self-sabotage. The nights I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t bear the memory of your face when the truth hit? That was also me.”
I finally glance at her. She’s not looking at me. But I see her fingers curled in her lap—tensed like she’s holding herself together with everything she has.
“Aarohi,” I say her name like a confession, like a prayer. “That man waslost. I thought I could carry everything quietly, tuck it away where it wouldn’t touch us. But I waswrong. I didn’t heal in time to offer you something untainted. So my healing... it came at the cost of your heart.”
My throat is dry. My chest feels like it’s cracking open.
“And I’m sogoddamn sorryfor that.”
She doesn’t respond. Not to my apology. Not to anything.
I don’t know if she evenwantsto. Or if she believes me. So we get out of the car in silence and head into the shop. She takes the lead with the shopkeeper, doing most of the talking and arranging because the guy is speaking in rapid Hindi.
Once we’ve got everything squared away and the canopy is loaded into the trunk—well, dicky, as they call it here—we head to the nearest sherwani store. It’s just a five-minute drive through the crowded, chaotic streets of Muzaffarnagar.
The store is massive but thankfully empty at this hour, so we’re assisted almost immediately. Aarohi speaks with the woman, explaining the urgency of our situation.
“We need something that fits off the rack,” she says. “There’s no time for alterations.”
The firstsherwanithey bring out is a cream-colored ensemble with a kurta underneath and a matching coat layered over it. Elegant. Simple. Surprisingly heavy.
