I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”
She doesn't look convinced. Not even a little. She tilts her head and then, so gently, places her small palm on my cheek.
“You're sad.”
I want to tell her I’m okay, but the words die before they form.
It just... slips. The grief. The weight of disappointment. The sharp sting of being found out and the deeper, duller ache of not being chosen—it all crashes through me. My chest caves before I can stop it, and I press the heel of my palm against my eye like that might hold the tears back.
But it’s useless.
The first sob escapes—low and broken—and I try to turn away from her, but Rudrani crawls right into my lap and wraps her tiny arms around my neck.
And that just makes me cry harder.
Not the loud, messy sobbing. No, this is quiet. Almost painful in its silence. My whole body trembles as I cling to this little girl like she’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, her hand stroking my hair. “Don’t cry, Bua. Did someone scold you?”
I laugh through my tears. “Something like that.”
“I’ll fight them,” she declares with all the bravery of a five-year-old superhero. “Just tell me who. I’ll go and throw a tomato at their face.”
That makes me laugh. A real one this time. Small, cracked, but real.
“You’d do that for me?” I sniffle.
She nods solemnly. “You’re my favorite Bua.”
“I am your only Bua, you silly kid.” I pull her into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smells like strawberry shampoo and innocence.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I whisper.
“You didn’t,” she says. “Even superheroes cry.”
I close my eyes. “Mumma cries too; she cried yesterday when she couldn’t find her notebook she writes in,” she explains. “Papa spent the entire night finding it, only to find it below her pillow,” she giggles.
God. She’s so cute.
I wish I could stay in this moment forever. Just here, in this warm house, in this tiny embrace, away from the politics of my surname and the battlefield of unspoken feelings.
Because what happened today… it broke something in me. I thought we were building something. Something quiet, unspoken, but solid.
But maybe he was just humoring the Malhotra princess in disguise. Maybe all those evenings we spent working together, every conversation, every look, every slight smile—maybe it all meant nothing to him.
Maybe I was just a project to him. A liability he managed.
I rest my chin on Rudrani’s head, tightening my hold on her.
How stupid was I to think someone could like me for me?
Not because I’m a Malhotra. Not because I carry the weight of that surname like a damn curse. But just for me—for the late nights, the sarcastic comments, and the soft silences between two people who slowly stopped hating each other.
I hate this. I hate feeling like this.
“Bua,” Rudrani whispers again. “Are you better now?”
“A little,” I say softly.
