The ride back is silent. He dozes off with his head against the window, his breaths shallow. I keep glancing at him, heart twisting with every cough he tries to suppress.
Once home, I guide him inside, thankfully without waking anyone. I lead him to the guest room and help him sit on the bed.
“I’ll get some medicine,” I mumble and rush to the kitchen, hands shaking as I fumble through the cabinet.
By the time I return, he’s lying down, eyes barely open.
“Here,” I whisper, crouching beside the bed. “Paracetamol. Water.”
He takes it without complaint, fingers brushing mine for a second too long. I force myself to ignore the spark.
“You’ll feel better by morning,” I say, adjusting the blanket over him.
He nods slowly. “Why did you come, Aditi?”
I don’t answer.
Because I couldn’t not.
Because the idea of him being sick and alone felt like a physical ache.
Because I’m stupid and soft, and despite everything, I still care.
“I just… wanted to make sure you were okay,” I whisper finally.
His eyes flutter shut. “You always do that. Take care of everyone else.”
I watch him for a long moment, something fragile blooming in my chest. “Sleep,” I whisper. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He’s already gone, his breaths deepening, face relaxing. But I sit there for a while longer, curled into the floor beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
And for the first time in days, I let myself breathe.
Not because everything is okay.
But because he’s here. And maybe that’s a start.
CHAPTER 36
ABHIMAAN
Something sharp tugs at my hair, jerking me awake.
My heart stutters. The room swims in a haze of sleep and panic. My chest tightens, breath catching mid-way as I jerk up. My hand instinctively flies to the side of my head, fingers brushing against warm, small hands tangled in my hair. My vision is still adjusting to the morning light pouring faintly through the curtains when I hear her voice.
“Rudrani, no!” Aditi.
That one word. That one voice. My chest loosens a fraction, even as my pulse continues to race.
I blink rapidly, heart still thudding in my ears as I try to make sense of what’s happening. The small figure in front of me giggles, completely unbothered by the sheer terror she just put me through. A child. A little girl. Her curls bounce as she leans forward, her mischievous fingers reaching again until Aditi swoops her up into her arms.
“I’m so sorry,” Aditi says softly, her cheeks pink from embarrassment, her eyes wide with concern. “I should’ve stopped her sooner.”
I shake my head, still too overwhelmed to speak. My hand stays close to my chest, fingers twitching slightly, muscles tense. I can’t move yet. Not fully. The remnants of my past—the cold sweat, the soundless screams—cling to me like a second skin.
She steps forward carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. She kneels slightly and reaches toward me, fingers barely grazing my shoulder before I instinctively flinch. She freezes.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, her voice almost broken by guilt. Not pity. Just concern. Soft. Familiar.
