SITARA
The door to our room isn’t fully shut. It rests ajar, crooked on its hinge, as if someone reached it and then stopped caring enough to close it. That small detail hits me harder than it should. My chest tightens, a dull ache spreading as I push it open the rest of the way and step inside.
I move slowly, my heels barely whispering against the floor. I’m braced for the sharp bite of alcohol, for something loud or ugly—but instead, silence wraps around me. It sits heavy in the air, unmoving, as if it has been here for hours, waiting. The room feels disturbed, not wrecked, just… abandoned halfway through a storm. A chair lies on its side near the couch. Papers have slipped off the desk and scattered across the floor, untouched after the fall. One lamp is still on, casting a harsh, lonely glow while the rest of the room sinks into shadow. In his hand is a glass, steady, full, the liquid inside perfectly still, like it was poured and then forgotten.
Dhruv is on the couch.
Not sitting comfortably. Curled inward, folded into himself as though he’s trying to disappear. His shoulders sag forward, hisspine bent, his head bowed so low I can’t see his face. One hand grips the glass loosely, without intention; the other is clenched tight in his lap, knuckles pale with tension. He looks heavier like this, not older in age but burdened, as if something unseen has pressed down on him and refused to let go. Just standing there, watching him like this, makes my throat burn.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know about his father. About the years that shaped him before I ever entered his life. About a childhood lived around fear so constant it seeps into adulthood, quiet and poisonous, refusing to loosen its grip just because time has passed. I never asked. I never thought to ask. And now he’s drowning in it, convinced that being alone is safer than letting anyone see how deep it goes.
“Dhruv,” I whisper, my voice barely steady enough to exist in the room.
He doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed somewhere I can’t follow.
“Stay away from me, Sitara.”
The words are calm. Too calm. His voice sounds controlled, stripped of warmth, almost rehearsed. But I can hear it anyway—the tension underneath, stretched thin, vibrating like something on the verge of snapping.
I swallow hard, my throat burning.
“I don’t really have to take orders from you,” I say quietly, even as I move closer. I sit beside him despite the warning, close enough that our knees almost touch. I can feel the heat of him, the rigid stillness of his body. “I’m the queen of Ranakpur. I’ll do whatever the hell I want to.”
Normally, this is where he’d react. A dry remark. A soft chuckle. That familiar look that says he sees right through me and loves me anyway.
I wait for it.
It doesn’t come.
He doesn’t even turn his head.
And the absence of that response hurts more than if he had pushed me away outright.
My chest tightens. I tilt my head, trying to catch even a glimpse of his face, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, as if looking up would cost him something he can’t afford to lose. The distance between us feels wider than the room itself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The apology slips out before I can stop it, softer than I intend, almost fragile. “I didn’t know about… him.”
I don’t say the word. I don’t need to. It’s there between us anyway, heavy and unspoken. His jaw tightens visibly, the muscle ticking as if he’s grinding down something bitter.
“You need to go,” he exhales.
The words aren’t sharp, but they land hard.
I nod once, slowly, as though I agree, even though every part of me resists it. “I think so, too,” I say, my voice steady despite the ache spreading through my chest.
That’s what finally makes him look up.
His head snaps up, eyes dark and startled, confusion flashing across his face. “What?”
“Let’s go home,” I say quietly, keeping my tone simple, almost careful. “There’s no reason to stay here.”
A short, humorless laugh leaves him, hollow enough to sting. His lips twist, not quite into a smile. “Home?” he asks. “You think of that place as your home?”
I look at him then, really look—at the slumped shoulders, the exhaustion etched into his face, the man who looks like he’s been fighting himself for far too long. Something in my chest gives way, cracking a little wider.
“No,” I say gently, letting the truth settle between us. “Wherever you are… that’s my home.”
