I never mention what it did to me. The way every unknown number once made my heart stop. The birthdays that came and went like insults. The humiliation of growing older while still hoping to be chosen. I don’t mention how silence can become a person’s first language.
And Krishna’s betrayal years ago, I learned quickly enough. No one gets close enough to leave wreckage. No one gets inside enough to matter. No one gets access.
Then Aryan Khanna walked into my life with dimples, audacity, and zero respect for self-preservation. And now he knows things no one else does.
I hate that. I hate more that I don’t regret it. I was meant to go to the restroom. Instead, the open balcony at the end of the corridor pulls me toward it like a promise I don’t trust.
The moment I step outside, the night air meets my skin.
Cool.
Clean.
Merciful.
I stop near the railing and inhale so deeply it almost hurts. Below me, the city glitters in restless lines of gold. Headlights stream like moving beads. Towers blink against the dark. Somewhere far beneath, life continues in a thousand directions. Above it all, the moon hangs pale and patient, spilling silver over glass and steel and the edges of everything sharp.
The wind lifts the hair at my neck. My eyes close before I can stop them. For one suspended second, I feel nothing jagged inside me. No vigilance. No armor. No preparing for impact. Just stillness.
The sensation startles me so badly my eyes open at once. I cannot remember the last time I felt peaceful. And if I’m honest—truly, brutally honest—it isn’t the moonlight. It isn’t the air. It isn’t the distance from the crowd. It is him.
Because for the first time in years, I no longer feel entirely alone in the world. I still live alone. Still fight alone. Still carry everything that breaks with my own hands. But somewhere quietly, without permission, another truth has entered me.
If I fell—If something happened—If I needed—His face rises in my mind before I can stop it.
Aryan.
Smiling like trouble. Talking too much. But always showing up. Standing there with that maddening certainty, as if the world is solvable. And that thought terrifies me. Because somewhere along the way, I have started believing him. Believing that if I called, he would come. Believing that if I disappeared, someone would notice. Believing that if I reached out, someone might stay. That kind of hope can destroy a woman like me.
“Ishika.” His voice comes from behind me. He sounds breathless. I turn slowly. He stands in the doorway, tie loosened, hair disordered, chest rising faster than usual as if he came quickly and forgot dignity on the way.
His eyes sweep over me at once.
Face.
Shoulders.
Hands.
Legs.
Checking.
Counting pieces.
Making sure all of me is still here. The realization lands so hard I grip the railing. He was worried. Not irritated. Not possessive. Worried. He takes a step forward. “You’ve been gone for ten minutes,” he says, still catching his breath. “I checked the restroom. You weren’t there, so I got a little…” He pauses. Then choose honesty. “Scared.”
Those ridiculous green eyes meet mine. Usually they sparkle with mischief, arrogance, amusement. Now they are soft with relief. Something painful and tender twists inside my chest.
If I went missing now, someone would look.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. My throat feels scraped raw. “I just wanted some air.” I try to smile but I don’t think it’s convincing enough because his brows furrow, “I’m sorry I worried you.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He only studies me. Not the way men usually look at women. Not assessing. Not admiring. He’s…reading me. “What is it?” he asks quietly.
“Nothing.” I say a little too quickly, the lie falls between us like glass. He closes the remaining distance and lightly touches my arm. The contact is warm through silk and skin, and my body betrays me instantly with a tremor.
I hate that he notices. I hate more that he says nothing about it. “I know you enough now,” he murmurs, “to know when your silence is loud.” His fingers lift a strand of hair from my cheek and tuck it behind my ear. Slowly. As if he understands some moments should never be rushed. “Talk to me.”
