They just… walked away, Like I was invisible, Like I had never even mattered.

I always knew they didn’t love me… but I didn’t know they hated me this much. And in that moment… I started to believe maybe they were right.

Maybe I was the problem, Maybe the only mistake I ever made… was being born.

I sat there — broken, bloodied, breathless.

And then—

“AAAAhhhhh………Help Me……Mummy Please Save…….Me”

The scream tore through my throat before I even realized it had escaped — hoarse, broken, helpless… a cry from the ruins of my soul.

I clutched my face, nails digging into my skin as if I could tear the memories away. As if hurting myself would silence the hurt they gave me. My arms wrapped tightly around my body — a desperate shield — as I rocked back and forth, trembling violently.

I couldn’t breathe. Each gasp was sharp, ragged, like I was drowning in air. The walls of the room felt like they were closing in, the silence pressing down on my chest harder than the weight of their rejection.

Minutes… maybe hours passed. But time? It didn’t exist in moments like this.Eventually, there was silence. Not peace — never peace — but exhaustion. My body gave up long before my heart did.

I must’ve fallen asleep there, curled up on the cold floor, my tears still wet on my cheeks. But it wasn’t sleep that soothed —It was the kind of sleep that drags you deeper into the dark, The kind that swallows even your dreams.

When I woke up, everything ached, My muscles screamed from how tightly I’d clenched them all these hours. My skin stung — raw from the tears that had never stopped and the scratches they gave me. Every inch of me felt like it had been through a battle and maybe it had. A battle no one saw… and no one cared to witness.

Slowly, I forced myself to sit up. My vision blurred, swimming with the heaviness of sleep and pain — but then I saw it.

My reflection. I stumbled toward the mirror like a ghost pulled by some invisible thread and then… I froze.

My eyes, Red, Bloodshot, Swollen, Like they’d been bleeding tears. There was dried blood at the corners of my lips — maybe from when they shoved me, and my face hit the table. My elbows, my knees — scraped, raw, still oozing where they’d slammed into the cold marble, I looked…Like something discarded. Like something broken.

My entire room was chaos. The bed flipped onto one side, my table shoved against the wall, books scattered, jewelry broken, glass shattered —It looked like a storm had passed through.

No. Not a storm. Me. I was the storm, and the aftermath was always the same — destruction. Pain. Silence.

Dragging myself step by step, I made it to the washroom. My fingers trembled as I turned on the tap. Cold water burst from above, crashing over me like truth. The moment it kissed my wounds, I hissed — a sharp, involuntary breath slicing through the silence.

But no one came, No footsteps. No knocks. No one asked if I was okay. No one ever does, because in this palace… in this family…No one cares if I'm still breathing.

I bit down on my bottom lip and let the pain wash over me —The sting in my skin was sharp, But somehow…Still easier to endure than the emptiness festering inside.

After a while, I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped out of the bathroom, shivering...I opened the wardrobe with trembling hands and reached for the tiny first-aid kit, found it opened it. No shaking hands this time — just quiet, practiced movements...I applied ointment to the cuts. Pressed bandages onto the wounds. Like I had done so many times before. I didn’t even wince.

This kind of pain… had become familiar, Then I started cleaning the mess. I picked up shards of broken glass gently, wrapping each one in newspaper — so I wouldn’t cut myself further...Or maybe…Maybe I wanted to.

I set the table back in its place. Tugged the bedsheets into position. Stacked the books. Lined up the scattered accessories.

Piece by piece, I rebuilt the chaos until it looked normal again —Even if it never would be.

But some things were broken beyond repair. A cracked photo frame. A shattered music box. A mirror shard…Too small to fix, Too sharp to forget.

I stared at those fragments scattered across the floor, Each one a reflection of me —Shattered. Fragile. Dangerous.

Once the room looked “clean” — whatever that meant in a life like mine —I sank onto the bed. Pulled my legs to my chest. Wrapped my arms around them tightly. And sat there. The silence returned, Louder than it had ever been.

I stared at the wall for I don’t know how long…And then—A memory flickered with Vanya. Our conversation. Her words. Her voice. Her presence.

Suddenly, like someone gasping for air after staying underwater too long, I scrambled off the bed. I searched frantically for my phone. Under the pillow. Behind the bed. Between the cushions.

Found it.

I stared at the screen, my fingers hovered, my heart thundered. Then I pressed the call button.

I called her —The only person left who still remembered I existed and as the phone rang, A single tear slid down my cheek, Slow, Silent, Real.

Not because I was hopeful…But because, somehow, I still had someone to call. After a few rings, the line connected.

And then…I heard it —That voice, That voice that sounded like home.

"Hello, beta…? Hello?"
It was her. MyBua.

The moment I heard her angelic voice, my chest clenched so tightly, It felt like I would shatter. My throat burned — not from words, But from the wave of emotion surging upward, Begging to be released.

I tried to stay silent, Tried to hold it together. Tried to pretend I was okay.But even silence couldn’t hide the truth —My sobs betrayed me, She heard it. She felt it.

"Are you crying, baccha?"  Just three words, and I broke. The dam burst. I crumbled. I wept — raw, messy, breathless.

I gasped like a child who had held it in too long. Like every inch of pain had just been waiting….For one safe place to scream.

She didn’t interrupt me. She didn’t tell me to stop. She didn’t ask questions or demand answers. She just held space.

Her voice — soft, unwavering, full of warmth —Wrapped around me like the warmest blanket On the coldest, loneliest night.

"You don’t have to pretend with me, beta. Whatever you’re feeling —I see it, I honour it. And I’ll hold space for it." Her voice trembled slightly. But she stayed strong —For me.

"Beta... sometimes life tests us in ways we don’t understand right away. But I know you. You’re stronger than you feel right now. And I promise, you are not alone.” Every word she spoke sank deep into my chest — like soft raindrops on cracked earth. But no matter how warm her voice was, the pain inside me refused to loosen its grip.

I cried even harder, the ache in my chest throbbed — like a bruise that wouldn’t heal. My heart wasn’t just hurting…It was bleeding....And all I could do was speak through hiccups and sobs.

“Bu… Bua… hiccup… Baba… he didn’t trust me… hiccup...They all think I’m jealous of Virshka… hiccup...Just because… of her beauty… hiccup...They think… I took her jewellery… hiccup...But I didn’t, Bua… I swear, I didn’t… hiccup...I begged them to believe me… hiccup...But no one… no one listened… hiccup...They all look at me… like I’m something dirty…Something to be ashamed of… hiccup...Even Baba… he didn’t even look me in the eyes…”   My voice cracked — a painful tear slicing through every syllable. And then I whispered the part that hurt most.

“And I know… I know I’m crying, And they all must think I’m weak…”   I said it all. Every word I had swallowed, every tear I had hidden, I gave it to her —Like a child placing her shattered heart into the only hands she still trusted...And she didn’t try to hush me...Didn’t rush me...She just stayed. Because she understood.

"Tears aren’t a sign of weakness, my child…They’re how the heart cleanses itself...Let them fall. Let yourself feel, and heal.”   Her voice was gentle — like moonlight touching wounds no one else could see.

“And listen, beta… I know your holidays are starting. I’m going to speak to Bhai-sa. I’ll ask your Fufa ji to talk to him too. Just hold on a little longer, okay?”     Something in her tone shifted — something fierce, something maternal.  Like a mother lion protecting her cub, and for the first time in days…A fragile thread of calm touched my heart.

But the storm wasn’t over yet. My pain was too deep. My trust — too shattered. My soul — too tired.

She could hear it in my silence. In the way I breathed like every breath hurt. So she didn’t stop there.

“Go, my baccha...Lie down. Put your head on a soft pillow. Get under the blanket, okay? Close your eyes now.

You don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

Always.” Her words melted into a soft lullaby. No music. Just her voice. Just love. Just… her.

And for a moment — in the quiet corners of my mind — I could feel her. I imagined my head resting on her lap. Her hand stroking my hair, gently, rhythmically. Her saree smelling faintly of sandalwood and home. Her voice humming that lullaby she used to sing when I was five and afraid of thunder.

And just like that…One tear rolled down my cheek — tracing a silent path of pain and surrender.
And I let go, Of the ache, Of the screams, Of the loneliness. I drifted into sleep — not because the pain had gone…But because, finally, I wasn’t carrying it all alone.

                                              *********************************************************

Ajmer — 8:45 p.m.

The corridor echoed softly beneath his purposeful steps.

Dressed in a crisp white coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck like armor, he moved with the calm of a seasoned warrior — battle-worn, composed. There was an air about him — something between quiet authority and effortless allure.

His features were carved in intensity. A faint shadow of fatigue lingered across his brow, deepening the gravity in his expression — but it only made him more magnetic.

Those eyes — deep blue, stormy, unreadable — carried the weight of a hundred unshed truths. They flicked briefly toward the nurse walking beside him, then returned forward, sharp and distant.

His mind was still inside the OR — tracing every heartbeat, every moment where life had wavered… and steadied.

His hair, tousled and unruly from hours under surgical lights, framed his face like a sonnet caught between dusk and fire. He didn’t try to fix it. He never did. Even chaos seemed to bend around him — gently.

Even fresh out of the operation theatre, his presence felt like calm in a storm. Under the dim hospital lights, the hard lines of stress etched along his jaw softened — just enough to reveal something tender. A kindness that refused to fade, no matter how much the world demanded he harden.

His voice broke the silence — a low, composed murmur of post-op instructions.

“Vitals were unstable mid-procedure... we managed to stabilize, but she’ll need close monitoring through the night. Alert me immediately if her BP drops again.”

His hand moved with practiced precision — gesturing like a man who had just wrestled death and won, at least for now.

Without waiting for a response, Dr. Vayansh turned from the nurse and walked down the corridor alone, the echo of his footsteps trailing behind him like ghosts.

The door to his cabin clicked shut, muffling the world outside. He sank into his chair, his body folding into the backrest as though surrendering to gravity’s cruel pull. Head tilted back, eyes closed. One long exhale slipped through parted lips — half exhaustion, half silent grief.

He raked a hand through his hair — frustrated, restless. The strands fell messily back into place. Then, with both palms, he scrubbed at his face, as if trying to wipe away not just the fatigue, but the helplessness clinging to him like second skin.

No food. No sleep. Just the relentless blur of surgeries, monitors, alarms…Lives hanging by a thread, and his hands expected to stitch them back together. All of it weighed heavily — on his back, his breath, his soul.

For a moment, everything stilled. Then — a knock. Sharp. Urgent. His eyes snapped open, instinctively alert.

Another emergency? Another life?

But the door creaked open without another knock. His jaw tensed, eyes narrowing in irritation — only to relax when he saw who it was.

Dr. Shaurya.

His best friend. His brother — not by blood, but by everything that truly mattered. Still in scrubs, his white coat half-buttoned and askew, Shaurya looked like he’d been swallowed by twelve hours of storms. The confident neuro doctor, sharp as steel… now walked like his own neurons were short-circuiting.

He didn’t say a word. Just slumped into the chair opposite Vayansh — and with a heavy thud, dropped his head onto the table.

“Ansh… I’m tired now. I can’t handle this anymore.”  His voice was muffled against the wood, thick with weariness.

No drama. Just truth. Stripped. Bare. Spent.  Not just physical exhaustion — but the kind that burrows into your bones.

The emotional kind that eats away at strength wordlessly, night after night.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was sacred. The kind shared between two men who didn’t need words to be understood.

Ansh watched him — his own storm-blue eyes softening. Not with worry for a patient, but for him.

The man who had stood beside him through every silent breakdown. His Shaurya.

“I know,” he said quietly.
“Sit with it. But don’t crumble. We’re allowed to be tired — we’re just not allowed to quit.”

He reached over and silently handed him a glass of water. No lectures. No coddling. Just presence. Their friendship always spoke louder in gestures than in words.

Shaurya took the glass with a trembling hand, breathing deep — as if the water could refill the parts of him that medicine couldn’t.

For a long moment, the room held its breath with them.

Then, Vayansh leaned forward — slower, closer — his gaze never leaving his friend. And with a tenderness that rarely found voice, he reached out… fingers brushing gently through Shaurya’s disheveled hair.

“And let it be too much—for a while,” he whispered.

“We’ll breathe through it. Together.”

Shaurya’s breath hitched, Not quite a sob. Not quite a sound. Just the kind of silent quake only someone like Vayansh could recognize.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. just stayed there — head bowed — letting that rare, human softness seep into his bones.

The quiet touch in his hair, The words meant only for him. And slowly — so slowly — he straightened up. His eyes were rimmed red. Not from the tears he’d cried….But from the ones he hadn’t let himself feel.

“I almost lost her,”  he said finally, voice frayed.

“She was just sixteen. Brain hemorrhage. The scans said no... but I hoped.”

A dry, bitter laugh escaped him — short. Hollow.

“Like an idiot, I hoped.”   His voice was stripped of charm now — bare. Broken.

“Her father looked at me like I was God… And I…”  Shaurya shook his head, biting back the shame. He couldn’t even finish the sentence, But he didn’t need to.
“I cracked the bleed. Sutured every thread. She was stable... and then… during the operation — she was gone.”

Vayansh didn’t interrupt, he never did.

Shaurya kept speaking — because somehow, the words finally had somewhere safe to land, silence returned, but this time, it was heavier, it pressed against the walls, sat between them like something sacred… and sharp.

“You didn’t fail her, Shaurya. You gave her a chance no one else could’ve.”

Vayansh leaned back, voice a steady whisper in the quiet.

“That father? He didn’t see God. He saw hope...And for a while — you gave him that.”

Shaurya looked up — blue eyes glassy, but not broken.

“Why does it feel like sometimes… I save everyone… except myself?”

The question hung in the air — half confession, half cry for help. This time, Vayansh didn’t answer with words.

He stood, Walked around the desk, And quietly sank into the seat beside him — shoulder to shoulder.

Like they used to sit on the orphanage rooftop, No lights. No white coats...Just stars… and silence...And no space for loneliness to sneak in.

After a long moment, Vayansh said softly,

“You don’t have to.  That’s what I’m here for.”

Then, without hesitation, he leaned in — and wrapped his arms around him. Shaurya stiffened. Just for a second. Just a blink. Then… he exhaled. The kind of exhale that only happens when someone realizes they’re safe — but doesn’t quite know how to accept it.

Shaurya didn’t do hugs. Not the real kind. He gave them — yes, to crying interns. To mothers outside ICU doors, to people who needed comfort. But being held? That was different. That was vulnerable, that was dangerous. And yet —He didn’t pull away.

Instead, he closed his eyes… and let his forehead rest lightly against Vayansh’s shoulder. It wasn’t surrender. It was permission.

And then—

“You keep holding me like that, Ansh… and I might just start thinking you’re in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and half-buried against Vayansh’s shoulder, wiping his tears on his friend’s shirt with a soft giggle. “Should I book us a honeymoon suite… or are we still pretending to be just best friends?”
Vayansh rolled his eyes, smirking, lifting his head as he gently pushed him away—just enough to inspect the wet stain on his shirt.

“Please. If I were in love with you, I’d need therapy, a backup brain, and a six-month vacation,”

he said dryly.

“You flirt like a mosquito — annoying, everywhere, and somehow still alive.”

Shaurya blinked, mock-offended, and grinned through his tears.

“A mosquito? Wow. I was expecting butterfly at least.”

“Butterflies don’t steal my shirt for emotional snot therapy,” Vayansh muttered, inspecting the damage with exaggerated disdain, but his smirk never left.

“So… no honeymoon suite?”   Shaurya leaned back dramatically in his chair, clutching his chest like a theatre actor on his final breath.

“Only if it comes with noise-canceling headphones and a mute button for you.”  Vayansh didn’t even look up.

His tone matched the exact shade of sarcasm Shaurya needed to breathe again. And then—for a long second—they just looked at each other. No words. Just knowing.

Then they both cracked up. Not the loud kind. Not the kind you hear down the hallway.

Just the quiet, breathy laughter that fills hollow places. The kind that doesn’t echo — but heals.

By the time the clock ticked past 10:45 PM, their steps felt heavier than their hearts.

They stepped out of the hospital, dragging their feet toward the bike, riding off with all the energy of two exhausted souls who had nothing left to give.

The long day had wrung them out—body, mind, and soul.

Two doctors, bruised by the weight of human suffering, trudging home like survivors returning from war, No medals.

Just dark circles and sore feet.

As they stepped inside, the house greeted them with complete darkness. Not a single light was on—except one.

A dim glow flickered from the far corner of the hallway. And then… they saw it. A shadow, Tall, Still, Watching.

Shaurya froze.

“A-Ansh…”

he whispered, instinctively clutching the back of Vayansh’s shirt like a terrified toddler in a horror film.

“D-dekh na... k-k-kaun hai w-wahan… Mujhe... n-nahi marna… i-itni jaldi…”

His voice cracked with every syllable, eyes wide and peeking over Vayansh’s shoulder like a squirrel hiding behind a tree during a thunderstorm.

Vayansh groaned, dragging a tired hand down his face.

“You claim to be the fearless, unstoppable flirt, and here you are—clutching me like I’m your last piece of biryani. Drama ka doctorate leke hi nikla tha kya?”

Shaurya sniffed indignantly, trying to puff his chest from behind him.

“Excuse me. I wasn’t scared. I just... tactically sent you ahead as a noble sacrifice. Wanted to see how brave my so-called warrior is.”   Vayansh turned around slowly, deadpan.

“You sound like a cartoon sidekick. Tactical sacrifice? You were literally whimpering behind my neck like a rejected puppy.”

As they whispered and bickered in the dark…The shadow moved they didn't notice, The dim light blinked to full brightness.

YANK!

“AAAHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!”

Both of them yelped—in perfect unison—as their ears were grabbed from behind.

They screamed like kids caught red-handed stealing cookies, Spun around in horror— There. She. Was.

Shaurya’s mother. Hair tied in a no-nonsense bun. Eyes narrowed like twin lasers.

Slippers within reach. Judgment radiating stronger than hospital floodlights.

“Shaurya Agnivanshi! Vayansh!” She barked, still yanking Shaurya’s ear like it was a volume knob for manners.

“You both are doctors—but act like missing cast members from a haunted soap opera.”

“Whispering in the dark? Trembling? Wiping your noses on each other’s sleeves? Are you five?”

Shaurya winced like a cartoon villain caught mid-scheme.

“Maa! It was dark! There was a shadow! You weren’t answering your phone!”

She narrowed her eyes further.

“So your first instinct was to play ghost detectives and scream like you’re auditioning for Aahat?”

She raised one perfectly arched brow —Unimpressed. Unbothered. Unmoved. Still rubbing his sore ear, Vayansh tried to look dignified.

He failed.

“She pulls harder than an angry neurosurgeon mid-brain surgery,” he muttered.

“Honestly…” Shaurya whispered behind him, voice hushed and tragic,
“I was ready to write my will.”

Shaurya’s mother marched to the sofa like a general returning from battle, arms crossed, lower lip jutted like an angry toddler on strike. Her glare? Enough to melt surgical steel.

“What were you both doing all day?” she snapped.

“No lunch. No breakfast. And the food I made? It just sat there like I cooked for the ghosts of Ajmer!”

Her voice rose like a dramatic crescendo in an old radio play.

“If you didn’t like the food, at least say so! I’ll stop cooking altogether. I’m not running a five-star buffet for invisible boys!”  With a huff, she flopped onto the sofa like a scorned Bollywood heroine, arms folded tightly, nose in the air —

Clearly waiting for the universe itself to apologize.

Shaurya and Vayansh exchanged a look, The look.

The one they shared when a patient coded mid-surgery. When the coffee machine exploded. When Shaurya once stitched his glove into a patient’s wound.

Emergency level: MAA.

Tiptoeing forward like guilty schoolboys, they sank onto the sofa beside her—one on each side. No words. Just a synchronized, sheepish, half-hug of apology.

They leaned in with matching puppy eyes, nuzzling close like their cuddles could erase all sins.

“Maa…”   Shaurya whispered, thick with mock drama,

“It wasn’t neglect—it was emotional survival. The surgeries. The crises. Our love for your cooking remains eternal.”

“We were practically hallucinating your parathas,”   Vayansh added, curling an arm around her shoulder.

“I was about to write a prescription for maa ke haath ka khana.”

She tried to scowl, She really did. But her lips twitched.

Her fingers—on instinct—rose to smooth Shaurya’s and vayansh messy hair.

“Aab mujhe makhan mat lagao!” (Now don’t butter me up)

she grumbled, lightly swatting their arms. Yet her voice had softened into a lullaby only a mother could hum.

“Thak gaye hoge… jao, fresh ho jao mein khana lagati hoon.” (You must be tired… Go freshen up, I’ll set the food.)

Then—snap—General Maa returned.

“aur haan Jaldi sona. Warna agar main raat ko check karne aa gayi—tum dono ki khair nahi.”  (And listen—go to bed early. If I have to come check on you two at night… you’ll both regret it.)

Shaurya and Vayansh saluted in perfect sync.

“Yes, General Maa.” They each kissed her cheek, chiming:

“Thank you, Maa… love you… and sorry!”

They disappeared to freshen up—only to reappear like wild wolves unleashed. They darted toward the kitchen, inhaling the aroma like it was divine oxygen. Then?

Devoured. Her lovingly cooked dinner became a battlefield of joy.

They spooned dal like it was liquid gold. Tore into parathas like warriors who hadn’t seen carbs in centuries.

Shaurya choked mid-laugh when Vayansh spilled curry on himself. Vayansh nearly gagged watching Shaurya’s tragic attempt at folding a napkin into a rose.

The kitchen echoed—With laughter, with teasing. With the comforting clinks of plates and spoons.

And somewhere between spoonfuls of love and crumbs of memory—They felt okay again, Not whole, But held.

The night felt lighter now. Warmer. Safe.

Later, they both finally freshened up—because earlier, they'd barely managed to wash their hands and splash water on their faces, too starved to wait for anything more.

Now changed into loose T-shirts and track pants, they slipped under separate blankets.

Exhaustion clung to their muscles like gravity refusing to let go. But their hearts— Just hours ago stitched together in silence— Were now patched up with softness only a home could give.

Sleep didn’t crash in like a wave. It arrived like a whisper. Gentle. Quiet. Healing.
________________________________________

Jodhpur — 4:00 AM

A soft groan slipped past my lips, something hard was pressing into my ribs. Eyes still closed, I shifted slightly, reaching across, fumbling through the sheets—And then...Warmth, Skin, Muscle?

Wait... was that muscle?

Still wrapped in sleep’s fog, my fingers lingered. Tracing the unfamiliar shape, soft. Warm. person.

My breath caught in my throat. My eyes snapped open—And there—just inches away from me—

i was socked to see the person beside me—

(To be continued…?)

                                     ******************************************************

Happy reading, Roses!

I hope you enjoy the chapter.

How was it, Roses? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

It’s a little over 4K+ words—sorry if it felt short

i know this is short even from first chapter it's cause of my exam sorry.

Please share your feedback—it means a lot! 💐