The morning light poured through the tall windows, soft and golden, but it didn't reach the cold corners of the mansion.
Sanya sat at the edge of the bathroom sink, holding a damp cotton pad in one hand. Her arm, exposed and pale under the sleeve of her kurta, bore the long, dry gash from yesterday. It had crusted dark red now—untreated, as if the pain had blended into her skin.
She didn't flinch while cleaning it. Not even once.
Like she was used to this.
Like her body had learned not to cry out.
She gently tied a loose bandage herself—nothing neat, nothing proper. Just enough to cover it.
---
Downstairs, Aarush stood by the glass door of his study, scrolling through messages. His calls had drained him. The pressure, the shareholders, the board—it was all closing in.
He needed coffee.
As he stepped into the hallway, he didn't expect to bump into her again.
Sanya.
This time, she didn't look surprised.
Just tired.
Her hair was loosely tied, her steps light, almost unsure.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Then his gaze dropped to her arm.
Bandaged. Uneven. Barely holding together.
He stopped.
Words rose to his lips—but before he could speak—
She lowered her eyes.
And walked past him.
Quietly. Like she always did.
His chest tightened.
Why didn't she ask for help? Why didn't she say something?
But he said nothing too.
Because kindness would be hypocrisy.
Because weakness was not an option.
Because he'd decided long ago—he would not feel. Not for her.
---
Later, when he returned to his study, he found a smear of blood on the wall near the hallway corner. The exact place where she had stumbled yesterday.
The red had faded into the wallpaper. Like it had been wiped. But not well enough.
His jaw clenched.
He stood still, staring.
For a long time.
The day passed without incident.
At least, on the surface.
But silence had a sound in the Rathore mansion—and today, it rang louder than ever.
Sanya had retreated to the farthest corner of the house, curling herself up on the wide window ledge in the guest room she had slowly begun to make her own. She had a sketchbook in her lap, but her pencil barely moved.
Lines blurred.
Faces didn't come.
No matter how hard she tried, her mind was blank except for that brief moment in the corridor—their eyes meeting. The way his gaze had flicked to her bandaged arm. The way it looked like he might say something.
But didn't.
He never did.
Aarush, on the other hand, sat in his office, tapping the pen against his desk without realizing it. The documents in front of him made no sense anymore.
His mind was back in the hallway.
That small, unspoken scene.
She had looked… defeated.
Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just… quietly breaking.
And that was worse.
Because someone crying could be ignored.
But someone falling apart without a sound?
That haunted you.
He stood up abruptly, walked to the window, and opened it, breathing in the cool evening air as if it could wash her out of his thoughts.
But it didn't.
She was everywhere these days.
Even in the silence.
---
Later that night, when Sanya came down to the kitchen to make herself some warm water, their paths crossed again.
She didn't expect to see him at the table.
He was sitting there with his sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled, staring at nothing. His phone buzzed beside him, but he didn't pick it up.
Sanya paused by the door.
For a second, she considered turning back.
But her throat was parched and her steps were too soft to be heard.
Until—
"You don't sleep, do you?"
His voice was quiet. Not soft. Just low.
She froze.
Slowly, she turned toward him. "Neither do you."
Their eyes locked again.
There was a war in his gaze. Of holding back. Of wanting to say something—anything—but not letting himself.
"Insomnia?" he asked suddenly.
She shook her head. "Memories."
His jaw tightened.
He stood up then, as if staying in the room would suffocate him.
As he passed her, his shoulder brushed hers. Lightly. Unintentionally.
But it was enough.
She closed her eyes when he was gone. Her fingers clenched into the hem of her shawl. She didn't cry.
But she didn't smile either.
---
Aarush closed his door behind him, leaned back against it.
His hands curled into fists.
He hated how she looked at him.
Like she was waiting for something that would never come.
Like she didn't blame him for anything… even when she should.
And that made it worse.
Because hate was easier when the other person was cold, defiant, cruel.
But she wasn't.
She was soft. Quiet. Wounded.
And still standing.
It infuriated him.
And somewhere deep—so deep he refused to admit it—it frightened him too.