The night had finally come to an end.

Misha was already fast asleep, her small form curled gently into Diya’s arms, completely unaware of the noise and chaos still lingering around her. She looked safe there— wrapped in that quiet kind of comfort only Diya could give. Like she belonged.

Atharv and Tanya were still walking the last of the guests out, exchanging smiles and gratitude, but Diya? She never moved from her place. Almost like leaving would mean stepping out of the quiet bubble she’d built around Misha and herself.

Maa offered dinner to Diya, as expected. Insisted, even— but Diya declined. Polite. Gracious. Like she’d already had this conversation in her head and settled it hours ago.

The house was beginning to quiet down, but my mind wasn’t.

Maybe I was overthinking.

Maybe I was just noticing too much.

But something in her had shifted.

It started after we came back inside from the garage. I don’t know what changed exactly— she was still smiling, still speaking with that same soft composure. But there was a difference now.

She looked tired. Not exhausted. Just... physically tired in a way that showed up in the way her shoulders dropped, in how she kept adjusting Misha’s weight without really noticing she was doing it.

And yet— she was trying. So damn hard.

Holding on to that polite smile, like it was armor. Like letting it fall would mean showing something she didn’t want anyone to see.

And I don’t know why, but it bothered me. The way she kept it up. The way she didn’t let herself rest even for a second.

After the guests had all been sent off, Tanya and Atharv walked over to Diya.

She carefully— painfully carefully— handed Misha over to him. One arm at a time, slow and deliberate, as if breaking Misha’s sleep would somehow shatter the silence she was carrying inside her too.

Atharv took the baby instinctively, but I couldn’t stop watching Diya’s fingers linger for a second too long on Misha’s blanket. Like letting go was never her strong suit.

“It’s late, you should stay the night.” Tanya offered. Maa chimed in too, echoing the concern.

But Diya only smiled, that same composed smile, and declined again—politely.

“Thank you,” voice steady, “but I should go.”

No excuses. No long explanations. Just quiet resolve in the shape of a sentence.

She moved through the room next, saying goodbye to Dadu first, and then the rest of the family. Tanya pulled her into a hug, warm and full of gratitude. “Thank you for joining us today,” she whispered.

Diya just smiled again. Polite. Gentle. Guarded.

But then— right before we turned to leave— her eyes flicked back to Misha.

Just for a second.

And for the briefest moment, something shifted in her expression. Not a full smile, but close. The kind of smile that doesn't reach the lips fully, but softens everything anyway. A whisper of emotion she didn’t say aloud.

Then, with her goodbyes done, she turned to leave.

Without a pause. Without a look back.

So I followed her.

We stepped out through the main door— just the two of us now. The warmth of the house behind us, and a quiet chill creeping into the night air.

I knew what was coming.

I'll do a cab.

Could see it in the way her steps slowed, in the way her lips pressed together like she was bracing herself.

“I’ll do a cab,” she said, firm, final. Like always.

Of course. Should I just get myself a yellow board and start charging her per kilometre?

“It’s late. You’re coming with me,” I replied, matching her tone, not even pretending to ask.

On any other day, that would’ve sparked a full blown debate— at least one sarcastic comment from her— even if she said it in her head, i could hear it.

Or sigh. That loud, exaggerated, dramatic exhale she does just to make a point— even if she’s going along with it anyway.

But tonight?

Nothing.

Not even a sigh.

It wasn’t like her.

She just… walked to the car. Silently. Obediently. Like she couldn’t summon the energy to fight me. And for some reason, that unnerved me more than if she’d been stubborn.

I followed quietly and opened the passenger side door for her. She didn’t say a word, just slipped in, pulling the seatbelt across with a sluggishness that made it clear— she wasn’t just tired. She was done. The kind of done that sits in your bones.

I circled around, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

The hum of it filled the silence between us.

God, what a day.

Overwhelming from the moment it began.

The phone call, the temple, the house, the guests, the noise—

And her. She came straight from work, barely sat down, still managed to keep that calm, composed mask on through everything. Of course she was tired now. Of course her body had hit its limit.

I adjusted the rearview mirror, hand on the gearshift, ready to pull out of the driveway—

“Can I ask for a favour?”

Her voice cuts through the silence like it always does— soft, hesitant, like she’s afraid asking anything might tip some invisible balance.

She was initiating another conversation? Really? We’ve spoken more today than we have in… well, ever. Usually, we orbit each other like distant planets— coexisting, silent, safe.

My fingers paused on the ignition.

I didn’t start the car.

Not because I want to stay. Not because I want to sit beside her a little longer in this stifling quiet. Or anything—

It's definitely not that.

It’s just... if she’s about to say something— anything— I want to hear it. All of it. No distractions. No pretense.

She rarely speaks, and when she does, it’s like pulling thread from a frayed seam— careful, intentional, and so heartbreakingly restrained.

I glanced at her— she still wasn’t looking at me.

And I couldn’t help it.

My mind wandered.

I’d bet anything this so called “favour” wasn’t even something worth calling that.

She always did this— treating the smallest requests like she was asking for the world. Like she owed people for needing anything at all.

She didn’t.

“Yeah,” I said, voice lower than usual.

Whatever it was?

She already had it.

“How are you going to come in our— on the wedding day.”

That pause. That damn pause.

She tripped over the word like it physically hurt to say it. Our.

The second she said it, something twisted in me— sharp and sudden. Like hearing your own name in a prayer you didn’t expect to be part of.

The question threw me. Hard.

I wasn’t prepared for her to go there.

Neither of us had dared to touch the W-word. That unspoken agreement sat thick between us like fog.

Wedding.

Husband.

Wife.

We don’t say it. We don’t need to say it.

We’ve both been pretending this whole arrangement is some far off blur, not something real enough to have a date. Or logistics.

But then— she did.

She broke the rule. Just like that.

And then she did what she always does when something makes her vulnerable— she covered it with a practical follow up.

“I mean transportation, what are you gonna use?”

That backtrack.

That desperate scramble to make it sound casual, like it wasn’t a confession buried inside a question.

What am i gonna use? Does she want me to book a cab or something?

Again, she didn’t wait for my answer.

Didn’t even look at me. Just kept talking— like if she stopped, even for a second, the weight of what she was saying might crush her.

“I know there’s nothing normal about this,” she said, voice steady but tight— like she was holding something back.

“Nothing normal about… us.”

There it was again. That careful crack in her armour. A confession masked as a statement.

She stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the dashboard like it held the script she’d rehearsed a hundred times in her head.

“I don’t care how everything else goes— whatever the families want, however they want it. That’s fine.”

A beat.

“But… can you please not come riding on a mare?”

I blinked.

A mare? Was that… was that actually her concern?

She wasn’t done.

“Even if this wedding wasn’t what i planned or expected… it still is my wedding.”

Her voice dipped at that— quieter, softer. Like she’d just realized she was letting herself feel something she wasn’t supposed to.

“And my husba—”

She stumbled. Froze.

Swallowed the word like it burned on her tongue.

“My groom was never meant to arrive sitting on a mare like some borrowed cliché from someone else’s fantasy.”

I should’ve laughed.

But it didn't sound like a last minute thought. It was something she had decided years ago.

Then— “Why?”

It left my mouth before I could stop it.

Not in mockery. Not even in amusement.

I just… wanted to know.

What was she imagining? What had she hoped for, before all of this?

What did her version of that day look like, in the world where things weren’t forced and fast and messy?

And maybe— just maybe— what did it mean that she still wanted it to matter?

“Because they’re not treated well.”

Her words came out in a breath— sharp, fragile.

Like she hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

Like it physically cost her something to speak it.

She inhaled slowly, shakily— like the ache behind her thoughts was crawling up her ribs.

“They’re beaten, starved. Trained through fear just to become part of someone’s one day fantasy.”

She still wouldn’t look at me. Her eyes were locked on the windshield, but I could see it— her jaw clenched, her fingers curling into her palms, nails digging in like she needed something to anchor her.

“They don’t even flinch at the loud music, you know why?”

A bitter smile tugged at her lips.

“Because they’re forced to get used to it. Trained to tolerate fireworks, drums, screams… just so they don’t ruin someone’s photo opportunity.”

Her voice shook now— not from weakness, but from something deeper. Rage. Sadness. Both.

“They’re not machines. They’re not made to pull heavy carts or carry grown men dressed in glitter.”

“Even when they’re starving, they obey. And once they can’t anymore, their owners dump them near garbage bins to scavenge like strays.”

She paused. Her throat bobbed with a swallow she couldn’t quite finish.

“They’re not meant for us. Not for our noise. Not for our weight.”

“They’re meant to be grazing in fields, not paraded through streets with flowers tied to their neck like it makes cruelty poetic.”

And just like that— she stopped.

Like she'd poured out something she’d kept buried for far too long. Like she'd yanked the thread of her own heart too far and was scared it might unravel.

I sat there in silence. Completely, utterly still.

“I’m sorry… I got carried away,” she whispered, eyes refusing to meet mine.

“We should leave. It’s getting late.”

That was it.

No pause. No waiting to see what I’d say.

Just silence— and her, folding herself back into it like she hadn’t just ripped through mine.

But I couldn’t move.

Because I was still stuck on everything she’d just said.

The way she spoke about them.

The animals. The voiceless. The forgotten.

Like they mattered. Like they always mattered, even when no one else saw them.

I had never thought about it. Not once.

Not the mare. Not the carriage. Not the noise, the cruelty, the cold metal tied with marigolds.

I hadn’t even let my mind go there.

When I imagined that day— if I imagined it at all— I just assumed someone would handle it. A planner. A relative. Anyone.

Horse. Car. Whatever.

I didn’t care.

But she did.

So much that it spilled out of her without warning, like she’d been holding it in for years, biting it back every time someone laughed off the idea.

Like she’d watched the world look away— and promised herself she wouldn’t.

She saw them.

The ones no one else looked at.

And she cared.

Not in the Instagram story way people do.

She cared in that quiet, relentless, aching kind of way.

The kind that builds a knot in your throat because you realize you’ve been blind your whole life.

I sat there, stunned.

Thinking about how I’d walked through life with my eyes wide open and still never seen the things she just described.

And suddenly, it mattered.

What I showed up in.

What I stood for.

What I let happen without question.

It mattered because she’d made it matter.

Not through guilt. Not through force.

Just by being someone who couldn’t stay silent— even when it cost her comfort.

God.

How many more things had I never thought about?

How many more things had she noticed while I was too busy pretending not to feel?

And why did it feel like this— this quiet rant, this shaky confession— was the first real conversation I’d had in a very, very long time?

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t.

Words felt too shallow. Too late.

I was caught between the sharp sting of guilt— for not seeing what she had seen all along—and a quiet reverence for the depth of her compassion.

So I did the only thing I could— I started the car. And drove.

She didn’t speak after that. Not a word.

That didn’t surprise me. She was never the type to fill silence just for the sake of it.

But today… she didn’t even look out the window. She always did that— gazed outside like her thoughts were somewhere just past the horizon, like she needed to stay tethered to something moving, something distant.

Today, her head hung low. Slightly.

But not from what she’d said.

She didn’t regret a word of it— I knew that.

No, this… this was something else.

Fatigue.

The kind you don’t voice. The kind you push through for hours until your body finally catches up and forces stillness on you.

She had been carrying it since earlier, since Misha was in her arms.

I remembered her then— her posture, the way she’d smiled and stayed gentle even when her shoulders looked like they wanted to collapse inwards. She hadn’t let it show. Not fully.

Now, though… she was just still.

One hand resting on her lap.

And then, slowly, she placed the other on her stomach. Her fingers spread instinctively, like they were trying to soothe something she wouldn’t speak of.

Her expression shifted— barely noticeable, but I caught it.

A flinch. A pause. A breath too sharp to be casual.

Was she sick? Was it something she ate? Or was she just… overwhelmed?

I didn’t know.

And the not knowing clawed at something inside me.

Because I wanted to ask.

I wanted to know.

But I didn’t want to break whatever fragile thing existed in that silence between us.

So I kept driving, eyes locked on the road, hoping— selfishly— that we’d reach her house soon.

Not because I wanted this ride to end.

But because something about her silence… the way her hand rested on her stomach, the weight in her posture— it was getting harder to ignore. And harder to sit with.

I told myself it was just the day catching up to her. That she’d be fine once she got home.

And then—

barely 900 meters away from her house—

“Stop the car.”

Her voice cut through the silence, sharp and sudden. Not panicked. But… urgent.

I hit the brakes instinctively, not even questioning it. Didn’t even have time to ask what was wrong before she was moving.

“Thank you for the ride,” she said quickly, too quickly. “I’ll take a walk. It’s walking distance from here.”

Wait, what?

Before the thought could settle, she was already moving— seatbelt off, door unlocked. She was gone. It all happened in under three seconds.

Like she couldn’t wait to get out. Like sitting beside me had become unbearable.

What just happened? What happened to her?

The questions barely had time to settle in my chest before instinct shoved it aside. I didn’t waste a second. I opened the door and stepped out, scanning the road until I caught sight of her walking away— fast, head down, hands clenched at her sides.

But not toward her house.

She was walking but in the wrong direction. Her house was the other way. And she wasn’t even pretending to care.

I started walking toward her, heart already thudding in a strange rhythm— half confusion, half dread.

And that’s when I saw it.

The dark red stain.

Small. But painfully visible. On the back of her jeans.

Shit.

It hit me like a jolt— everything made sense now. The silence. The fatigue. The way her hand rested on her stomach. The slight shift in her expression, like she was trying not to wince.

She got her period.

And she didn’t say a word.

Of course she didn’t.

She was the kind of person who’d rather walk through pain in silence than ask for help. Who’d rather disappear than be seen in a moment that made her feel exposed.

And now she was out here, walking in the wrong direction, humiliated, hurting— and trying to hide it with every step.

Goddamn it.

My hand moved before I even thought. I yanked off my blazer, quick, holding it in one hand as I took a few strides forward.

“Diya.”

Her name came out rougher than I intended— half a whisper, half a plea.

She froze. Just for a second.

Then, as if the weight of her name was too much to carry, she started walking again. Quieter now. Still not looking back.

But I was already there.

I caught up to her in a few long strides, gently stepping into her path. And before she could disappear again— before she could fold further into herself— I turned her around.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t say a word.

Just stood there, head slightly bowed, breathing slow but uneven.

I didn’t hesitate. I bent down and carefully wrapped my blazer around her waist, knotting it securely.

Her hands instinctively hovered over my shoulders for balance. A small, shaky touch— barely there, but it hit me like a goddamn earthquake.

Because even in this moment, even while she was holding on to me, she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

When I stood up, she still wouldn’t look at me.

Her lashes were lowered. Her jaw was clenched tight. She was bracing— waiting for shame, maybe. Or pity. Or a reaction she wouldn’t be able to take.

But all I wanted was to take her pain and bury it somewhere far away from her.

“You’re okay,” I said gently, the words catching in my throat.

I wasn’t sure if I was saying it for her— or for myself.

Because seeing her like this?

Walking away like she didn’t deserve to stay?

Trying to vanish from her own moment of vulnerability?

It gutted me.

And suddenly, nothing else in the world mattered more than making sure she didn’t feel alone in it.

“Let’s go back,” I added, voice low, soft enough not to spook her.

I didn’t reach for her. Didn’t force.

I just stood there. A silent offer. A steady presence.

And then—

Head still bowed. Shoulders stiff.

Her voice cracked the silence.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t know. I’m sorry if I stained your seat.”

“I’ll get it cleaned. I’m really sorry for ruining it.”

Ruining it.

My heart didn’t just break.

It cracked— loud, brutal, physical.

Like something inside me tore clean in half just hearing her say that.

Her voice was so soft. So careful.

As if she was the one who’d done something wrong.

And that was the part that wrecked me.

Not the blood. Not the silence. Not even her trying to walk away.

But this.

The apology.

Like she had to apologise for her body.

Like she had to apologize for bleeding.

For being in pain. For being human.

Her hand was clutched over her abdomen, and her face was tight— tense with discomfort she wasn’t voicing. And still, still, the first thing she thought about… was the car.

A stupid. Fucking. Car.

Not herself.

And I swear, in that moment, I hated myself.

For not noticing sooner.

For not putting it together when I saw her hand on her stomach.

For not being the kind of man who made her feel safe enough to just say, “I’m in pain.”

She still wasn’t looking at me.

Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere around my shoulder— anywhere but at me.

She looked… embarrassed.

And I know her. I know how much she hates awkwardness, how allergic she is to vulnerability.

We’ve never had awkward silences. Not once.

But in her head, I knew— this was that moment.

The one she’d remember.

The one that would eat at her later.

And I just stood there.

Looking at her.

Trying to hold in this… this wildfire inside me.

This protectiveness that was building like a storm I didn’t know how to contain.

She looked so small.

So unlike the Diya I’ve seen till now— fierce, composed, quiet but never fragile.

Right now, she looked breakable.

And that shattered something in me.

Because she should never have to feel like this.

Never have to apologise for bleeding.

Never have to carry the shame of something so natural— alone.

Not when I’m standing right here.

Not when I’d do anything— anything— to take even an ounce of that pain away.

I looked at her like she was made of glass.

And for the first time, I didn’t know whether I wanted to hold her together or fall apart beside her.

I didn’t want her to feel this.

Not the shame.

Not the panic.

Not the way she was shrinking into herself like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Didn’t want her to flinch from her own body, from this moment, from me.

So I reached out— carefully, slowly, like I was touching something sacred. Because I was.

My fingers brushed under her chin, lifting her face toward mine.

Her skin was warm beneath my touch but my heart felt impossibly cold.

Then she looked at me—

And when she did— I nearly fell apart.

God.

Glassy eyes.

Wild with the effort of holding herself together.

She wasn’t crying.

But her lashes were soaked in a grief she was too proud to let fall. Tears threatening to spill but never falling. Because of course they wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let them.

Not in front of me.

Not in front of anyone.

She was trying so hard to hold herself together. And not because she didn’t want me to see her like this— but because she didn’t know how to be seen like this.

And that wetness in her eyes?

It wasn’t embarrassment. It wasn’t shame.

It was pain.

Real, physical, bone deep pain. And the sheer force of her trying to hide it… tore something open inside me.

Something raw. Something helpless. Something furious.

I kept my voice soft. Softer than I’ve ever used with her.

“There is nothing embarrassing or awkward about this, Diya.”

I said it like a vow.

She didn’t believe me. Not yet. But she heard me.

She genuinely thought she’d ruined something?

My throat tightened.

Because how the hell had this world shaped her to believe she needed to apologize for this?

She wasn’t even thinking about herself.

Not the cramps, not the fatigue, not the horror of walking through pain with no warning, no comfort.

No.

She was thinking about a seat.

A car. A stain that didn’t even exist.

She couldn’t even look at me.

Couldn’t bear the idea of being seen like this.

Her eyes darted away the moment mine tried to hold hers— like she was convinced this was the moment everything between us would turn to discomfort. Our silence would become awkward or something.

But it didn’t. It never could.

All I felt was a violent tenderness surging through my chest.

Her chin still rested between my fingers— my hand steady, anchoring her gently like I was afraid she’d dissolve if I let go.

“Look at me.”

It wasn’t a command.

It was a request. A plea, tucked inside a whisper.

And after a long second, she did.

Slowly. Carefully.

Like it hurt to lift her gaze. Like it took everything in her to meet mine.

Her glassy eyes met mine again, hesitant, vulnerable, raw.

With fear. The kind that settles in when your soul stands bare,

and you’re not sure what being known like this means...

So I said what she needed to hear— even if it wasn’t the truth. Even if it was the softest lie I’d ever tell.

“You didn’t ruin the car. There’s no stain on the seat.”

I hadn’t checked. I hadn’t even looked. But I had to say it.

Because she was torturing herself in silence.

Punishing herself in real time.

And I would not let her.

“Even if there was one,” I said, more firmly this time, voice still low, “it wouldn’t matter.”

Because nothing she could bleed on would ever mean more to me than the girl standing in front of me, bleeding and apologizing for it like she owed the world an explanation.

She didn’t ruin a thing.

But watching her believe that she had?

That’s what ruined me.

“You’re not going alone,” I said, softer than a whisper, but firmer than I’d meant.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a plea anymore.

It was me, trying to pull her out of the storm she refused to acknowledge.

But she shook her head.

Stubborn. Fragile. Breaking in silence.

“I’ll ruin your seat,” she said, voice so small I almost missed it.

And I swear— something inside me snapped at that.

But before I could respond, she moved.

Something must’ve clicked in her head, because her fingers suddenly reached for the knot I’d tied around her waist. My blazer.

“Your blazer will get stained,” she mumbled, eyes fixed somewhere on the ground.

“You should go, Mr. Malhotra. It's getting late. I’ll manage.”

There it was again—

The sudden switch to formality.

Brick by brick, name by name.

Calling me Mr. Malhotra like she hadn’t looked me in the eye just minutes ago with pain and trembling silence.

She was pushing me away.

Dismissing herself.

Trying to walk back into the world like she didn’t need anything or anyone.

I didn’t let her finish.

I reached out and gently, but firmly, caught her hand before she could undo the knot completely.

“Get in the car.”

My voice was a little stronger this time.

Not harsh. Not loud. But enough that she’d hear the finality in it.

Her eyes flicked up to mine. And for a second— there was something close to panic behind them.

And then—

“No,” she said, clutching her stomach tighter, her entire body curling inward around the pain.

And I knew.

She was hurting.

More than she was letting on.

More than I had let myself believe until now.

And yet... she was still trying to walk away. Still trying to protect my damn seat, my blazer, my time, as if any of it mattered more than her.

And I just—

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I couldn't keep standing on the edge of her pain while she acted like it wasn’t real.

That was it.

I wasn’t going to let this go on—

No more asking.

No more negotiating.

And I didn’t care if she "ruined" the seat.

Or the blazer.

Or if she never spoke to me again after this.

All I cared about— right now— was getting her the hell out of this moment.

So I did what I had to do.

I didn’t say another word.

Didn’t give her a moment to argue again.

I slipped one arm beneath her knees, the other steadying around her waist, and in one swift, fluid motion— lifted her into my arms.

She gasped.

Her hands shot up, circling around my neck instinctively, fingers clutching my collar like her body responded before her brain could catch up.

“What are—”

I didn’t let her finish.

“You think I give a damn about the leather when you’re hurting?”

My voice was low. Steady. Laced with quiet fury.

Not at her.

At the situation. At myself. At the world that made her feel like she had to walk herself through hell just to keep from inconveniencing anyone.

“Why won’t you list—”

“No.”

I cut her off again, firmer this time, my eyes flicking down to hers.

“Why won’t you listen?”

She blinked, stunned into silence. Her lips parted, like she still wanted to argue—but the fight had drained out of her.

I could feel it in the way her body rested against mine, a little too easily.

Like she didn’t want to be held… but her pain was louder than her pride right now.

So I walked.

Carrying her.

Every step slow. Measured. Unshakeable.

The night air was cool against my skin, but I was burning inside. Not from anger—but from the intensity of this. Of her. Of everything she wasn’t saying.

She kept watching me.

Her eyes fixed on my face like she was memorizing it.

Like she couldn’t believe I was doing this.

Like she wanted to punch me and cry into my chest at the same time.

God, I didn’t plan any of this.

Didn’t imagine myself carrying her like this— not tonight, not ever.

But if she wasn’t so goddamn stubborn—if she wasn’t so fiercely independent, so wrapped in thorns and fire—I wouldn’t be here either.

And yet… here I was.

Because I wasn’t going to let her walk 900 meters.

Hell, I wasn’t going to let her take another step. Not while she was in pain. Not while her body was bleeding and her eyes were glassy and her mouth was still forming apologies for existing.

Not on my watch.

She shifted a little, wincing, trying to ease the cramp. And I held her tighter. Not crushing— just firm. Solid. Unyielding.

I wanted her to feel it.

That she wasn’t alone.

That I had her.

That she could rest, just this once. And the world wouldn’t fall apart.

I caught the flicker of something else behind her eyes.

Surprise.

Softness.

Something dangerously close to trust.

I said nothing. Just kept walking.

When we reached the car, I adjusted my grip slightly, lowering her just enough to free one hand so I could reach for the car handle.

She watched me fumble with it for a second— my arm full of her, trying not to jostle her— and then, without a word, she reached forward and opened it herself.

Of course she did.

Even in pain, she couldn’t help but do something. Anything.

I didn’t say anything. Just exhaled through my nose, a soft huff that wasn’t amusement, wasn’t frustration— just a quiet kind of ache I hadn’t learned how to carry until tonight.

I placed her gently into the passenger seat.

Every movement slow. Careful. Like setting down something breakable.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t say a word. Just let herself be moved.

Her head hung low. Her hand curled over her abdomen again, protective. Exhausted.

She didn’t even flinch when the door shut.

I rounded the car quickly and slid into the driver’s seat, eyes flicking toward her before I even started the engine.

She hadn’t buckled in.

Not because she forgot— because she didn’t register. She was too still. Too quiet. Her pain louder than anything else.

So I reached across her.

Gently.

Careful not to brush too much against her but still close enough to feel her warmth.

I pulled the seatbelt across her chest and clicked it into place.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Just breathed. Head down. Fingers curling tighter.

I started driving, jaw tight, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

Every second on the road stretched too long. Every bump, every turn— I took it slower than I ever had before. Because she was in pain. Because I couldn’t fix it. And the only thing I could do was get her home.

But when we finally reached the Sharma house…

I glanced at her— and for a second, my chest tightened all over again.

Sleep tugged at her eyes. Her lids were heavy. Her breathing had slowed. But her jaw was still locked. Still trying to stay composed.

I stopped the car, hand hovering near the ignition. I was going to carry her again. No second thoughts.

But she beat me to it.

Before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt, she opened the door and stepped out.

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t say a word.

Just started walking slowly toward the gate.

I got out immediately and followed behind her, my eyes on every single movement she made. She looked smaller than she had in the car. Sleepy. Worn out. Fragile.

And I hated it.

Not her fragility— but the way she had to carry it alone.

She walked like she was on autopilot, dragging a weight I couldn’t see but could feel.

And I followed.

Not to lead.

Just to be there.

We reached the door. Porch lights humming above us. Quiet. Still. The kind of silence that presses down on your shoulders after everything’s been said—but not heard.

She turned to me, barely.

Eyes still downcast, fingers curled slightly by her side like she was holding herself together with invisible thread.

“Do you want me to drop you to your room?”

My voice was softer now. Almost gentle—  I didn’t want to add more weight to her already heavy shoulders.

“No.”

Still no eye contact. Still small.

My jaw tightened. No.

I wasn’t letting her go in like this.

With her thoughts chewing her up from the inside.

With the shame still sitting behind her eyes like it belonged there.

It doesn’t. Not anymore.

I took a slow step forward, enough to close the space between us.

“Listen, Diya.”

She stilled at the sound of her name, the way I said it— low, quiet, but steady enough to anchor.

“The moment you step inside that door,” I began, voice firmer now, “you’re going to stop thinking about this. All of it.”

She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t push back. But she didn’t agree either.

So I tried again, gentler this time.

“Look at me.”

It took a beat. But she did. God, she did.

Her eyes met mine, and the storm was still there— silent but spinning. I saw the guilt, the self blame, the ache. Not physical now. Emotional. Soaked into her bones.

So I said it clearly. No space for misunderstanding.

“You did not ruin my car.”

“You did not ruin my coat.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

Her lips parted slightly, like the words surprised her. Or maybe the fact that I said them like they were obvious.

“You are not going to overthink this.”

“I don’t care about the leather seat or this piece of clothing tied around your waist or any anything else in this world."

“You bleeding doesn’t change a damn thing.”

“It’s not embarrassing.”

“And it sure as hell wasn’t awkward.”

Each sentence was deliberate. Measured. Spoken with just enough force to bury itself inside her chest and stay there.

I took another step closer. Just a breath away now.

“You get me?”

I asked it low, but I hoped she would feel the weight behind it.

She looked up at me for a moment. Long enough that I thought maybe— maybe— she believed me.

And then she gave a small nod.

But I wasn’t letting her off that easy.

“No.” I shook my head once.

“Words, Diya.”

She hesitated. A flicker of resistance. The pride still there, even when she was hanging by a thread.

And then—

“Yes.”

Barely above a whisper. Fragile. But real.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Good.”

I said it softly, but there was something final in it. Not like I was done talking. Like the weight she was carrying could finally be set down.

Then—

“Call your sister.” I said.

She blinked at me.

“I—why?”

Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

“She’ll take you inside,” I told her. My eyes didn’t leave her face.

What if she faints? What if she stumbles? What if there’s no one there when she does?

I wasn’t leaving her like that.

She tensed— just slightly. Her lips pressed together.

“I can go on my own.”

Still quiet. But I caught the flicker of offense in her tone.

Like I’d questioned her strength. Like I’d forgotten who I was talking to.

“I know you can.”

And I meant it.

But just because she could didn’t mean she had to.

“Call her.”

I said it again, gently. Steady. A suggestion laced as a command— but with softness.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t have the energy to.

So she pulled out her phone, voice flat as she asked her sister to come downstairs.

Silence fell between us again. One of those pauses too thick to breathe through.

I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to stay with her until her sister arrived.

Or if she didn’t want us to be seen together like this. Like we were something.

I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

So I stepped back.

“I’ll get going.”

I said it quietly, like I was tiptoeing out of a moment neither of us fully understood.

She looked up at me and nodded.

And then— without thinking—

“Take rest.”

It just slipped out. Soft. Honest. Unpolished.

Like the part of me that had been watching her all night couldn’t leave without saying something.

She nodded again. Her gaze held mine.

And I turned around. Walked down the steps, each one slower than the last.

Slid into the driver’s seat. Shut the door. But I didn’t start the car.

Not yet.

I waited.

Watched.

Until her sister finally came to the door. A brief exchange. A quiet murmur.

And then— Diya looked at me one last time.

Our eyes met.

And in that breath of a moment— no words, no gestures, no goodbyes—

something passed between us.

Something fragile and unspoken.

Something that felt like it would echo long after the night ended.

She closed the door.

And I finally started the car.

Pulled away.

My hands stayed on the wheel, locked in place. My heart was beating in my throat, wild and uneven like it had no rhythm left to follow.

Everything around me kept going— cars in the distance, the city lights bleeding gold across the pavement— but I sat there, completely still, like the world had shifted a few inches to the left and no one had noticed but me.

Everything that had happened tonight played on loop.

It did something to me.

Because I've seen pain. I've seen strength.

But I've never seen both wrapped in one person the way they are in her.

And it wrecked me.

Not gently.

Not softly.

But violently. Quietly. Permanently.

In a way that doesn’t look like screaming or crying, but feels like your ribs collapsing around your heart.

I didn’t even know it was happening.

Not when I carried her.

Not when I tied my blazer around her.

Not when I spoke to her outside the door, trying to carve safety into every word.

But now, driving away from her?

It hit me like a head on collision.

This isn’t going away.

What she stirred in me tonight?

It lodged itself deep. Buried beneath skin and bone and whatever I used to be before she walked into my world with that goddamn fire in her and asked for nothing.

I tried to name it.

Tried to control it. Tuck it somewhere manageable.

But it didn’t work.

Because this wasn’t something I could define.

This was ruin.

Plain and simple.

And all I knew—

Was that seeing Diya Sharma’s glassy eyes wrecked me in ways nothing ever has...

and nothing ever will.

Not even love— if that’s what this might one day become.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I didn’t speak. Just gave my sister a small nod— tight, clipped, the kind you give when you're running on fumes and don’t want to be touched.

She didn’t press. I was grateful for that.

My body felt… foreign. Heavy in all the wrong places. My limbs dragged like they were filled with cement. My skin throbbed, raw to the touch. My bones felt like they’d aged decades in the span of a few hours.

Each step I took was controlled. Measured.

I couldn’t collapse yet. Not until I was clean.

Clean of the stain. Clean of the shame still clinging to my skin like static.

I walked into the washroom and shut the door behind me.

The mirror caught my reflection, but I refused to look.

Tonight had already exposed too much. I didn’t have it in me to face what I looked like while coming undone.

I turned on the shower. Let the water run.

Steam fogged up the glass, blurred the world around me— mercifully.

My hands trembled as I peeled off my clothes. Every movement slow, every breath shallow.

The cramps were merciless now— sharp, sudden, almost surgical in how they carved through my abdomen.

My breasts were swollen and sore. My lower back throbbed like a dull drumbeat that wouldn’t stop. My joints pulsed with pressure, like something was pushing out from the inside.

I didn’t cry. Not yet.

I just wanted to get this part over with. Get out of my skin long enough to feel like a person again.

This pain… this version of my body…

I knew it well.

Too well.

It didn’t scare me anymore.

It just exhausted me.

Always had.

Since I was a teenager, the first two days were war.

No medicine helped. No amount of hot water bottles or yoga poses or well meaning advice ever dulled it.

Doctors called it “common.” Told me to “manage.”

So I accepted my fate.

I stepped under the water. Didn’t bother adjusting the temperature.

Didn’t care if it was too hot or too cold.

Pain was already louder than everything else.

And for a while, it swallowed everything.

Even him.

But only for a few seconds.

Because then his voice floated back in—  low, rough, steady.

“Diya.”

The way he’d said it.

He didn’t look away. Not once.

Not when he saw the stain.

Not when he carried me.

Not when I flinched and tried to disappear.

There had been no discomfort on his face. No shame.

Just… movement. Decisive. Quiet. Careful.

He tied his blazer around me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fastened my seatbelt because I couldn’t.

Lifted me into his arms without asking for permission, only silently daring me to stop him.

And when I tried to give the coat back?
He stopped me. Stern. Like it mattered.

He did so much.
And I remembered all of it.

But I didn’t have the energy to go deeper.
Not tonight.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapped the towel around my body with slow fingers.
Reached for the period panties tucked in the drawer— because I didn’t want to wake up tomorrow to blood on the sheets. Didn’t want that image greeting me in the morning.

Slipped into an oversized T-shirt hanging from the hook on the door. It brushed past my thighs, loose and familiar.

Didn’t bother with bottoms.
Didn’t have the strength to care.

I walked to my bed, lights still off, the room draped in the kind of silence I usually craved.
But tonight, it felt too big. Too empty.

I climbed in, still slightly damp. My hair soaking the pillow.
And then the next wave of cramps hit.

God.

I curled in on myself like muscle memory.
One arm tucked around my stomach.
The other clenched the sheet with white knuckled desperation.

And that’s when it broke.

The tears.
Hot. Relentless. Silent.

They rolled down my cheeks and onto the pillow without warning, without pause.
I bit into the fabric to muffle the sound— anything to keep the pain from escaping out loud.

My body shook. My breath hitched.

And still— even in that chaos of pain— he came back to me.
His voice.
His jaw clenched.
His coat around my waist.

That look in his eyes when he asked me to look at him— like he wasn’t asking just for tonight.

I saw all of it.

Felt it.

And then pushed it aside, carefully.

Because right now, I wasn’t a girl unraveling from soft memories.

I was a girl trying to survive the storm raging inside her own body.

So I bit down harder.

Not from shame.
Not from weakness.
Just to make it through the next wave.

And somewhere between the pressure in my belly, the heat in my cheeks, and the blur of everything that had happened tonight…

Sleep found me.

Slow. Heavy. Dull.
Like someone pulling a curtain over a stage mid performance.

And when it finally took me, my fists were still clenched.
My pillow still wet.

But under all of it— under the ache, the cramps, the exhaustion—

I was still holding onto the way he didn’t let me walk away.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐
Are we okay? I'm definitely not.
Heard y'all found the last two chapters really cute and wholesome. So i decided to wreck y'all with this one. 🎀

This one's a little— no actually more than that—
it's really close to my heart.

So even if you feel i streched it alot, i don't really care today, because i poured my emotions in this one.

Tell me your favourite part of this chapter.

Drop your thoughts and your period stories in the comments.

Smash the ⭐️ if you liked the chapter & follow for more 💗

What are your expectations from this story now? What do you expect next? Not that I'm gonna listen 😋 but I need to know.

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Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌