Sidharth pov
I stood near the window at first, arms crossed, pretending to look outside.
Pretending that my chest didn’t feel heavy. Pretending that the woman behind me wasn’t shaking.
The first thing I remember is the sound.
Not the machines. Not the voices.
Her breathing.
Fast.
Uneven.
Like she was afraid the air might leave her if she let it slow down.
I stood near the hospital bed, hands clenched, doing nothing—because I didn’t know what else to do.
I had handled boardrooms, media storms, police calls.
But this… this was different.
This was Roohi.
Her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, but she wasn’t really seeing anything.
When she finally turned her face toward me, there was fear there. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… naked.
“Siddharth,” she whispered.
I stepped closer instantly. Too fast. Like if I didn’t, she would disappear.
“I’m here,” I said.
She nodded, as if she was convincing herself. Her fingers fisted the sheet. She swallowed, throat working too hard.
"I didn’t know.”Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I turned slowly.
She hadn’t looked up yet.
“I swear, Siddharth,” she said, words trembling.
“I didn’t know about the fake reports. I didn’t know about the bills… or the plan.”
Her fingers twisted into the fabric of the hospital sheet, crushing it like it could bleed her guilt out.
“I thought she was really sick,” she continued, faster now, panic slipping in.
Her shoulders shook.
“I never meant to trap you.”
The word hit me harder than it should have.
Trap.
She finally looked up at me.Her eyes were swollen, red, shining with unshed tears that had been waiting too long for permission to fall.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said, voice cracking. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even understand what was happening until it was too late.”
She sat up suddenly, like sleeping still hurt too much.
“I would never use someone’s illness,” she said, shaking her head violently.
“Never. Not even my worst enemy.”
Her breath hitched.
“And you…” she swallowed, hard.
“You think I’m that kind of girl.”
That was when she broke.Her hands flew to her face, shoulders collapsing inward as sobs tore out of her chest—raw, unfiltered, painful.
“I didn’t trap you,” she cried. “I didn’t lie. I didn’t manipulate you. I was just trying to survive.”
I moved before I realized it.I caught her arms gently, steadying her.
She flinched at first—then clung to my sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Forgive me… for the reports… for the bills… even if I didn’t know. Forgive me for everything.”
Her forehead pressed against my chest.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
Something inside me cracked open.
All this time—She had been carrying guilt that was never hers.
I felt sick.
I lifted her face slowly, carefully, making her look at me.
Tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked.
“Roohi,” I said, my voice rougher than I wanted. “Look at me.”
She did.
“I was wrong,” I said.
Her brows furrowed in confusion.
“I should have listened,” I continued quietly. “I should have asked you. I should have seen how scared you were instead of assuming.”
My jaw tightened.“I failed you.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
I looked away for a moment,breathing deeply, because the guilt was choking me now.
“I believed others over you,” I said.
“I believed noise over silence.”
My hands trembled as I held her arms.
“And that… that will stay with me.”
She shook her head weakly.
“No… please don’t say that. I don’t want you to feel guilty.”
That made it worse.
“You’re apologizing for something you didn’t do,” I said softly.
“And I’m standing here because I didn’t protect you when I should have.”Her tears slowed, confusion replacing pain.
I wiped one tear away with my thumb before I could stop myself.
She froze—but didn’t pull away.
“I promise you,” I said, every word deliberate, heavy with meaning, “this will not happen again.”
Her breath caught.
“I won’t repeat this mistake,” I continued. “Not with you. Not ever.”
Her voice came out small. “You believe me… now?”
I nodded once.
“I believe you.”
Her shoulders sagged in relief, like she had been holding herself upright for too long.
She sank back onto the bed slowly, exhausted.
“I just wanted someone to ask me,” she whispered. “Just once.”
I sat beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough not to overwhelm her.
“I should have been that person,” I said.
Silence settled between us—not uncomfortable, not heavy.
Just honest.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and looked at the rain outside.
“I was scared you’d hate me,” she admitted quietly.
I followed her gaze.
“I don’t hate you,” I said.
It wasn’t a grand declaration.
Just truth.
She nodded, as if that was enough.
The machines continued their steady rhythm.
Outside, the rain softened.And for the first time since this nightmare began
She wasn’t crying alone.
The doctors said she was stable.
The word felt strange—too neat for what we had survived.
I watched them adjust the monitors, speak in practiced tones, and leave as if her fear had been something measurable.
As if terror could be reduced to numbers on a screen.
She fell asleep sometime later.Not the restless, flinching kind. A deep, exhausted sleep—like her body had finally given up the fight.
I stayed.
I didn’t hold her hand. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, listening to the soft rhythm of the machines, memorizing it—because silence still scared me.
I had almost lost her.
That thought didn’t scream. It settled.
Quiet. Permanent.
When visiting hours ended, I walked out of the hospital with a weight I couldn’t name. The rain had stopped, but everything still felt soaked—like the world hadn’t dried yet.
At home, the rooms felt different.
Too empty. Too aware of her absence.
Days passed.
She recovered slowly. Physically.
Emotionally—she folded back into herself, careful, composed, quieter than before. She smiled when spoken to. She thanked people. She said she was fine.
I knew better now.
Fine was her armor.
I started noticing things I had once ignored.
The way she stared out of windows longer than necessary.
How she flinched when night settled in.
How sleep never seemed to reach her properly.
And then, one evening—
The pills slipped from my hand.The strip slipped from my fingers before I even realized my hand was shaking.
It hit the floor with a soft, almost harmless sound.
But nothing about it felt harmless.
Roohi froze near the window. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the curtain, knuckles whitening.
She didn’t turn around immediately. Her shoulders stiffened first—like a child caught doing something unforgivable.
I bent and picked it up.
Sleeping pills.
Half-used.
My jaw tightened. I didn’t raise my voice.
I didn’t move toward her. I just stood there, staring at that thin strip as if it could explain itself.
“How long?” I asked.
The room felt too quiet. Even the fan above us seemed to slow.She swallowed. I saw it—the small movement of her throat, the way her breath hitched before she spoke.
“…Sometimes,” she said.
Sometimes.
That word sliced deeper than any confession.I looked at her then.
“Since when, Roohi?” My voice was lower, rougher than I wanted.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes were calm—but only because she had practiced that calm. I could see it in the way her lips pressed together, in the careful distance she kept between us.
“After ,” she said. “After… that day.”
Her fingers dropped from the curtain and hung uselessly by her sides.
“They help me sleep,” she added quickly, almost apologetic. “My mind doesn’t stop otherwise.”
I took a step closer.
She took one back.
That hurt.
“You didn’t think to tell me?” I asked.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
The words landed heavy.
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. “You don’t take pills because it ‘doesn’t matter.’ You take them because something hurts.”
Her eyes shimmered, but she refused to let the tears fall.
“I’m not trying to die,” she said, suddenly. Desperately. “I just want one night where I don’t relive everything.”
Silence stretched between us.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Images flashed—her quiet tears, her flinches at raised voice,the way she had stood that day—eyes red, lashes wet, tears slipping out despite her effort to stop them.
And I hadn’t seen it.
I opened my eyes and placed the pills on the table—not gently, not angrily. Final.
“You won’t take these anymore,” I said.
A broken sound. “You say it like it’s that easy.”
I stepped closer, close enough now that she couldn’t step away without touching me.
“Easy?” I repeated. “No. But you won’t do it alone.”
Her breath trembled.
She looked down at my chest, not my face. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “Nighttime is loud for me.”
My chest tightened.
I reached out—not to hold her, not to pull her close—but to rest my hand on the wall beside her, trapping nothing, forcing nothing.
“Then let it be loud,” I said quietly. “I’ll stay awake.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine.
“You shouldn’t have to,” she said.
“I want to,” I replied.
She stared at me, searching. Doubting.
Finally, her shoulders sagged, like something heavy had slipped off her spine.
One tear escaped. Then another.She covered her mouth quickly, ashamed of the sound that broke free.
The room settled into silence again.
Heavy.
Careful.
I moved to the desk, opened my laptop, pretending to work.
Pretending I hadn’t just discovered how close she lived to the edge every night. Pretending control still came easily to me.
Behind me, she sat near the window, quiet, folded into herself, staring at the dark outside like it held answers she didn’t trust enough to ask for.
Time passed like that.
Two people in the same room, carrying different kinds of exhaustion.
And then—
The door burst open.
“LODOOOOO!” Arjun announced dramatically, dragging the word like a victory cry.
Ankita followed right behind him, holding a board game box like it was a trophy. “Emergency intervention,” she declared. “For mental health and family bonding.”
Roohi startled, turning around.
For a second, she looked confused.
Then Arjun pointed at her. “Bhabhi, you look like someone who desperately needs to lose at Ludo.”
“I do not lose,” Ankita shot back, throwing herself onto the floor.
“I strategically allow others to win.”
Roohi blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then a small smile slipped out before she could stop it.
I saw it.
My chest loosened slightly.
“Come on,” Ankita said, already opening the board.
“Siddharth bhai will be the referee. You and Arjun can fight.”
“I object!” Arjun said loudly.
“She’s new. She’ll gang up with bhai.”
Roohi shook her head quickly. “I—I don’t know how to play.”
“Perfect,” Arjun grinned.
“Beginner’s luck. We’re doomed.”
She hesitated, glancing at me briefly, as if asking without words.
I nodded once.
“Sit,” I said simply.
The Ludo board lay open between us like it was something serious—like a matter of pride, ego, and unnecessary drama.
Arjun cracked his knuckles.
“Final round. This time, no cheating.”
I didn’t respond. I was already watching Roohi.
She sat a little away from the board, cross-legged, hands resting carefully in her lap, as if even the act of sitting needed permission.
Her eyes moved between Ankita and Arjun, wide and curious, trying to understand their chaos.
“Bhabhi,” Arjun said suddenly, turning to her, “just roll the dice. Don’t overthink. Overthinking destroys destiny.”
She nodded immediately. “Okay…”
She rolled.
Six.
Her eyes widened in surprise, like she had done something extraordinary by accident.“I got six…”
Ankita groaned. “Beginner’s luck. Hate it.”
I leaned forward without thinking.
“Move the blue token,” I said.
Roohi turned to me. “But… Ankita di will cut it.”
“I won’t let that happen,” I replied quietly.
Ankita stared at me. “Excuse me? Since when did you become the referee?”
Roohi hesitated, then slowly moved her token.
Ankita rolled next. Another six.
Her smile turned sharp. “Sorry, bhabhi.”
She reached for Roohi’s token.
I slid it back—barely noticeable, almost invisible.
“HEY!” Arjun shouted. “Bhai cheated!”
“I didn’t cheat,” I said calmly. “I protected.”
Ankita threw her hands up. “Clear favoritism.”
I didn’t deny it.
Roohi bit her lip, trying not to smile. She failed.
The game went on.
Every time her token came close to danger, my attention sharpened. I distracted Arjun once.
I nudged Ankita’s dice “accidentally.” And onceI killed Arjun’s token.
He stared at the board like he’d lost something sacred.
“…You killed me.”
“…You killed me.”
I met his eyes. “Strategic move.”
“For who? For her! ”
Roohi gasped softly. “No—you didn’t have to—”
But Arjun was already dramatic. “I feel emotionally betrayed.”
Ankita laughed. “Bhai literally sacrificed you for bhabhi.”
Roohi’s cheeks flushed. She tried to hide her smile. It didn’t work.
Final round.
Arjun stood up mid-game. “Victory is mine—”
Before he could finish, Ankita flipped the board.
Tokens scattered across the floor.
“ANKITA!”
Arjun yelled. “I WAS ABOUT TO WIN!”
She crossed her arms. “If I can’t win, nobody will.”
Arjun’s voice came out hollow, wounded, like I had committed a personal betrayal.
A pillow flew across the room.
Then another.
Within seconds, Ankita and Arjun were in a full-blown pillow fight—shouting, laughing, dramatic accusations flying faster than feathers.
Roohi watched them, stunned.
Then she laughed again—this time loud enough that it surprised even her.
She bent forward, holding her stomach, tears streaming down her cheeks as she laughed uncontrollably.
“Siddharth—” she gasped, reaching out blindly, fingers brushing my arm. “Make them stop—I can’t—”
Her touch was light. Accidental.
But it grounded me.
I placed my hand over hers gently, steadying her.
“Breathe,” I said quietly.
She nodded, still laughing, wiping her tears. “I’m sorry… I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.”
I didn’t answer.
Because if I spoke, I might ruin the moment.
I just looked at her.
At the way her face glowed when she smiled.
At how beautiful she looked—not because of laughter alone, but because she had survived enough to reach it.
My dramatic sister and foolish brother were still arguing in the background.
Feathers floated in the air.
The room was messy. Loud. Imperfect.
And for the first time in days—
It felt alive.
Roohi leaned back against the bed, exhausted from laughing, her breathing finally slowing.
She looked peaceful.
I realized then, quietly—
I didn’t need to fix everything tonight.
I didn’t need perfect words or grand gestures.
If I could protect her laughter—
Even for moments like this—
That would be enough.
And as her smile lingered, soft and real, I knew one thing with painful clarity.
Sometimes healing doesn’t come from answers…
It comes from laughter, chaos, and people who refuse to let you be alone.
___________________________
I know this chapter may feel a little quiet or slow.
But do you think stories need chapters like this before things get better?
Thank you for choosing this story.Thank you for choosing Roohi and sidharth
And thank you for choosing me 🫶❤️
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