Kaynaaz

I stand in front of my sister's door, my hand hovering just above the wooden frame as if touching it might burn me. I should knock. I should push the door open. Instead, I just stand here, trapped between the urge to run and the need to face whatever waits on the other side. My pulse thrums in my ears, loud enough that I'm almost afraid she'll hear it before she hears me.

It's been a week since Dad came back home. A week since I last spoke to my sister. Kyra and I have fought before, plenty of times, but never like this. Never to the point where silence stretched so wide between us that it felt like we lived in different worlds.

The truth is, it wasn't her fault. None of it was. But with Dad's condition came the pressure, the sharp weight of realisation and somewhere along the way I let it spiral. I lashed out. And Kyra was the one who caught it.

Everyone thinks their pain is heavier than the next person's, and I'm no different. Kyra despises Dad's attention, not because she should, but because his attention is the kind that bruises more than it nurtures. The kind you want to run from, not cling to. Me? I've spent my whole life begging for the very scraps of that attention, the ones he gives so freely to her and to our brother.

Being the youngest almost always means being invisible. It means giving everything you have, only to fade into the background because Dad is either too busy teaching my brother the ins and outs of business or too busy arguing with my sister. It means walking the path my parents once carved for Kyra, only for it to be handed down to me when she chose her own dreams instead. It means no one is asking what I want. No one cares about my opinions. It means following every rigid rule, meeting every expectation, and still never earning the love I've been chasing.

And through all of this, I never blamed Dad. Not because I saw him as some untouchable role model who couldn't do wrong, but because in some strange way, he felt like me. He carried his demons long before I was born, and yet he still managed to push through them to reach me. To raise me. I painted him as a hero, even while he tore us apart in ways I never admitted out loud.

So I forgave him. Over and over. I let his mistakes slide and turned the sharp edges of my anger elsewhere, at my sister, at Kanishk, at Mumma, at friends, at lovers... at Aayan.

And I never realised this mistake until Kyra shut me out from her life, until all I could feel around me was her lingering ghost and the guilt of not understanding her.

I never realised it until I heard my sister cry about feeling unlovable in a quiet corner of the hospital, in the arms of a man I'd never seen in my life.

I realised it then, that it was easier for Kyra to cry in a stranger's arms than lean on the shoulder of the people who have known her their entire life. Not because we didn't listen, or because we refused her that comfort. But because we never listened enough to understand. Because we never comforted her the way she'd desired to be.

The realisation hit harder than I expected, watching the way she clung to him so easily, like he'd always been there. Like he was someone she trusted, someone she loved... someone she never told me about.

Me. The sister she once whispered every secret to, the one who thought she knew every corner of her heart. Suddenly, I was on the outside looking in, clueless about a part of her life that should have been mine to know.

And then, as if the ground hadn't already shifted beneath me, my brother told me Dad was setting up Kyra's marriage. Not asking her. Not caring what she wanted. Just deciding, like her life was another deal waiting to be signed.

That's when the anger hit. Not the quiet kind I usually swallowed, but something jagged and raw. Because if there's one thing I couldn't stomach, it was him trying to chain her the way he had chained the rest of us. He had no right to carve out her future as if she were property, as if she didn't bleed, as if she didn't dream.

For once, my fury wasn't about me being invisible. It was about him daring to control her.

And that was why I was here now, standing in front of her door with my heart in my throat, my hand frozen just inches from knocking. A week of silence had built this wall between us, and I hated every brick of it. I'd blamed her, I'd hurt her, when all along we were caught in the same storm.

I wasn't here to argue. I wasn't here to defend myself. I was here to tell her the one thing I should have said from the very beginning, that I'm on her side.

Still, my knuckles refused to move. The wood of the door felt heavier than it should, as if I touched it, everything would come crashing down. What if she didn't want to hear me? What if she turned away? What if I was already too late?

But then again, I knew she wouldn't. This was the same person who used to hug me to sleep when nightmares clawed at me. The one who stayed up at midnight helping me write those ridiculous English essays, and who let me sneak back in when it was nearly dawn. She baked me birthday cakes, taught me how to do my makeup, and convinced our parents to let me paint. She helped me untangle emotions I didn't even have names for, and held me when I shook so hard I thought I'd break, wiping my tears as if they were her own.

How could that person ever turn me away? How could she, when I knew it hurt her more than anything to see the people she loved in pain?

With that thought steadying me, I let out a shaky breath and finally raised my hand. My knuckles brushed the wood once, twice, loud enough for her to hear.

"Yes?" A soft voice drifts from inside.

My fingers curl around the knob, hesitant, before I finally turn it. The door creaks open, revealing the narrow space that leads into her room. I step in, just enough for her to know I'm there, but not enough to cross into her world without permission.

Kyra spins in her chair at the sound, her hair catching the air and swirling around her face before settling. The reading glasses perched on her nose tell me she'd been either buried in a textbook or lost in her writing. Her eyes land on me, steady and unblinking, and the weight of her gaze makes a cold shudder ripple down my spine.

"Can we talk?" The words slip from my lips in soft, uneven notes, like they're too fragile to hold.

Kyra studies me for a moment, her gaze steady, unreadable. Then she shakes her head once, curt and final.

"I'd rather not."

The sting is immediate. She shuts me out in an instant, something she's never done before. The words land like a blade, sharp and merciless, and I feel myself unravel. My hands curl into fists at my sides, my chest tight, and my eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall. It feels like my heart has shattered into pieces I'll never be able to gather back.

"Just hear me out, please." I plead, moving further into her room.

Her spine straightens, and without a word, she shakes her head, the movement sharp, unyielding. Then she looks away from me entirely, lowering her gaze to the floor as if the pattern of the tiles has suddenly become more important than my presence. As if forgetting I was ever here might be easier than facing me.

"Kyra, you can't be like this," I plead again, my voice breaking louder than it ever has before. "Please... hear me out. Understand me."

She scoffs, the sound sharp, and then her head whips up. In one swift motion, she pushes her chair back and rises, the legs scraping against the floor with an excruciating screech that makes me flinch. She steps closer, closing the distance until she's only a few feet away. Her posture is rigid, almost defiant, but I notice the tremor in her hands at her sides.

"Understand?" she repeats, her voice laced with disbelief. "Understand what? Tell me, should I understand why I'm always blamed for the way Dad is? How he reacts to everything? Or should I understand your cruel behaviour towards me?" Her voice grows louder with every word, trembling with the weight of everything she's held back.

Her anger is spilling over now, her eyes storming with a fury I've never seen before.

"You think that coming here and saying everything will be okay, that Dad will get better, fixes anything? You don't know how it feels to watch that growing disdain in your eyes whenever you look at me. To always be held responsible. To always be the culprit." She shakes her head, her voice cracking. "Why do I have to be the one who compromises? The one who's sorry, who understands, who listens, who... who isn't even allowed to be human?"

She drags in a shuddering breath, her whole body trembling from the release of words buried too long.

I can't answer her. I don't even try. My throat feels locked, my chest hollow. So I just stand there, silent, looking away from her burning gaze, shame pressing down on me like a weight I can't bear.

"It's always, 'Stop being so sensitive, Kyra.' 'Stop crying, Kyra.' 'Grow up, Kyra.' Always orders. Always accusations. Always my name thrown like a curse. Kyra, you can't go there. Kyra, don't do this. Kyra, try to understand." Her voice breaks into a ragged shout, her chest heaving. "When? When will someone, anyone, try to understand me?"

The last word cracks in her throat, and suddenly her body gives out beneath her. Her knees buckle, and she crashes down onto the floor with a choked sob, her trembling hands covering her face.

My own eyes blur, the sting of tears burning hot until they spill freely down my cheeks. Before I can even think, I'm on the floor with her, gathering her into my arms. She feels so small like this, folded into herself, shaking as if her body is breaking under the weight of all she's carried.

"Didi," I whisper, my voice trembling as badly as hers had, "I'm here. I'm right here." My hands clutch at her shoulders, my heart splintering as I press her against me.

We stay like that for what feels like forever, her shaking in my arms, me holding her as tightly as I can, both of us breaking apart in the same rhythm. Our tears soak into each other's shoulders, our breaths uneven, our bodies trembling from the release.

And for the first time in a long time, there are no words. Just raw pain, spilling out in silence, binding us closer than any conversation ever could.

Finally, when the storm of sobs begins to quiet, I find my voice, fragile, trembling, almost too soft to be heard.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into her hair, the words catching in my throat. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I was so caught up in my own pain," I whisper, my voice cracking, "so lost in my own problems that I couldn't see past them. I grew up craving Dad's attention—wanting to be seen without having to break myself into pieces just to earn it. And I got lost in that need.

I was envious of you, Kyra. Envious of the way you stood up to him, how you defied him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like you had the reins of your life in your own hands, like you could be whoever you wanted to be. It felt unfair. Like he'd handed your fate to me instead. Like I was just the backup plan in case you—or Kanishk—chose to disobey him.

I had a dream too. And as much as you and I both tried to keep that dream alive, it got swallowed in the haze of competition and medical textbooks. Every time I looked at you, all I could think about was what I'd lost, my dream to paint, the way yours had always been to write. And every time, it hurt a little more.

But I couldn't take it out on Dad. I couldn't risk it. Because in my head, that would strip me of the scraps of attention he gave me. So I turned it on you instead. I blamed you when it was never your fault."

Kyra slowly pulls away from my arms, her hands slipping from mine as she straightens. For a second, I'm afraid she's retreating again, building back that wall I'd barely managed to crack. But then I see her face, her lashes still wet with tears, her mouth trembling, her whole body worn down by the weight she's carried.

And there it is. That reflection of her I've always seen, no matter how much she tried to hide it, the strength beneath the breaking, the tenderness beneath the storms. My sister. My anchor. The one I've envied, the one I've hurt, and the one I've always loved more than I could say.

Her gaze softens as it meets mine, though her voice shakes.

"I'm sorry too," she whispers. "For shutting you out. For not telling you things I should have. For making you feel like you weren't enough, even if I never meant to. I didn't want you to carry my pain along with yours... but I see now I left you to carry it alone instead."

A silence follows, not heavy anymore but lighter, fragile in a different way. I let it stretch, my fingers brushing hers again, this time without hesitation. She squeezes back, small, tentative, but enough to steady me.

We stay like that for another breath before I finally say, "Come on. The floor's too cruel for apologies."

Kyra huffs out a laugh through her tears, shaking her head, but she lets me tug her up. Our legs wobble like newborns', but we lean on each other until we reach her bed. She sinks onto the mattress with a sigh, pulling her knees up, and I slide beside her.

Kyra leans back against the headboard, wiping at her swollen eyes with the heel of her hand. I study her for a moment, searching for the right words, the ones that won't push her further away.

"I need you to know something," I begin, my voice quiet but steady. "I didn't know about... about the marriage Dad's been arranging for you. Not until recently. If I had, I would've talked to you sooner, I swear."

Her head jerks toward me, surprise flickering in her tear-damp eyes. There's a beat of silence, her breath caught halfway, and in it, I feel the weight of every unspoken thing between us.

"I don't want to lose you, Kyra," I say, the truth spilling out before I can hold it back. "Not to dad. Not to these expectations that keep chewing us alive. Not to the problems we keep burying. Not to anyone." My chest tightens, but I force the words out anyway. "I can live without a lot of things, but not without my sister."

Her gaze softens, her lips parting as if she's about to speak, but all she does is reach for my hand. I let her take it, anchoring us both in that fragile moment where, for once, nothing and no one else matters.

We sit there for a long while, hand in hand, our breaths slowly evening out in the quiet of the room. The storm between us has stilled, but its echoes still cling to the walls. I watch the way Kyra stares at the floor, her thumb brushing absent circles against my palm like she's trying to ground herself in something real.

The silence presses heavily, and before I can stop myself, the question tumbles out. "Kyra... who was that man at the hospital? The one you cried to."

Her head snaps up. Shock flares across her face, wide and unguarded, like I've pried open a locked door she didn't even know I had the key to. For a moment, she just stares at me, mouth slightly open, and I can see the war behind her eyes, the instinct to protect, to hide, to keep whatever that was buried deep.

"Kaynaaz..." she finally whispers, her voice trembling just enough to make my chest ache. She swallows hard, shakes her head. "That's... it's... I can't tell you. Not yet, at least. Because I'm unsure of who he is to me."

I want to push, but the plea in her eyes stops me cold. So I nod, even though my curiosity claws at my ribs.

Kyra's voice turns softer, almost as if she's speaking to herself.

"I don't know what he means to me, or whether what we have between us is a proper relationship. But I won't deny... I can't deny that when he's around, my heart feels like it might explode. I feel like I can be any version of myself, and he'll get along with every one of them. Not about being perfect, or knowing where it'll go. Just about feeling safe enough to be completely yourself."

Her words fall into me like stones rippling water. Safe enough to be completely yourself. The phrase lodges somewhere deep in my chest, stirring something I've been avoiding for weeks. My mind betrays me, dragging up Aayan's face, the sharp, unreadable lines of it, the way his silence feels like it's always daring me to break it. How his gaze makes me feel like he sees too much and not enough all at once.

I press my palms against the bedspread, grounding myself, but the thought doesn't leave. Every version of myself... would he accept them? Or has he already, in his own quiet way? The memory of his lips brushing mine at the hospital flashes, so brief, so accidental, yet it burned longer than it should have.

I bite down on my lip, pulse thundering. Before I can stop myself, the question slips out, low and hesitant. "Kyra?"

She hums, not pulling her gaze from the ceiling.

"I don't... I don't know if I love this person. And I don't know if they're right for me. But sometimes, when they're near, it feels like the ground shifts under me. Like everything I thought I knew about myself, about what I wanted, starts to blur. And I... I don't know what to do with that."

"I don't know if it's love," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "Maybe it's just lust. Maybe I'm confusing the ache in my chest for something bigger than it is. Because he left me once, Kyra." My throat tightens, the words scraping out like they've been caged for too long. "And that fear, that unbearable fear of him leaving me again, grips me so tight that I can't move. I can't breathe. I feel like I'm trapped in my own wanting, unable to step closer and unable to step away."

The confession lingers between us, fragile, dangerous, like glass about to shatter. I press my fists into the blanket, as if I can hold myself together by sheer force, but inside, every memory of him, his absence, his return, the look in his eyes I still can't read, swarms me until I'm dizzy.

Kyra doesn't look at me right away. She leans back against the headboard, eyes distant, as if she's pulling the words from somewhere deep inside herself.

"Love is... unpredictable," she finally says, her tone steady but heavy, like she's speaking from scars. "It doesn't come with rules or clear answers. When it's love, you think of them without trying, and you find pieces of them in the most random things. A song. A word. A place you've never even been before." Her lips curve in the faintest, broken smile. "And it's not lust, Kaynaaz, because when it's love, it hurts when you know they're hurting. Their kisses don't just touch your lips; they touch your heart. In ways lust could never even dream of."

I watch her, every word sinking into me, cutting through the storm I've been carrying.

"Love isn't materialistic," she goes on, her gaze sharpening. "It isn't about possession or perfection. And yes... we're human. We make mistakes. We leave the things we love. We run when we should stay. But if life, if fate, hands us a second chance..." Her jaw tightens, and for a fleeting second, I glimpse the ache she tries so hard to hide. "Then we don't let go of that chance. We won't let go. We'll die trying before we ever give up on it."

Her words linger in the quiet, alive with both hope and pain. I feel them pressing against my chest, forcing me to think of him, of his absence, his return, the way my world tilted the moment he walked back into it.

It hurts when you know they're hurting.

If life hands us a second chance, we don't let go.

I draw my knees to my chest, resting my chin there. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I let myself wonder if I've been wrong. If maybe what I feel for him isn't just fear, or lust, or the memory of being abandoned. Maybe it's something that's been waiting all along, something I've been too afraid to name.

I glance at Kyra, her profile soft in the half-dark, and I realise she's carrying her own battles too. If she can believe in love, despite everything it's taken from her... maybe I can at least try.

Maybe I can start by not running from the truth.