Kyra

It had been a week.

Seven days of silence, of shutting my door to the world and pretending I no longer existed. I hadn't answered a single call, hadn't spoken more than a word to anyone in the house. I'd slipped back into that shell I thought I'd outgrown, one where the curtains stayed drawn, where meals turned cold outside my door, where I let the shadows keep me company.

My heart aches as if it has never ached before. It feels as though someone has torn it out of my chest, broken it into pieces, and forced it back inside me. My soul feels lost, hollow, as if it has slipped away because it refuses to bear the torture any longer. And my eyes will not dry. They keep spilling tears, burning down my cheeks like relentless raindrops that refuse to cease.

Everything feels like a wreck again. Like every trace of happiness I once gathered has been stripped away. Like I have lost it all. Like I have lost.

This destiny of mine never stops surprising me. It lifts me high with fleeting joys, only to drag me down with cruelties sharper than before. But what it did last, what it showed me, was brutal. Inhumane. It makes me wonder if God feels even the faintest mercy for me, if the Lord I call to, the one I beg, truly cares at all for the child he seems determined to break so mercilessly.

I've been questioned countless times. By Kanishk, by Kaynaaz, by Mom... even Dad. They're all worried. They knock on my door, plead with me to come out, to talk, to explain why I came home shaken and crying after claiming I'd only gone to the library. My father, the man who hasn't spared me more than a passing glance in over a decade, stood outside my room that night, asking me to share a meal with him. Begging me, as if dinner could mend what had already been broken.

And him.

Ansh.

He never stopped. He never gave up chasing me. I'd watched him sprint after my taxi that day, feet pounding the pavement for minutes, until it was no longer humanly possible for him to reach me. And I cried harder as the distance grew, because even then I couldn't hate him. Even then all I wanted was to curl up in his arms like I had a thousand times before, to believe the day was only a nightmare that his hold could keep from touching me.

That night, as I lay curled beneath my blanket, my body trembling with sobs that refused to quiet down, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing. His name lit up the screen again and again, until I could see it even when my eyes were closed. Until it burned into my mind like a scar I couldn't erase. Call after call, he tried to reach me, his persistence clawing at the thin walls I had built around myself. I wanted to throw the phone across the room, but instead I buried it under my pillow, pressing my hands to my ears as if I could silence not just the sound, but the ache it caused in my chest.

When I finally picked it up again, it wasn't just calls. It was messages, long ones, short ones, ones sent one after the other without pause. He pleaded. He begged. He told me to let him explain, that it wasn't what I thought, that I only had to give him a chance to speak. His words blurred through the tears clouding my eyes, and for a moment, I almost gave in. For a moment, I almost answered. But then that image flashed before me again, the gun, the sound, the blood and I felt myself unravel all over again.

So I blocked him. It was the only way I knew how to breathe, how to survive. Because how could I let myself stay tied to someone like him? How could I keep loving a man with blood on his hands?

And yet, even after I blocked him, I couldn't stop hearing him. His voice still lived in my head, soft and tender, threaded through with every memory he'd left behind. The way he laughed when I said something foolish. The warmth of his hand when it held mine, steady and sure. The quiet comfort he gave without ever asking for anything in return. All of it haunted me, taunted me, made me wonder if I'd made the right choice.

Because the truth is, I didn't want to let him go. I wanted him to walk through my door and take away the nightmare, to tell me it wasn't real, that none of it had happened. I wanted him to hold me until I believed it. But that wasn't the reality anymore. The reality was uglier, sharper. He had crossed a line that could never be undone.

And so I lay there, drowning in the cruellest paradox of all: to love someone so deeply, and to know you can never, ever forgive them.

He didn't stop with that. When my silence became unshakable, he tried other ways. The next morning, a bouquet of lilies arrived at the door, white, delicate, the very flowers he knew I adored. I didn't even touch them. I told security to throw them out before their scent could creep into my room and remind me of him.

The day after, it was a book I had once mentioned in passing, a story I'd wanted to read but never bought. Still sealed, smelling of paper and ink, it sat on my desk for less than an hour before I shoved it into the trash. And when the watch came, expensive and gleaming, I didn't even take it out of the box. I couldn't bear to.

After that, I told security not to bring me anything anymore. To send it all back, to throw it all away before it could reach me. Because no matter how thoughtful, no matter how well he remembered the fragments of me I had shared with him, I couldn't let any of it inside. Not when it came from the same hands I had seen wrapped around a gun.

Now, I just sit in my room, staring at blank pages that refuse to love me back. I can't write anymore. My pen stays still in my hand, my laptop keys haven't made the raid sound of typing in days. And I tried. I tried so hard for those feelings, those emotions to come again so I could them into the stories that once gave me breath. But they refuse to make an apperance. I failed. My words have failed me.

They stumble, falter, and dissolve before they ever reach the page.

Because what I want to write, what I wish to show the world, was love. The love that I felt for him. The love story which I'd spun out the feelings he'd made me feel over months and months, out of the fragile hope that maybe, finally, I had found something good in this world.

But the story had now turned ash. Every plot I'd outlined, every confession I'd thought of, had dissolved. And now, instead of being a love story which could shake hearts and lighten souls, all I had left was a broken story, a tragic romance which would kill the beat of any human heart if finished.

Now I just sit in my room, staring at blank pages that refuse to love me back. I can't write anymore. My pen stays still in my hand, and my laptop keys haven't made the rapid sound of typing in days. And I tried. I tried so hard for those feelings, those emotions, to come back so I could turn them into the stories that once gave me breath. But they refuse to appear. I have failed. My words have failed me.

They stumble, falter, and dissolve before they ever reach the page.

Because what I want to write, what I wish to show the world, was love. The love I felt for him. The love story I'd spun out of the feelings he had awakened in me over months and months, out of the fragile hope that maybe, finally, I had found something good in this world.

But the story has turned to ash. Every plot I'd outlined, every confession I'd rehearsed, has dissolved. And now, instead of a love story that could shake hearts and lighten souls, all I have left is a broken tale, a tragic romance that would kill the beat of any human heart if finished.

And I stare at the emptiness in front of me, realising that the ache in my chest has stolen even the one thing I thought could never abandon me. My words.

I close the notebook with a snap and toss it aside, the sound far too loud in the stillness of my room. With a sigh, I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket over my head as if hiding from the world could numb the ache pressing against my ribs. My body feels heavy, my mind exhausted from thoughts that refuse to quiet.

That's when my phone buzzes again.

The sound makes me flinch. For a moment, I don't even move, hoping it will stop, that it's just another notification I can ignore. But it doesn't. The vibration hums against my nightstand, steady and insistent, like it knows I've run out of places to hide.

I stare at it from across the room, my chest tightening. Part of me wants to throw it into a drawer, to pretend I never heard it. Part of me is terrified of whose name might glow on the screen. My fingers curl into the blanket, nails digging into the fabric as I fight with myself, whether to look, or whether to let it keep ringing in the dark until the silence swallows me again.

At last, with a shaky breath, I push myself upright. My hand feels heavy as I reach for the phone, as though the weight of what waits on the screen might crush me before I even see it. The buzzing stops the second my fingers close around it, leaving behind an eerie silence that makes my pulse thunder louder in my ears.

The screen lights up.

And it isn't his name.

It's a number I don't recognize, an unsaved contact, unfamiliar digits glowing in the dimness of my room. My chest tightens instantly. I've been here before. Just a week ago, I had opened a message from an unknown number, thinking it might be harmless. Thinking it was Ansh. It hadn't been. It was Tanmay. His words still claw at me, the way he twisted things. That moment was the beginning of my undoing.

My thumb hovers over the screen now, trembling. What if it's him again? What if it's another cruel trap, another knife in the wound I haven't even managed to stitch shut?

My thumb stays frozen over the screen between fear and longing. Every voice in my head screams at me not to do it, that it could be Tanmay again, another lie, another attempt to drag me deeper into the pit he left me in. But my heart betrays me. My heart whispers the one name I can't silence, the one I've tried so hard to bury.

And before I can stop myself, I swipe the notification open. My breath catches, my pulse stutters as the words appear in front of me, stark and simple.

Kyra, please come down to the garden.

The message blurs as soon as I read it, my vision swimming. My hands start to shake, the phone rattling softly against my palm.

Panic prickles across my skin. My first instinct is to block the number, to throw the phone across the room and pretend it never came. Because I know what it could mean. I know what stepping into that garden could cost me. The memory of that night, sirens, screams, and blood, rips through me, and I curl my fingers tighter around the device as if crushing it could erase the past.

I'm about to hit block, thumb hovering over the screen, I take a deep breath, shift my grip on the phone.

And then another message arrives.

The screen blinks to life again, lighting up the dark with a fresh line of words I didn't ask for, didn't want, yet can't look away from.

'Please, koshka. Let me explain.'

Koshka.

The breath leaves my lungs in a shudder. That name. That name, only he ever called me.

"That, does Koshka even mean?" I demand, staring at Ansh with furrowed brows. He won't stop calling me that, and it's making me lose my mind, not knowing what it means.

He only smiles, the kind that starts small and then tugs wider at his lips as if he's been waiting for me to ask. Leaning closer, his hand finds my hair, ruffling it gently before he presses a soft kiss to my forehead.

"What Koshka means, my love," he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, "is kitten. A sweet little one... just like you."

My eyes well up at the memory, and a sob tears out of me, hurried and desperate, like it's been caged too long. I press the phone against my chest as if clutching it closer might steady me, might hold the pieces of me together before they scatter. But it doesn't. The sobs come again, jagged and uneven, making my body heave with every attempt to catch a breath. The silence of my room feels heavier with the sound of it, pressing down on me, reminding me just how alone I am in this ache.

My chest aches harder because I know exactly where he is right now, out in the garden, the only place he seems to belong when the world is too loud.

And for a second, I almost rise from the bed. Almost let my feet touch the cold floor, almost let my body carry me to him, to the safety I'm starving for.

But the moment stretches. I pause.

No. He's not the Ansh I knew. He's not the star whom I adore. He's not him. He's not the man I fell for.

My thumb hovers over the block button again, my other hand clutching at the blanket as it could anchor me. The war rages inside. The restless need to run to him, to feel his steadiness, against the choking fear of what it might mean if I do.

My heart is screaming for relief. It aches, claws at the cage of my ribs as if begging me to let it run free, to stop punishing it for something it still doesn't fully understand. It wants to love him, even now. God, it wants to. And maybe that's the most unbearable part, that no matter how much I try to bury it, his name still beats inside me, steady as a pulse.

I tell myself I just want an explanation. A reason that makes sense, a truth that will either set me free or finally permit me to hold on. If he can give me that, maybe I won't feel like such a fool for still needing him. If his words are strong enough, maybe I can still believe in the kind of love I'd once thought was ours.

The thought tightens my chest until I can't breathe, lying here anymore. My legs move before my mind catches up. The blanket falls to the floor, and I stumble up, my phone still pressed to my palm as if it's a compass leading me to him. My feet are bare, my body heavy from all the tears, but I run anyway. Out the door, down the stairs, each step echoing against the walls of the silent house.

It's then that I hear it, the soft patter at first, like fingertips drumming against glass. Then stronger. A hush and roar all at once. Rain. It pours down outside, merciless and wild, drenching the world in a rhythm that makes me pause at the back door.

I stand frozen, chest heaving, watching the water streak down the glass, watching the garden blur into something unrecognisable. The night air slams into me when I push the door open. It's cool, damp, thick with the scent of earth. The storm tempts me to stay inside, to close the door and retreat into my safe, suffocating cocoon.

But then the ache inside me screams louder than the thunder.

"Fuck it," I whisper, breathless, reckless.

And I slip out the door, letting the rain slap against my skin. I run. Through the garden path, gravel slick under my feet, my hair sticking to my face as drops strike like needles. The night air is thick, heavy, and every step pounds with the sound of water against earth.

And then, I see him.

A shadow leaning against the far bench, shoulders hunched, head bowed like the weight of the world is sitting on him, too. My chest stutters at the sight.

For a moment, I just stand there, hidden by the curtain of rain, trembling not from the cold but from the terrifying relief of finally being here. My body is torn between running into his arms and running back into the safety of my room, but my heart has already chosen.

The sight of him nearly buckles my knees. Even through the sheets of rain, I can see the curve of his shoulders, hunched forward, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He looks broken, and yet every fibre of me wants to race toward him, to stitch him back together even as I crumble myself.

Step by step, I move closer, the gravel crunching faintly beneath my soaked feet. My breath catches, sharp and loud in my ears, and it's in that sound that he hears me. His head snaps up, eyes locking on mine through the curtain of rain.

In an instant, he's on his feet. The movement is quick, desperate, like he's been waiting for me all along, afraid I'd vanish if he didn't get up fast enough. And then, before I can think, before I can breathe, he's crossing the small distance between us.

The umbrella he'd been holding above himself is tilted, shifted swiftly, until it rests over my head instead. The rain that had been soaking into my hair, my clothes, my skin halts in that moment—at least for me. For him, though, the storm takes its full claim.

Water runs down his face, soaking his shirt, dripping from his lashes. He doesn't seem to notice, doesn't seem to care. His only concern, his only action, is keeping me dry, keeping me shielded.

And I stand there frozen, watching the rain swallow him whole while he refuses to let it touch me. My throat tightens, my heart twists violently, because this, this is him. Always him. Bearing the storm, just so I don't have to.

I can't look away. Not from the way he has changed. His scruff has grown out, roughening the sharp lines of his jaw, as if he hasn't cared to shave in days. His eyes, once alive, once burning with something that always reached for me, now look dim, hollowed out, carrying the weight of nights he clearly hasn't slept. There's a deathly stillness in them, a ghost where fire used to be.

My chest aches as I drink him in, piece by piece, because this isn't the Ansh I knew. This is someone unraveling, someone falling apart quietly where no one else can see. And then I notice it.

The flowers.

Clutched tightly in his other hand, their white petals tremble in the downpour. Lilies, my lilies. The stems glisten with water, the delicate blooms already wilting beneath the relentless rain. They're ruined, just like him, just like us, yet he holds them as if they're the only thing keeping him grounded.

The sight splits me open. Because despite everything, despite the blood, the horror, the terror I can't unsee, he still came here carrying beauty for me, offering gentleness even as he's swallowed by death.

He shifts on his feet, as though he can't bear the space between us any longer. The umbrella tilts further, straining to cover me as he takes a hesitant step closer, the lilies crushed a little tighter in his hand.

"Why would you run out here in the rain, senorita? You'll fall sick." his voice is hoarse, almost broken, nearly drowned by the storm.

The word claws at me, senorita. Soft, familiar, a name that once made my heart flutter. But now it only makes it ache, makes it tremble with all the weight of what I've lost.

He's standing so close now I can see the rivulets of water running down his face, dripping from his lashes like tears that refuse to dry.

I take a step back. Just one, but it's enough.

The umbrella slips slightly with the movement, leaving the rain to bite at my shoulders again. His eyes flicker, just for a second, but I catch it. That flash of pain, sharp and unguarded, sliced through the hollow exhaustion in his gaze. It twists something deep inside me, but I force myself to hold steady, to stay where I am.

"Explain."

The word leaves me quiet, almost fragile, but it cuts through the rain louder than any scream could.

Neither of us move. Neither of us breathe.

The rain fills the silence, crashing against the earth, drumming against the umbrella, sliding down his face. The world feels suspended in that sound, just the two of us and the relentless storm, beating, pounding, demanding.

And still, he says nothing.

The quiet stretches, heavy and unbearable, until it feels like the rain itself is screaming the truth he won't give me.

The silence gnaws at me, each second heavier than the last. The storm crashes around us, merciless, and still he doesn't speak. Still, he doesn't explain.

My chest burns, my throat tightens, until the words rip out of me before I can stop them.

"You said you'd explain," my voice cracks, trembling with fury and grief all at once. "Then explain, Ansh. Explain it!"

The rain seems to roar louder with my outburst, slamming against the earth like thunder made flesh. My tears blur into it, indistinguishable, but I feel them. Hot, desperate, unending.

I stare at him through the downpour, my heart begging for something, anything, that will make this nightmare untrue.

The storm seems to answer before he does, thunder rolling somewhere in the distance, rain hammering harder against the earth, against the umbrella, against both of us. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. His jaw clenches, his throat works, but no words come.

"Say something!" My voice breaks again, raw and cracked. "Anything- just tell me why!"

His lips part, then close again. His gaze drops to the ground, to the lilies ruined in his hand, before it drags back up to me. For a moment, I see it, the desperate urge to confess, the battle raging in his eyes as if the truth is a wildfire he's holding back with nothing but his bare hands. His chest heaves, his fingers twitch around the flowers, his mouth opens again and still, silence.

Finally, a sound slips out of him, low and broken. "Kyra, I-" His voice splinters. He swallows hard, shakes his head like a man trying to fight himself. "I can't."

The words punch the air out of my lungs.

He takes a step closer, eyes pleading, hands trembling as though reaching for me but stopping short.

"I can't, Kyra. I want to. God, I want to. But it's for your own good. You can't know."

The words cut through me, sharp and merciless. I can't.

Something inside me shatters. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, and I stumble a step back.

His hand shoots out, instinctively, as if to steady me, to pull me back into the fragile shelter he's offering. But the moment his fingers twitch toward me, I flinch away. Hard. Like his touch might burn, like even his shadow might stain me.

The hurt flashes across his face in an instant and raw. For a heartbeat, I see everything he doesn't say, everything he keeps buried. And then it's gone, replaced by desperation, by the tsunami in his chest.

The hurt on his face lingers only for a beat, but it sears into me. A cut I'll never unfeel. His eyes, wide and glassy beneath the rain, search mine like they're hunting for something he's already lost. And I can't stand it. I can't stand the way his pain mirrors mine, the way it makes me ache even when I want nothing more than to hate him.

The rain crashes harder, soaking through every layer of me, drowning the space where his arms once felt like home. My breath comes fast, uneven, my chest clawing for air that refuses to reach me. I take another step back, needing distance, needing anything to stop the war raging inside me.

"Kyra." His voice cracks on my name, rough and desperate, torn raw by the rain and the weight in his throat. He shakes his head like a man unravelling, his grip tightening around the lilies until petals tear under his fingers. "Please- just... don't look at me like that."

But I can't help it. The image of him, kneeling over blood, a gun in his hand, burns against my eyelids every time I blink. It screams louder than his words, louder than this storm, louder than the fragile memories of every gentle thing he's ever done for me.

And as if his body finally caves under the force of it all, his knees buckle. He sinks into the mud-soaked grass, the umbrella shaking above us as his other hand presses into the earth like it's the only thing holding him up. The rain beats down harder, drenching his hair, streaking down his face until I can't tell what's water and what's grief.

"I can't lose you," he breathes, voice cracking wide open, raw and broken in a way I've never heard before. "Not you. Not you, señorita. Don't let this be the end."

He bows his head, shoulders trembling, begging without words, begging me to understand what he won't say.

And I stand there, shivering, drowning in rain and tears, with the sound of sirens and gunshots still screaming in my skull.

I look at him, broken and on his knees in front of me, and every part of me screams to go to him. My body aches for the warmth of his arms, for the steady heartbeat I used to fall asleep against, for the safety I once thought was unshakable. My heart claws at my ribs, begging, pleading.

Go to him, Kyra. Get down there, hold him, save him before he drowns in this storm.

And for a flicker of a second, I almost do.

But, like a knife, another image slices through me. He, standing over the lifeless body. The blood on his hands. The way his face hadn't looked like the Ansh I knew, but someone else entirely. Someone terrifying. Someone who decided who deserved to breathe and who didn't.

My throat tightens. I can't ignore it. I can't pretend that it's not there, no matter how much my heart begs me to erase it. He took a life. And no matter how much I want to tell myself it was for a reason, I know the truth that echoes louder. It wasn't his right. It was never his right.

And now, he sits before me unable to explain. Not because the words don't exist, but because he's chosen not to give them. For my sake, he says. For me. But that only makes it worse. Because if he loved me enough to hold back, then why can't he love me enough to be honest?

My chest heaves. My tears burn hotter.

I've always listened to my heart. Always silenced the logic in my head that warned me, begged me, pleaded with me not to fall, not to trust, not to hope. I've muted it, ignored it, shunned it, because my heart was louder, because my heart promised beauty and love and safety.

And where has it left me?

Here. Shattered. Aching. Lost. Every time I've given my heart the reins, it's dragged me straight into ruin. Into ache. Into fire.

So this time, I don't listen to it. This time, I don't bend to its cries.

Even as it screams, Go to him, I stay rooted. Even as it breaks me to see him drenched and begging at my feet, I refuse to move.

Because I can't. Because if I do, I'll lose myself forever.

"Leave," I tell him, and the word is small, but it lands like a stone.

He blinks, stunned, like he hasn't understood. "Love-" he starts, voice raw, reaching for me.

I step back, putting another breathless, shaking yard between us. "Leave, Ansh. Please. Just go." My fingers twist in the hem of my shirt as if I can hold myself together by force alone. "Disappear out of my life. Don't come to the house. Don't send anything. Don't find me."

His face crumples, a hurt so vast it makes him look decades older. "I can't-" he whispers, and then louder, "I won't let you push me away."

"You think I want this?" I cut in, voice gone brittle with things I haven't been able to say. "You think I want to stand here and watch the man I loved fall apart? I loved you. I do love you. God, I do. But not like this. Not when you've decided what's right and what's not with your hands." My words tumble out faster now, as if speaking them might make them painfully true. "I can't live with this, Ansh."

He swallows. Rain runs down his cheeks and into his mouth, for a breathless moment, I can't tell whether it's water or tears. He staggers, as I've punched him. The umbrella trembles in his hand. The lilies are sodden, petals limp and ruined.

"Please," he says, kneeling in the mud again, though he had no right to beg. "Please don't make me-"

"Get up," I say, voice steady though it burns. "Get up and go. Leave before I decide to hurt myself and make you. Leave if you care for me. And never come back, not if you care, Ansh"

I don't give him the chance to say no again. My body moves before my heart can falter. I turn sharply and sprint back into the rain. Away from the umbrella he'd been holding above me like a shield, away from the lilies he brought, though they'll always be my favourite, away from the only person who has ever felt like home.

Every raindrop pelts against my skin like needles, but I don't stop. I can't. Because if I stayed even a second longer, his eyes would undo me. His voice would tether me. And I couldn't let that happen, not when the truth was carved so deep into my chest.

I had to. I had to put myself on the spot, threaten my own life. Because knowing him, he would step closer even if I'd stabbed him, would bleed quietly if it meant standing in the same breath as me. He would never stop choosing me, no matter how much it destroyed him. And I couldn't threaten him into staying away.

So I threatened the only thing his heart craved. Me.

With every step I take deeper into the storm, I tear away pieces of myself, scattering them behind me in the puddles. My lungs burn, my legs ache, but it doesn't matter. I keep running, because if I stopped, if I dared to turn around, my heart would betray me again. It always has.

And so, with the storm swallowing me whole, I realise the truth I've been trying to outrun: our story wasn't ending; it was shattering, piece by piece, beneath the weight of a love neither of us knew how to carry.

Maybe that's the cruellest truth of all. That the greatest love of my life was also the one I had to walk away from. A love so consuming it felt written for us, yet destined to burn the way Romeo and Juliet's did, bright, violent, and doomed. Love had always been my salvation, but tonight, with him, it became my ruin.