She sat on her chair, hunched over her books, her attention seemingly glued to the words on the page. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of paper and the steady ticking of the wall clock.

The creak of the door opening caught her ear, but she didn’t look up. She knew it was him. Still, she kept her gaze firmly on her book, her fingers gripping the pen tighter as though she could will herself to stay focused, to pretend his presence didn’t matter.

Advait stepped inside, his gaze falling on her. She was engrossed—or at least pretending to be—and didn’t acknowledge him. He stood there for a moment, observing her. The faint light of the study lamp illuminated her determined expression, but he noticed the tension in her posture.

Breaking the silence, he finally said in a low but firm voice, “It’s late, Drishti. Go to bed.”

She didn’t react. Not a glance, not a word. It was as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t move. “Drishti,” he said again, softer this time, almost coaxing her.

Still, she didn’t budge. Her pen moved mechanically over the notebook, her focus fixed on her work, yet it was clear she wasn’t absorbing a word.

Advait sighed, running a hand through his hair. He took a step closer, the faint creak of the floor under his weight making her stiffen slightly, though she still didn’t look at him.

Advait’s patience snapped. He stepped forward with purpose and, in one swift motion, grabbed the book she was pretending to read. Drishti’s head jerked up, her eyes wide with surprise and annoyance.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sharp, but she didn’t reach for the book.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he held the book tightly, his piercing glare fixed on her as if trying to read her thoughts. Then, with an outstretched hand, he gestured firmly toward the bed, silently commanding her to stop this charade.

“Enough,” he said, his tone laced with authority. “It’s late, Drishti. Go to bed.”

She crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair defiantly. “I’m not a child. I can decide for myself when to sleep.”

“You are,” he said softly, placing her book back on the table, his gaze fixed on her. He could see through her act—the sadness she tried to mask, the way she always avoided him when words failed her.

Drishti stood up, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment before she turned her head away, her silence speaking volumes.

Advait sighed internally. At least she listened, he thought. But just as he felt some relief, her next action made him frown in confusion.

She moved toward the sofa, picking up the blanket draped across it. With deliberate motions, she began straightening it, fluffing the cushions as if preparing to sleep there.

His brows furrowed. “Drishti, what are you doing?” he asked, his tone laced with frustration.

She didn’t answer, her focus on tucking the blanket neatly.

He stepped closer, watching her intently. “I told you to sleep on the bed. Why are you setting up the sofa again?”

She paused for a second but didn’t look at him. Ignoring his question, she continued adjusting the blanket.

Advait’s patience wore thin. He rubbed his forehead and walked closer to her. Reaching out, he grabbed the blanket from her hands, his grip firm but not harsh.

“Enough,” he said, his voice firmer now.

Drishti turned to him, her eyes sharp and defensive. “Now what?” her expression seemed to say, though she didn’t voice it.

“What is this, Drishti?” he asked, holding up the blanket. “Why do you keep doing this? I told you to sleep on the bed. Not here. Why are you making this harder than it has to be?”

She opened her mouth as if to respond but then closed it, averting her gaze again.

Advait took a deep breath, his grip on the blanket loosening as his tone softened. “Why do you always run away like this? From me. From us.

Drishti paused, her hands stilling as she stood there, her eyes lifting to meet his. For a fleeting moment, Advait saw it—the hurt shimmering in her gaze, the silent storm she carried within. She sighed, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly, as if the weight of her emotions was too much to bear.

She wanted to say so much, to let out the thoughts and feelings that churned inside her, but something held her back. . Fear, hesitation, and the remnants of past pain kept her locked in a prison of unspoken words.

“Theek,” she said finally, her voice low and devoid of its usual spark. “Jaisa kahe, main kar lungi. Bed par sona... so jaungi jo kahenge, wahi karungi. Bas.”

Her words were like a quiet surrender, a stark contrast to the fire he had once admired in her. Without waiting for a response, she turned away and moved toward the bed. Sitting down at its edge, she busied herself adjusting the pillow, her movements robotic, avoiding his gaze altogether.

Advait stood frozen, her words echoing in his mind. They weren’t just words—they were laced with pain, resignation, and an unspoken plea he couldn’t ignore. A knot tightened in his chest as he watched her, his jaw clenching with frustration at himself.

This is my doing, he thought bitterly. I’m the reason she’s like this—afraid, distant, resigned, hurt.

Advait’s fists curled at his sides. He didn’t want to leave things this way, but he also didn’t know how to reach her or how to undo the damage he had caused.

I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us. No matter what it takes.

Drishti laid down, pulling the blanket over herself as if to shield not just her body but the raw emotions that had been stirred within her. Her back was to him, and she clutched the blanket tightly, as though it could silence the ache in her heart. She let the pain and the weight of Advait’s unsaid words settle inside her, unresolved and lingering like an unwelcome guest.

Realizing this wasn’t the time to talk, Advait sighed quietly and walked to his side of the bed. He laid down, letting the cool air touch his skin as his eyes flicked to her figure, bundled tightly under the covers.

For a long moment, he just stared at her, wishing he could reach across the invisible chasm that had grown between them.

His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—her hurt expressions, the resignation in her voice, and the silent accusations he felt in every word she hadn’t spoken.

I keep failing her, he thought bitterly. Why can’t I just... fix this?

As the room fell into a heavy silence, he let out a long breath, closing his eyes. But even in the darkness, her unspoken pain stayed with him, a constant reminder of how much he needed to make things right.

Drishti lay still, her body curled tightly as the blanket swaddled her like armor, but inside, she felt utterly defenseless. She hadn’t realized when the tears began to slip from her eyes, one after another, soaking the pillow beneath her. Her breathing hitched as memories and thoughts she tried so hard to suppress came rushing back.

She thought of their past—the moments she had dared to hope, the times she thought their relationship might grow into something more than just a duty bound by marriage. She loved him, she truly did, but every time she began to believe in their bond, something he said or did shattered her fragile hopes.

Her mind spiraled into darker places. Maybe I’m not good enough that people can trust at me. Maybe I don’t deserve to be loved. Perhaps he doesn’t love me at all—he only says it because of this marriage.

The cruel thoughts came in waves, drowning her in self-doubt and sorrow. A sob broke from her lips, sudden and uncontrollable. Panic seized her as she realized the sound could reach him. She quickly clasped her hand over her mouth, pressing hard to stifle any further noise, her body trembling as the tears continued to fall.

Advait, lying just inches away,. The silence in the room was heavy, punctuated only by the occasional sound of the wind outside. But then, his ears picked up something faint, a sound that wasn’t part of the stillness—a muffled sob.

He turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he focused on her form under the blanket. Was that... he thought, his heart sinking as realization dawned on him.

"Drishti," he said softly, his voice low and laced with concern.

Her body stiffened at his touch, and she didn’t respond, only pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

"Please," he added, his voice breaking slightly.

Advait waited, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder, feeling the tension in her body. The silence between them was thick, but he could sense her resistance, the way she was trying to hide herself behind the barrier of the blanket, and her silence.

But he couldn’t ignore the quiet sob he had heard. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t felt the tremble in her shoulders beneath his fingers.

With firm but gentle determination, he reached out and pulled the blanket away from her head. The sudden exposure startled her, and she turned slightly, trying to avert her face from his gaze.

“Drishti,” he said softly but firmly, his voice carrying both concern and pain.

She still didn’t respond, keeping her face turned away, her breathing uneven and labored as she fought to keep herself composed.

Advait sighed, shifting closer. Balancing himself on his elbow, he leaned in and gently tried to turn her toward him. "Look at me," he said, his tone softening, almost pleading.

She resisted, her body stiffening as she pressed her face into the pillow, refusing to meet his eyes. “Leave me,” she murmured, her voice muffled but heavy with emotion.

“I’m not leaving,” he replied firmly, his hand still on her shoulder. “Drishti, stop hiding. I know you’re upset. I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”

Her resolve wavered at his words, but she clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging into her palms as she held back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

“You always say that,” she whispered finally, her voice trembling. “That you care, that you’ll fix things, but you don’t.You don’t even see me... not really.”

Her words struck him like a blow, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He looked at her, lying so close yet feeling so far away, and guilt began to gnaw at him.

“Drishti...” he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the right words. He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing away the tear trailing down her cheek. Her skin was warm, but the pain in her eyes felt cold, distant. "I know I should have told you," he admitted, his voice low and tinged with regret. "But I didn’t think it would be such a big thing—"

“Stop,” she interrupted, her tone sharp and breaking, her gaze locking with his. There was no softness in her eyes, only hurt and exhaustion. "If you really cared," she began, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry the weight of her pain. “Agar mere feelings ki kadar hoti, toh Aap batana jaruri samjhte.”

Advait stared at her, stunned into silence, his hand still lingering near her cheek.

“Aap toh chale bhi jate,” she continued, her voice rising slightly as the storm inside her spilled out. "Batate tak nahi mujhse. Haina yahi karte na?”

Her words hit him like a punch to the chest, each one laced with suppressed pain and frustration. He wanted to argue, to explain himself, but her broken tone froze him. She wasn’t just angry—she was deeply hurt, and it was his fault.

“I... didn’t mean to...” he started, his voice weak, but she didn’t let him finish.

“Advait,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “Kya aapko ek baar bhi laga ki mujhe pata chalna chahiye? Ki main kaun hoon aapki zindagi mein?

“Drishti, it’s not like that,” he tried to interject, but she shook her head, her eyes now glistening with fresh tears.

“Phir kaisa hai?” she asked, her voice cracking as she stared at him. "Mujhe yeh samajhne ki zarurat kyun hai jab aap kabhi mere liye kuch samajhne ki koshish hi nahi karte?”

Her words left him speechless. He wanted to defend himself, to tell her how much he cared, but he knew she was right—he had let her down again and again.

He reached out gently, his thumb brushing away another tear from her cheek. "I’m sorry... aur aisa nahi hai ki main kadar nahi karta," he said softly, his voice sincere. "Pyaar karta hoon tumse."

Her head snapped up at his words, her tear-filled eyes locking onto his. "Pyaar?" she repeated, her voice laced with disbelief, the word tumbling from her lips like a question she couldn’t quite comprehend.

Before he could respond, she pushed him, her hand pressing against his chest with more emotion than strength. He didn’t resist, letting her do whatever she needed to vent her feelings. The slight force caused him to shift back, but he remained silent, his gaze never leaving her.

She sat up abruptly, wiping her face with trembling hands, almost harshly, as if trying to erase the traces of her vulnerability. Her breaths were uneven, and her shoulders shook with the effort to keep herself together.

"Don’t say things you don’t mean, Advait," she said, her voice breaking, though she tried to sound firm. "Aapko lagta hai bas yeh keh dena kaafi hai? Kya aapko khud sure hai ki aap mujhse pyaar karte hai?

He sat up too, his heart sinking under the weight of her words, but a flicker of frustration ignited within him. How could she question his feelings?

Her words, questioning his feelings, struck a chord deep within him—a hurt so profound that he could only bear it in silence. How could she not see it? Only he knew the depth of his love for her. It wasn’t in grand gestures or flowery words, but in the quiet ways he had always cared.

Her mere presence, just one glance, was enough to bring a rare smile to his face, a momentary escape from the weight of his world. Yet, he had always kept his distance, not because he didn’t long to be closer, but because he wanted to protect her, shield her from the chaos of his life.

Even when he married her, he never imposed himself on her. He never claimed the rights of a husband, never demanded anything she wasn’t ready to give. Instead, he gave her space, time to adjust, to find her footing in a life she hadn’t chosen.

He had tried to be patient, to respect her boundaries, despite the storm of emotions he carried within him. Yet, despite all this, she always questioned him. She questioned his intentions, his feelings, as if the quiet ways he cared for her were invisible.

"Drishti, listen to me," he began, his tone low but carrying a hint of defensiveness, but his throat heavy.

"No," she interrupted, holding up her hand as she turned her face away. "Sunne ka bhi koi faida nahi hai. Aap kuch bhi keh lo, jo karte hain woh sab ulta hota hai. Aap bolte hain ki pyaar karte ho, par kabhi yeh pyaar mehsoos kyun nahi hota, Advait? Kyun lagta hai ki main aapki zindagi mein bas ek farz hoon, ek zimmedari, aapka pyaar nhi?"