The rain hadn't stopped since dawn.
Aarush was in his study again, the glow of the desk lamp casting golden streaks across his sharp features. His phone was pressed to his ear, but his attention seemed frayed. Calls. Meetings. Emails. Numbers. People. Noise.
Everything felt louder today.
Outside his glass window, the world was drowning in soft grey mist, but inside, the silence was starting to claw at him.
Somewhere down the hallway, a faint clink echoed—porcelain meeting marble. Then the rustle of fabric. It was her.
Sanya.
The girl he had married not for love, but for vengeance.
The same girl who now moved through the house like a shadow—silent, soft, and maddeningly composed. She didn't argue. Didn't ask for anything. She simply existed. With wide eyes that no longer met his, and footsteps so quiet it felt like she was trying not to be real at all.
He hated it.
He hated how she made him feel things he had buried.
He shut the laptop harder than necessary.
When he stepped into the corridor, she was near the kitchen, her back to him, arranging something on a tray. Probably tea. She had started doing that lately—not because he asked, but because she had nothing else to do. It was raining outside. She wasn't allowed to go anywhere. Not that she would, he told himself. She wouldn't dare.
But today… something inside him snapped.
"Playing house now, Sanya?" he said, voice cold.
She stilled.
Didn't turn. Just placed the cup down gently before facing him.
Her eyes—tired, rimmed with a silent kind of sadness—met his. She didn't flinch. But he saw the way her fingers curled at her sides, like she was steadying herself from something unseen.
"I just thought you might want some tea," she said quietly.
That tone.
That calmness.
It burned something inside him.
"You thought?" he laughed bitterly. "Did you think before you destroyed everything I had, too?"
She didn't respond.
He took a step closer.
"I asked you a question."
Her lips parted. "Aarush, I don't know what you think I did but—"
"Don't," he cut her off. "Don't play innocent."
She swallowed, but the tears didn't come. Not yet. She'd learned not to cry too easily. He noticed that now. Noticed everything. The way her frame had grown thinner. The way her clothes hung looser. The way she looked like a bird that forgot how to fly.
He hated it.
Because a part of him—no matter how much he shoved it down—kept asking if he was wrong.
That part needed to be killed.
He turned away sharply. "Next time, don't touch my things. Or me."
She nodded once. Quietly.
And when she turned back to the tray, her hands shook just enough that the teaspoon rattled against the china.
------------------
The storm had softened into a steady patter against the glass windows. The house, too large and too quiet, felt more like a museum of memories than a home. Aarush moved through the dim corridor with silent steps, restlessness prickling under his skin.
He hadn't meant to pass by her room.
But a faint light, flickering beneath her door, held him still.
It was past midnight.
Why was she still awake?
Aarush paused, something bitter coiling in his chest. He should walk away. He wanted to. But his feet moved anyway, driven by something he didn't care to name.
The door was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open, just enough to peer inside.
Sanya sat cross-legged on the floor. Her long hair spilled over one shoulder, and an oversized hoodie—clearly not hers—draped over her small frame like a blanket. Her sketchbook was balanced on her knees, her hand moving carefully with a pencil.
She looked… calm.
At peace.
And for some reason, that annoyed him.
He stepped inside without warning.
She gasped and dropped her pencil. The sketchbook nearly slid from her lap.
"I—I didn't hear you—" she stammered, scrambling to stand.
"No," he said, his voice clipped. "You never do."
She bent down to retrieve the sketchbook, but Aarush reached it first. His eyes fell on the half-finished drawing.
It wasn't of him—not exactly.
It was of a faceless figure.
A man with sharp shoulders and an untouchable outline—almost ghostlike. Her pencil strokes had tried to catch him mid-motion. But the man's hand was slipping away from another outstretched hand—a smaller one—like sand falling between fingers.
He stared at it.
"You were drawing… this?" he asked, holding it up.
She nodded slowly. "I was trying to draw someone I couldn't hold onto."
He laughed once, bitterly. "How poetic."
"It wasn't meant to be," she said softly. "It just… came out."
His jaw tightened. "Was it me?"
She didn't answer.
He already knew.
"You think this makes you innocent?" he said coldly. "Drawing some broken version of me, like you're the victim?"
"No," she whispered. "I don't think I'm the victim. I just draw what hurts."
His hands curled into fists at his side. He hated the way she said it—without self-pity. Without expectation.
"You hurt people and then act like you're the one bleeding," he said, stepping closer, eyes burning. "I won't be another sketch in your guilt gallery."
"I'm not trying to make you anything," she replied. "I just don't know how to carry this without breaking."
He stopped inches from her now, his breath sharp. She didn't flinch. Didn't retreat.
And that somehow made it worse.
His eyes dropped to the sketchbook again. Then to her hands—ink-smudged, trembling slightly.
He tossed the book onto the bed like it disgusted him.
"Stop pretending to feel," he said. "You don't even know what real pain is."
She stood there in silence.
He waited for her to argue.
She didn't.
Her silence screamed more than words ever could.
And for a moment, something inside him wavered.
But he turned, before the crack could widen.
Left the room, the door closing behind him with a dull thud.
Sanya didn't cry.
She sat down quietly, picking up her sketchbook again. The figure still slipped from her fingers. No matter how many times she redrew the line.
And maybe he was right.
Maybe she didn't know what his pain felt like.
But hers?
She was drowning in it every day.