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Tara shut the door behind her with a sharp, shaky breath, her fingers still clutching the cold doorknob. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest that she swore it echoed through the silent apartment. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm the panic that had seized her body.

She hadn't expected to see them.

She had barely glanced at Aryan's father, but her gaze had caught onto his mother—Meeta. And in that instant, fear had slammed into her like a freight train. She had bolted before her mind could even process the moment.

Now, she stood in the middle of her flat, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to physically hold in the storm of emotions swirling inside. Get it together, Tara. But the anxiety clawed at her throat, suffocating her. She knew how Meeta felt about her. She didn't remember the last time she had seen Meeta, but this time—knowing her view of Tara, she was scared. The memory of the cold, sharp words, the sheer disdain in Meeta's words when talking about her, sent a fresh wave of fear coursing through her.

She wanted to check if they were still outside. Some part of her was desperate to know. But her legs stayed frozen in place. Even the idea of looking through the peephole sent her spiraling. What if she catches me staring? What if Aryan does?

So she didn't.

She just backed up against the wall, slid down until she was sitting on the floor, knees tucked against her chest. Her mind was racing. She had done everything she could to distance herself from Aryan, to make sure they stayed apart. But his mother being here changed things.

And the worst part?

She didn't know how.

On the other side of the door, in his studio, Aryan was seething.

He stood near his couch, jaw clenched, eyes dark with frustration as he replayed what had just happened.

Tara had seen his mother and bolted.

His fingers curled into fists. He knew exactly why. He knew what his mother had said about her all those months ago. And as much as he wanted to control the situation, the helplessness that came with it infuriated him.

The thing was, he hadn't even been angry at Tara for running. If anything, he had expected it. What made his blood boil was the fact that his mother had been standing there, witnessing it all, knowing what she had done to Tara, and yet she had the audacity to stand there looking guilty.

What did she expect? That she'd walk in here and suddenly everything would be fine?

He let out a bitter scoff and rubbed his temples. His father had probably told her to come. It'll be fine, he must have said. Just be patient.

But Aryan didn't want patience. He didn't want silence. He wanted answers.

Yet, as the night stretched on, exhaustion finally weighed down on him. His anger simmered under the surface, but eventually, sleep took over, restless and filled with too many unspoken words.

The next morning, Aryan woke up feeling just as frustrated as the night before. The shower did little to wash away his mood, and as he stepped out, towel-drying his hair, his phone buzzed on the counter.

It was a message from his dad.

Rajeev: Would you like to attend the meeting today?

Aryan exhaled sharply, typing back a quick response.

Aryan: No.

A few seconds later, another message.

Rajeev: Okay, no worries.

Aryan thought that would be the end of it, but then his phone lit up again.

Rajeev: Go downstairs. Your mom is there. She's not staying at the hotel.

Aryan's eyes narrowed. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he finally typed:

Aryan: Why can't she stay there?

His dad's response came instantly.

Rajeev: Aryan, that's your mom. Go downstairs and get her.

Aryan groaned audibly, running a hand down his face. He had zero interest in spending more time with his mother, especially after last night. But he knew his father well enough to know that arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere.

So, with a heavy sigh, he grabbed his keys and shoved his phone into his pocket.

Then, with every ounce of reluctance in his body, he headed downstairs.

Aryan stepped out of the elevator, his expression unreadable, shoulders tense. His mother stood waiting near the entrance of the building, her shawl neatly draped over her shoulder, hands clutching her purse. She looked up as he approached, her face softening with a hopeful smile.

"Beta," she started.

"Come," he said flatly, not meeting her gaze.

Meeta's smile faltered, but she nodded, falling into step beside him as they walked back. The silence between them was thick, suffocating. She wanted to say something—anything—but she knew better than to push him too soon.

They reached his flat, and Aryan unlocked the door, stepping aside for her to enter. She glanced around as she stepped in. It looked slightly cleaner than before. He must have straightened up a little—maybe because she was coming.

Aryan, however, didn't seem to care. He moved to the couch, picked up some books, and stacked them on the desk without much thought. Then, without even looking at her, he spoke in a clipped tone.

"You can do whatever you want. The WiFi password is here." He pointed to a sticky note on the table. "I'm going for football."

He turned to leave, but Meeta's voice stopped him.

"Beta, can we please talk?"

Aryan sighed, gripping the doorknob. "I'm busy."

"Aru..." Her voice wavered. "I know what I did was wrong. But hear me out. I had to do it. I had no choice."

That made him turn around. Slowly. His eyes were dark, a storm brewing behind them. "No choice?" He let out a hollow laugh. "You thought Tara would distract me from my ill father? You really think I'm that heartless?"

Meeta took a hesitant step forward. "Beta, you were only talking to her. You were always with her. I was scared that—"

"—That I wouldn't care enough about Dad?" Aryan cut her off, his voice rising. "That's what you thought? She was the only person who kept asking about Dad when no one else did. She was the one calming me down when I had to watch him go through those surgeries, those hospital visits. "She was my calm, Mom. You took that away from me!"

Meeta's face crumpled, guilt flooding her eyes. "Beta, I know, and I—"

"No, you don't know!" Aryan's voice cracked, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "You don't know what it felt like to have my father slipping away and the only person who made it bearable suddenly ripped away from me! Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

Meeta reached out, but Aryan stepped back, shaking his head.

"I shouldn't have gone to that extreme," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was scared of losing your father, Aryan. I wasn't thinking straight. I thought if I let you get too close to her, you'd lose focus."

"That's nothing," Aryan snapped, eyes glassy with emotion. "That's not an excuse! You think you protected me? You ruined me!"

The weight of his words hit Meeta like a physical blow. She swallowed, blinking back tears. "I'm sorry, beta," she whispered.

Aryan let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry? Sorry doesn't fix what you did. You took my anchor away, Mom. And now?" He shook his head, voice trembling. "Now, watch me drown. Like I have been for the past year."

Meeta's breath hitched as tears spilled down her cheeks. "Beta, we can fix this. I'll talk to her. I'll—"

"We saw her yesterday," Aryan cut her off sharply. "We saw how terrified she was of you. What makes you think she'll even stay in the same room with you around?"

Meeta clutched her shawl, her fingers twisting into the fabric. She knew he was right. She had seen the way Tara had panicked and run the moment she saw them.

"Beta," she whispered, voice cracking. "What's it going to take for you to forgive me?"

Aryan let out a humorless chuckle, looking away. "Dad healed, but I got wounded. You got your husband back, but you lost your son." His voice turned cold. "I hope that makes you happy."

And with that, he turned and walked out the door, leaving Meeta standing there, broken.

💜