38

Tara woke up the next morning, her heart still heavy from the events of the previous day. The sight of Aryan's parents—especially his mother—had rattled her more than she wanted to admit. But she forced herself to push the fear away.

She showered quickly, letting the warm water soothe her nerves, then wrapped herself in a loose hoodie and sat at her desk, determined to focus on studying. For the first time in days, she felt like she was making progress.

Until a loud noise shattered the silence.

It was a yell.

Tara's pen stilled in her grip. She frowned, glancing toward the door. Had she imagined it? But then another sound—something slamming, maybe a door—made her jolt.

Her heart pounded. She hesitated for a moment, then stood up and slowly opened her door.

Just in time to see Aryan storming off down the hallway.

"Aryan?" she called, confused.

He was already at the elevator, his back to her, his entire body tense. She saw the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, as if he was trying to hold himself together.

"Aryan, what happened?" she asked again, stepping closer.

He turned slightly, and for the briefest moment, she saw something in his eyes—something raw and broken. But before she could say anything else, he quickly wiped at his face, disguising it as if brushing off sweat.

"Nothing happened," he muttered, his voice tight.

She didn't believe him for a second.

"Aryan, why are you crying?" she pressed, concern creeping into her voice. "Is your dad okay?"

At that, something flickered in his expression. Before she could react, Aryan stepped forward, cupped her face gently, his fingers pressing lightly against her skin.

"I said I'm fine, Tara," he murmured, his voice low.

For a second, all she could do was stare. His grip wasn't harsh, but it was firm, like he needed her to believe him—like he needed to believe it himself.

Then, just as quickly, he let go, nudging her back slightly.

The elevator door opened behind him, and without another word, he stepped inside.

Tara watched as the doors slid shut, leaving her standing there, stunned. Her skin still tingled where his hands had been, but more than that—her mind was racing.

Something was wrong. Something had really happened.

She wanted to go after him, to demand answers, but then a sound from his flat caught her attention.

A muffled sob.

Tara turned her head sharply, staring at Aryan's door.

A woman was crying inside.

Her stomach twisted. She didn't know who it was—but she knew it was a woman.

Tara stood there for a long moment, heart pounding in her chest.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked back into her own flat, locking the door behind her.

Tara tried to go back to studying, but the muffled sound of the muffled crying lingered in her head. No matter how much she tried to block it out, her brain kept circling back to it.

She wanted to ignore it.

She should ignore it.

But the sound of someone crying—it did something to her.

After a few more minutes of trying (and failing) to focus, she exhaled sharply and stood up. Maybe she should knock, just to see if everything was okay.

Her hand hovered near the doorknob.

But then, a different thought struck her.

What if it was Meeta? What if it was Zara?

What if it was some other girl in Aryan's flat?

Tara pulled her hand back as if she'd been burned.

What am I doing? she thought. It's not my business.

Frustrated with herself, she decided to go downstairs to get some milk instead. Maybe stepping out would clear her head.

She took her time at the store, lingering by the shelves, buying things she didn't even need—anything to stop thinking about what she had just heard.

But as she returned to her building and stepped out of the elevator, her breath caught.

Just as the lift doors slid open, she saw it—a glimpse of a saree pallu disappearing into Aryan's flat.

She froze.

It was Meeta.

And just like that, everything clicked. The crying. The tension. The reason Aryan looked so destroyed before he left.

They had fought.

Tara stood there for a second, gripping the bag of milk, feeling something unfamiliar stir in her chest. She wasn't sure if it was sympathy or something else.

She turned towards her door but then hesitated.

Slowly, she stepped closer to Aryan's door, just enough to listen.

There was no yelling now, but she could still hear Meeta's muffled sniffles.

Tara exhaled shakily.

She was scared.

She knew Meeta hated her. Knew that Aryan's mother had never wanted her anywhere near him. And yet—Tara couldn't shake the feeling in her chest, the small, persistent voice in her head telling her to do something.

She bit her lip, then walked into her own flat.

A few minutes later, she stepped back out, this time with a cup of chai in her hands.

Her heart was pounding as she reached Aryan's door. For a moment, she considered turning back, but before she could second-guess herself, she knocked.

The door opened.

Meeta stood there, her face tired, her eyes red, though she had clearly tried to wipe away any evidence of tears. For a moment, she just stared at Tara, confused.

Tara, on the other hand, felt her own body stiffen with fear.

Meeta's gaze flickered over her, unreadable.

Tara forced herself to breathe. She tried to steady the tremble in her voice as she spoke.

"A-aunty, I... I just noticed that... things were off..." Her words stumbled over each other. "So, vo... I just got this... chai... U don't have to talk to me... I just thought maybe... you might feel better."

Before Meeta could say a word, Tara quickly placed the cup on the small table near the entrance.

She looked up at Meeta, folded her hands in a polite namaste, and whispered, "Take care."

Then, before she could lose her nerve, she turned and ran.

She shut her door behind her, her breath uneven, her heart hammering.

Outside, Meeta stood frozen, staring at the chai Tara had left.

She slowly reached for it, wrapping her fingers around the warm cup.

She took a sip.

The taste was soft, comforting.

Beautiful.

A small, unintentional smile ghosted her lips.

But it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by a heavy weight in her chest.

She had spent so much time seeing Tara as a problem, as a threat. But today, she had seen something else.

She had seen how scared the girl was of her.

And that realization stung more than anything.

Meeta exhaled shakily, holding the cup closer to her chest.

She felt bad.

For the nth number of time—she really, deeply felt bad.

💜