53

The soft golden glow of the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Aryan's studio, casting warm streaks across the wooden floor. The city outside was just beginning to stir—muffled sounds of footsteps in the hall, distant chatter, the occasional honk from the street below. But inside, all was quiet, save for the rhythmic trickle of water from the bathroom.

Steam curled in the air as Aryan stood under the hot shower, his palms pressed against the cool tiles. Droplets ran down his toned back, trailing over his shoulders as he let the warmth sink into his muscles. He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back, allowing the water to rush over his face.

Tara.

She was always there, lingering in his mind, in every pause, in every quiet moment. No matter how much time passed, she remained a presence he couldn't shake off. And after last night—after the almost-kiss in that damned cupboard, after the way her eyes had flickered to his lips, after the way she had looked at him before forcing herself to look away—she was all he could think about.

He shut the water off with a sigh, reaching for a towel and running it over his hair as he stepped out, the cold air hitting his damp skin. Wrapping the towel loosely around his waist, he padded across the room, flipping open his laptop on the desk.

Work. That's what he needed.

He pulled on a pair of joggers and an old hoodie before settling into his chair, fingers absentmindedly wrapping around the warm mug of coffee he had just made. He took a sip, the rich, bitter taste grounding him.

But even as he typed, his focus wavered. His eyes landed on a book near the edge of the table—the same one Tara had been reading all those months ago, before everything had fallen apart. He hadn't even realized he still had it.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips. He picked it up, flipping to the page she had dog-eared. It was such a her thing to do. She always left small marks in books, her little way of saying, this part mattered to me.

His fingers brushed over the crease before he shut the book, exhaling.

Then, as if on cue, another memory surfaced—her voice, quiet but firm.

"Your mom will always hate me."

The smile faded instantly.

His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the mug. He could still see the way her expression had hardened when she said it, the way her shoulders had squared as if bracing for the impact of her own words.

"Fix things with your mom."

He swallowed, his gaze drifting toward the framed family photo resting on his desk. His father stood in the center, his mother beside him, her usual poised smile in place. And there he was—Aryan, younger, more naïve, standing beside them as if he belonged.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at the photo.

Fix things with her.

Could he? Would it even change anything?

He sighed heavily, setting the mug down with a soft clink against the desk. He wasn't sure if there was a way to mend what was broken, but one thing was certain—he had to try.

Three hours later, Aryan stood in front of his full-length mirror, his shirt unbuttoned, the pink fabric hanging loosely around his shoulders. His face was unreadable as he smoothed his palms over the material before beginning to button it up, one by one, his fingers steady despite the storm inside him.

The soft click of the buttons fastening in place felt oddly grounding. When he reached his wrists, he rolled up the sleeves with practiced ease, folding them neatly to his elbows.

He exhaled, running a hand through his slightly damp hair, tousling it slightly. His jaw clenched for a second before he grabbed his watch from the bedside table, strapping it onto his wrist.

He was doing it.

He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening into a fist before he let out a slow breath and turned away.

Grabbing his studio keys, he slipped into his shoes and shrugged on a jacket before stepping out into the hallway.

The moment he locked his studio door behind him, he heard footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

He turned his head—

And there she was.

Tara.

Her hair was loosely tied, loose strands falling over her face as she walked toward her studio, struggling slightly with the weight of the grocery bags in her arms. The sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt covered half her hands, and her loose sweatpants hung comfortably on her frame. Her lips were pressed together in concentration as she shifted the bags around.

She hadn't seen him yet.

Aryan's lips curled into a small, unintentional smile.

Without thinking twice, he strode over, reaching out and taking the grocery bags from her hands in one smooth motion.

"Wha— Aryan?" she blinked in surprise, looking up at him as he set the bags down beside her studio door.

He didn't respond right away. Instead, he stepped closer.

Before she could react, he pulled her into a warm, firm hug.

Tara stiffened for a second, caught off guard, but Aryan didn't let go. His arms wrapped around her like it was second nature—like this was where she belonged.

Then, slowly, she relaxed.

Her hands hovered uncertainly for a moment before they lightly rested against his back. It was brief, but Aryan felt it.

When he pulled back, his hands came up to cup her face gently, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks, tilting her face slightly upward so she was looking directly into his eyes.

There was something in his gaze—something raw, something determined.

"I'm gonna do what you said, Star," he murmured. His voice was low, steady.

Tara's brows furrowed slightly. "What—"

Before she could finish, he leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead before stepping back.

Tara just stared at him, stunned.

He didn't wait for her to say anything else.

With one last glance at her, he turned and walked away, his strides confident, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Tara stood frozen in place, watching him disappear down the hallway, her breath stuck in her throat.

She touched her forehead absentmindedly, still feeling the warmth of his lips lingering there.

Her heart stuttered.

~•~

Aryan sat in the backseat of the Uber, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. His mind raced faster than the car weaving through the morning traffic.

"Fix things with your mom, Aryan."

Tara's words echoed in his head, looping like a song he couldn't turn off. He exhaled sharply, staring out the window as familiar streets passed by.

He hadn't gone to meet his parents voluntarily since the past two years.

Not since the night his mother made it clear she would never accept Tara. Not since he had stormed out, heartbroken, furious, and determined never to be the same.

Yet, here he was.

The Uber pulled up outside the grand entrance of his family's five-star hotel. The valet opened the door for him, but Aryan didn't move right away. He stared up at the building, the weight in his chest growing heavier.

With a deep breath, he stepped out.

His shirt was crisp, his sleeves rolled up, a contrast to the tension tightening his jaw. He didn't hesitate as he walked through the glass doors.

The hotel lobby was exactly as he remembered—high ceilings, marble floors polished to perfection, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air.

This was his parents' go-to hotel—when in Oxford.

Aryan walked over to the reception. "Hi. I want to meet Mr and Mrs Deshmukh."

"Sure. One minute." The receptionist replied before getting to work to find the room.

Aryan fidgeted. It was time, he thought. He had been dreading this conversation for a long time. He didn't even see himself having it—but that one girl told him to do it and here he was. That one girl.

"Room number 111. First floor and first right." The receptionist replied.

Aryan nodded, thanked the lady and turned towards the elevator.

He looked at himself in the mirror of the elevator—mentally preparing himself for the conversation to come. Sighing, the door opened.

He stepped out and walked—until he was in front of the room. 111.

You can still go away, he told himself.

No. Tara wants this.

Giving himself a small shake, as if rebooting his confidence, he rang the bell.

Within a second, he could see his father stood shocked as he opened the door, dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit. His expression flickered from shock to something unreadable. Beside him, his mother froze, a file clutched tightly in her hands.

She looked different. More tired. The usual authority in her posture seemed... softer, as if life had worn her down just as much as it had worn him.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, Rajeev cut through the tension, "Aryan? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

Aryan cleared his throat, his voice even. "I want to talk."

His mother's lips parted slightly, surprise flashing in her eyes. His father glanced between them, then nodded. "Come in."

Aryan walked inside to see a beautiful living room, a space oozing royalty. The city skyline stretched beyond the large windows, but Aryan barely noticed.

He stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, as his mother sat down, folding her hands in her lap. His father sat beside her, watching cautiously.

"You came to talk," his father finally said, his voice confused, "What's going on?"

Aryan hesitated for a bit, before composing himself, "Yes. I want to talk...." His eyes fell on his mom, who was looking down—expecting him to ignore her again, "To Mom."

Meeta's head snapped up, "W...What?"

Rajeev looked at his wife and son, a slight smile adorning his face. But he masked it well, "I see." He smiled softly as he continued, "She's right here. Go ahead."

Meeta stood up instantly, surprised. "Aryan?"

He looked at her, his eyes deprived of any emotions, "I don't want to repeat myself but... you know why we reached this situation. You know what you did. And no matter how many times you explain to me—or yourself—that you did the right thing. You know you did me wrong."

Meeta looked down, guilt flooding her face and tears flooding her eyes, as she nodded, "I know."

"Why did you do it?" His voice raising a little.

"I.... I was scared of losing you. Seeing your dad on the hospital bed fighting for his life—I didn't think straight. I know I shouldn't have acted the way I did and I know that Tar—"

"Don't take her name." He cut her off.

"I'm sorry." She muttered, looking up slightly, not meeting his eyes.

"Why did you make Tara the villain? What did she do wrong?! Did you think me so heartless that just because I have a girlfriend I will neglect my father's health?!"

"Beta.... I—"

"Just because I had a girlfriend, I would throw you two away?!" His voice increasing every second.

Meeta stood still.

"Just because I had a girlfriend, I WILL FORGET MY DUTIES AS A SON?!" Tears welled in his eyes.

Meeta sniffed between tears, "I shouldn't have thought that. I am sorry beta. I don't know what I was thinking."

Aryan watched his mother's tears and suddenly—a chord struck his heart. It always had struck. But today, something felt different.

Today, unlike every other day in the past 2 years, he was fighting the urge to wipe those tears off his mother's face.

He sighed, "I needed Tara. Mom. I needed her. I still need her."

"She's yours beta. I won't ever come in between you and her again. If you just let me talk to—"

"That's not the point, Mom." He replied, "That's not why I'm here."

Meeta looked at Rajeev. She wanted to ask—but she was scared. Rajeev looked at her in confidence and nodded. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her son, "Why are you here then?"

Aryan scoffed. "I had to come here. Because this... whatever this is between us, it's not working."

His mother inhaled sharply. "Aryan, I—"

"Don't," he cut her off, his tone sharper than he intended. "Don't try to pretend like you don't know why I left. You know exactly why."

She swallowed. "Because of Tara."

He let out a bitter laugh. "You say her name like it's a bad thing."

His mother lowered her gaze, "No beta. I didn't mean it like that..."

Aryan's fists clenched. "You made me choose, Mom. You made me pick between the girl I loved and my own family." His voice cracked slightly, and he exhaled, forcing himself to steady his emotions. "Do you even know what that did to me?"

His mother wiped at the corner of her eye but said nothing.

"You looked at Tara like she wasn't good enough," Aryan continued, his voice softer now, but still heavy with emotion. "Like she didn't deserve me. But the truth is... I didn't deserve her. Because in the end, I still let her go."

His father finally spoke. "Aryan, your mother never wanted to hurt you—"

Aryan's jaw tightened. "Then why did she?"

His mother flinched. "I..." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I thought I was protecting you."

"Protecting me from what?" His voice rose, the frustration cracking through. "From being happy?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. "From making a mistake. From choosing love over stability, over—"

"She was my stability!" Aryan cut in, his voice breaking slightly. "She was the one person who made everything make sense. And you tore that away from me."

His mother let out a shaky breath, looking down at her lap. "I was wrong," she whispered.

Aryan stilled.

His father placed a comforting hand on his mother's, nodding at her gently. She took a deep breath, her voice thick with regret.

"I was wrong, Aryan," she repeated, looking up at him with glassy eyes. "I see that now. I saw it the day you left and never looked back. I saw it every time I heard your name on call with Rajeev but knew you wouldn't call or talk to me." She swallowed, her fingers gripping the fabric of her saree. "I missed you every single day. But I knew I had no right to reach out. You're my only son Aryan. You're a part of me—and I've missed you everyday."

Aryan's chest ached at the sincerity in her voice.

For so long, he had carried the anger, the resentment. But now, seeing his mother—the woman who had always been so strong, so unwavering—look at him with nothing but regret...

It softened something inside him.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mom..." His voice was quieter now. "You really hurt me."

She nodded, her lips trembling. "I know."

"And I don't know if I can just forget it," he admitted. "But... I don't want to hate you anymore." He looked at her before muttering, "I can't hate you anymore."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "I don't want that either, beta."

Aryan nodded. Silence stretched between them, but this time, it wasn't heavy with resentment. It was something else. Something fragile, yet hopeful.

Aryan exhaled, glancing at his father. "I should go."

His mother swallowed hard, nodding.

He turned toward the door, his hand gripping the handle. But just as he was about to leave, he hesitated.

Then, without overthinking, he turned back—

And walked. And pulled his mother into a hug.

She let out a soft gasp, freezing for a moment before her arms wrapped around him, gripping him tightly.

A sob escaped her lips as she held onto him tightly, as if he would vanish if she let go, years of distance melting away in an instant.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, beta."

Aryan closed his eyes, his throat tightening.

His tears stained her saree. Just as her tears stained his shirt.

He had spent so long resenting her. So long wishing she would take back the things she said.

And maybe she couldn't undo the past.

But for the first time in years—

She was trying.

And maybe that was enough.

💜