Author's POV

Two days had passed.

And yet, the silence hadn’t.

It had settled like a fog across the mansion—thick, cold, and unmoving.

No one had spoken to Rudra.

Not Rohini, whose disappointment still echoed in the walls.

Not the staff, who avoided his eyes and carried a silent judgment in every glance.

Not even Priti, his sister, who usually defended him blindly.

They all walked around him like he was radioactive.

But Anurima…

She had become invisible.

She hadn’t stepped out beyond the garden since that night.

She didn’t eat with the family.

She hadn’t gone to college.

She slept alone, eyes open long into the night.

Her voice, once so soft, had disappeared completely.

She was a ghost now—living, breathing, grieving.

Rudra stood on the porch, watching her from a distance.

She was seated on the garden bench, her back hunched, wrapped in her shawl as though it were a shield from the world. Her hair, usually pinned neatly, hung messily down her back.

She hadn’t spoken to him since that night.

She hadn’t even looked at him.

His mind, already fraying at the edges, twisted more with every passing second.

The silence was unbearable.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He strode towards her, his boots crunching on the gravel.

“Why aren’t you going to college?” he asked, voice sharp and accusing. “Hmm?”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Just stared into the distance like he didn’t exist.

The silence stung more than any insult.

His patience snapped.

He grabbed her wrist—hard—and yanked her to stand.

Her shawl slipped slightly, but she didn’t resist. Just turned her face away.

“Dhukharin ban ke kya dikhana chahti ho?” he hissed, eyes blazing. “Kya yeh batana chahti ho sabko ki tumhara pati tumpe kitna torture karta hai? Sympathy chahiye? Sabse tareef chahiye, ki dekho bechari Anurima kya bhugat rahi hai?”

Her eyes turned to him slowly—empty, dark, and haunting.

And then, without a single word, she removed her shawl.

Let it fall to the grass like dead weight.

Rudra’s breath caught in his throat.

Her shoulders—once porcelain smooth—were now painted in shades of black, purple, and fading crimson.

A deep bruise marred the edge of her collarbone.

Her upper arms bore fingerprints.

And right above her navel, dark as night, was a brutal mark—his.

His bite.

His violence.

“This…” she whispered, her voice hoarse and cracked, “this is why I’m not going to college.”

Tears didn’t fall from her eyes. Not anymore.

They had dried.

Turned into hollow silence.

He stared at her—his heart pounding, shame clashing with anger inside him like a war.

And then, instead of apologizing—he did the one thing she least expected.

He scoffed. Bitter. Cold.

“Then go apply concealer,” he muttered cruelly, eyes flicking over the bruises with practiced indifference. “I’ve bought tons of makeup for you. Not just for show, idiot girl.”

Anurima didn’t react.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

She just bent down, picked up her shawl with slow, robotic movements, and wrapped it back around her battered body. Carefully. Quietly.

Then she looked up at him, eyes glassy—but not broken.

Just empty.

She turned and walked away. Not saying a word.

And Rudra—Rudra stood there, alone in the garden, surrounded by roses blooming quietly beneath a blood-red sky, watching her walk away from him again.

This time, not in fear.

But in complete detachment.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

Rudra room

The room was cloaked in shadows.

Only the dim bedside lamp flickered weakly, casting long, uneven silhouettes across the walls—like demons lurking, whispering truths he didn’t want to hear.

Rudra sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt half-open, his breathing uneven.

His hands trembled as he took the syringe from the metal case, fingers fumbling slightly.

The vial clinked against the glass tray. He drew the liquid with a trained motion—automatic, mechanical.

The injection—meant to calm the storm in his head, meant to stabilize the chaos that had ruled his mind since childhood—was supposed to be his anchor.

But tonight… it was nothing.

He plunged the needle into the muscle of his thigh, let the medicine rush into his bloodstream, hoping, begging for stillness.

But it never came.

Not tonight.

His jaw clenched.

His teeth ground together.

Instead of calm, came a wave of burning anger, sharp pain, and something far more dangerous—helplessness.

His chest tightened, as though an invisible hand was gripping his heart, squeezing it mercilessly.

His breath hitched, vision blurring—not from the drug, but from the hurricane of guilt, shame, and fury ripping through him.

And then it snapped.

With a raw, guttural scream, Rudra rose and slammed his fist into the wooden table near the bed.

The lamp crashed to the ground, glass shattering like broken silence.

Papers flew.

The framed photo of his late father fell with a dull thud.

His medicine box tipped over.

Rudra stood amid the chaos, chest heaving, nostrils flared.

And then—

In the middle of the mess, in the solitude of his dark, locked room—

He screamed again.

“MY MOTHER SLAPPED ME!”

His voice cracked.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms.

“For the first time in my life…” he muttered, staggering backward, eyes wild. “She slapped me… like I was filth… like I wasn’t her son…”

He collapsed onto the floor, back hitting the wardrobe, legs sprawled out, hair falling over his face.

“I am a monster…” he whispered. “I am…”

The words choked him.

“I destroyed her. I broke her.” His voice trembled, soft now, like a broken boy trapped in a grown man’s body. “And I let Ma see it… I let her see what I’ve become…”

He let his head fall back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

His eyes stung, but he didn’t cry.

The tears were locked somewhere deeper—beneath years of control, rage, and guilt.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger…” he said to no one, voice barely audible. “Like I was something to be afraid of…”

A laugh escaped him—bitter, hollow, wrong.

“She was right.”

He looked around at the destruction he’d caused in the room—mirroring what he’d done to Anurima.

The bruises.

The silence.

The deadness in her eyes.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to block it all out.

But it was etched into him now. Forever.

The air inside the room was still, carrying a quiet ache that refused to settle. Outside, birds chirped softly, a mockery to the heaviness in the hearts within.

Anurima sat on the edge of her bed, cloaked in a simple pale saree, her hair tied in a loose braid that fell over one bruised shoulder. Her eyes were open, but her gaze vacant—as if staring through time, through pain.

Her body bore the evidence of violence. But her silence… it bore the weight of betrayal.

She wasn’t alone.

Rohini knelt beside her, slowly applying a cooling ointment over the bruises. Each touch was motherly, gentle. But her hands trembled, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears she hadn’t allowed herself to cry since that night.

Priti sat nearby, her presence warm, dependable, her hand never leaving Anurima’s. She hadn’t said much, but the way she held her—firm, unwavering—was enough to make Anurima feel like she wasn’t entirely broken.

Parinisha leaned against the dresser, jaw clenched, fists curled. She had always admired Rudra, idolized her elder brother like a hero from an epic. That image had shattered. She didn’t know how to pick up the pieces, but she knew one thing: Anurima did not deserve this silence.

And sitting on a stool near the corner, Advik.His arms rested on his knees, his eyes fixated on the woman before them. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was holding

A storm.

“Beta…” Rohini said softly, as she brushed ointment across the fading purple stain near Anurima’s collarbone. “I know this isn't easy. But you must go back. Not just to college, but to life.”

Anurima didn’t respond. She barely blinked.

“You loved your students, your books. You still do. Don’t punish yourself for someone else’s crime.”

Parinisha walked over to the bed and crouched beside her. “Why are you hiding, Bhabhi? If anyone should feel shame, it’s him. Not you.” Her voice was brittle, nearly breaking, but resolute.

“I don’t want you to sit here day after day thinking you’re less than who you are. You’re not. You’re stronger than all of us.”

Anurima didn’t move, but her eyes moistened.

Priti leaned closer. “We’ll go together. You won’t be alone. Let people talk. Let them see your strength, Anu.”

A breath hitched in Anurima’s throat.

And then… a deep voice, calm but heavy, cut through the silence.

Advik.

He hadn’t spoken until now.

“Don’t let what he did become your identity,” he said, voice even but filled with quiet rage. “Let your choice to rise… become it.”

All three women turned to him.

He stood slowly, walking toward her, his eyes softening as they met hers. “You don’t owe him your silence. You don’t owe the world your withdrawal. But you do owe yourself your future.”

Anurima looked at him, really looked—for the first time in days.

There was no pity in his gaze. Only respect. Only belief.

“I…” her voice was barely above a whisper, cracked and dry, “…I feel like I died that night.”

Rohini’s hand trembled against her cheek.

Advik didn’t flinch. “Then let this be your rebirth.”

Priti choked on a sob, brushing away a tear.

Parinisha grabbed her hand tightly. “We’ll walk beside you every step.”

Rohini pressed her forehead to Anurima’s. “Let us fight this with you, beta.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Anurima finally gave the smallest of nods. Just once.

But it was enough to cause a ripple of relief in the room.

---

Outside, Rudra stood behind the half-closed door. His heart pounded against his ribcage like a war drum.

Their voices echoed in his head.

Every word was a blade.

And none of them were on his side anymore.

He wasn’t the protector.

He wasn’t the hero.

He was the villain in her story.

And this time… he didn’t know how to come back from