Part 4
Riya’s breath came out in ragged gasps as she walked down the empty street. Her legs were shaky, unsteady, but she didn’t stop. Her chest was heaving violently, the remnants of her outburst still clawing at her insides.
The cool night air bit at her skin, but she barely felt it. The blood in her veins was hot—boiling with the fury and anguish that had been simmering for years, only to finally rupture in front of the people who would never care.
Her hands were trembling violently at her sides. She shoved them into the pockets of her jacket, her fingers still curled into tight fists. Her nails dug into her palm, leaving crescent-shaped imprints on her skin.
She kept walking.
One foot in front of the other.
Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe.
But she couldn’t breathe.
Her throat tightened with every step, suffocating her with the weight of all the memories flooding back—the accusations, the blame, the gaslighting. It churned and boiled in her chest, threatening to spill over.
Her vision blurred with unshed tears.
Suddenly, her legs buckled beneath her, and she stumbled. Her knees hit the concrete with a sharp jolt, but she didn’t feel the pain.
Her chest caved in.
Her hand clamped over her mouth as a sob tore through her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears broke free, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks.
Her shoulders trembled violently as she curled into herself, sitting on the cold, rough pavement. The tears came in waves—wild, guttural, and unrestrained.
Her fingers pressed against her chest, clawing at the fabric of her jacket as if she could physically tear the ache out of her body. But the pain only expanded, spreading like wildfire through her limbs.
Her voice came out in a raw, broken whisper.
“Kyun nahi dikhai deta unhe?”
Her voice cracked with agony.
“Kyun nahi dikhai deta ke main bhi thak gayi hoon?”
She rocked slightly, as if trying to console herself, but her sobs only grew louder, more desperate. She gritted her teeth and clamped her hand over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound.
The street was deserted—no one to see her breaking apart. No one to hear her muffled cries.
No one.
***
The screech of tires cut through the thick silence.
A black SUV came to an abrupt halt at the side of the road, and Arjun stormed out, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete. His sharp eyes scanned the empty street until they landed on her small, trembling form, curled into herself on the pavement.
For a moment, he froze.
His heart clenched violently in his chest at the sight of her. She looked so fragile—so heartbreakingly small. The woman he had seen standing tall, fierce, and unwavering in front of criminals was now trembling like a broken child.
“Riya…” he rasped. His voice barely a whisper.
Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Her eyes, wide and red-rimmed, locked with his. The raw anguish in her gaze slammed into him with crushing force.
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Her breathing was uneven, rapid, and shaky.
Without a word, Arjun crossed the distance between them in swift, urgent strides. He dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands cupping her tear-streaked face.
“Riya…” he whispered hoarsely, his thumbs brushing away the hot, wet streaks from her cheeks. His voice cracked with the raw tenderness he had been holding back for so long. “Kya kar rahi ho yahan?”
Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t speak. Her throat was too tight, her sobs still stuck somewhere between her chest and mouth.
He shifted closer, cradling her face with trembling hands. His thumbs traced over her cheekbones, soothing but firm. “Dekho mujhe…” His voice was low, steady, and commanding. “Riya, meri taraf dekho.”
Her eyes met his, and something inside her shattered. She clutched the front of his jacket with trembling fingers and buried her face against his chest.
The dam finally broke.
Her sobs tore through her throat in jagged, broken gasps. Her fists clung to his jacket, holding on for dear life.
Arjun’s arms tightened around her instantly. He pressed her against him, holding her with the strength of a man who was terrified of losing her. His large, warm hands stroked her back slowly, his touch unwavering despite the way his own heart was breaking.
“Riya…” His voice was a hoarse whisper, his lips pressed against her hair. “Shhh… bas… bas…”
But she couldn’t stop. She clung to him, her entire body trembling with the force of her sobs. Her fingers fisted into his jacket, her nails digging into the leather, but he didn’t care.
He held her through every sob, every gasp, every broken breath.
His lips pressed against her temple, murmuring soft, desperate reassurances.
“Main hoon… bas… yahi hoon…”
“Chhod ke nahi jaaunga… kabhi nahi…”
“Riya… main hoon…”
Her sobs grew softer but more fractured, more broken. Her nails clutched at him, and he could feel her shaking violently.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper—hoarse and broken.
“Main thak gayi hoon, Arjun…”
His breath hitched sharply.
Her voice cracked. “Bohot thak gayi hoon…” Her fists clung to his jacket tighter, as if she was afraid of being pulled away. “Bohot dukh raha hai…” Her voice trembled with agonizing vulnerability. “Mujhe nahi pata main aur kitni der tak aise lad sakti hoon.”
Arjun’s chest constricted painfully.
“Main ladte ladte thak gayi hoon, Arjun,” she whispered brokenly against his chest, her voice trembling with a heartbreaking finality. “Ab aur nahi hota mujhse.”
His throat tightened violently. His eyes stung with unshed tears.
“Riya…” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. He placed a hand over the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. His lips brushed against her temple again and again, desperate to soothe her. “Main hoon na… tum akeli nahi ho.”
She shook her head slightly, her voice hoarse and barely audible. “Mujhe nafrat hai khud se, Arjun…”
Her broken confession made his blood run cold.
Her voice wavered, her lips trembling against his chest. “Mujhe nafrat hai ki main unki baat pe vishwas karti thi… mujhe nafrat hai ki main itni kamzor ho gayi hoon…”
He pulled back slightly, his hands framing her face. His eyes, dark and stormy with emotion, locked with hers. His voice came out low and firm. “Bas.”
His forehead pressed against hers. His breath was hot and shaky against her lips. “Tumhe khud se nafrat karne ka koi haq nahi hai, Riya.” His voice cracked slightly, raw and pained. “Tum sun rahi ho?”
Her eyes shimmered with fresh tears, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.
His voice was low but fierce. “Tum sirf khud se nafrat karna band karo… baaki sab main sambhal lunga.”
Her breath hitched violently, and before she could say anything, his lips pressed softly against her forehead, lingering there for a long moment, as if willing all his strength into her.
“Main sambhal lunga, Riya…” he murmured against her skin, his voice breaking with tenderness. “Bas tum khudse nafrat karna band karo…”
Mangal Lakshmi
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