In the ruins....I found you ❤️-A Prashiv ss

So.....the latest have been soooo disappointing, frustrating and depressing.... this is what I needed to do for my sanity....As I always say in my story I mostly pretend that no other character actually exists apart from these two........😭....

So bear with it.... please

And I am thinking of continuing it further...hence do tell me how did you like it...and I sincerely hope that this touched your heart and made you fall for Prarthana and Shivansh a bit more...

Chapter 1: The Papers on the Table

The mahogany table stood between them like a silent judge—polished, dignified, unflinching in its purpose. On it, a thin stack of crisp, ivory-colored papers lay spread, their clinical perfection in stark contrast to the devastation swelling in Prarthana’s chest.

She stared at them—at the cruel, heartless black ink dancing on the divorce decree like an executioner’s signature. Her fingers trembled, refusing to reach for them. As if touching them would somehow make it real.

Across from her, Shivansh stood still—arms folded, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body taut with restraint. His eyes, dark and stormy, betrayed nothing. Not guilt. Not hesitation. Only emptiness. A carefully constructed void.

"You’re not even going to explain?" Her voice cracked, barely a whisper against the heavy air.

He didn’t meet her eyes. "There’s nothing left to explain. It’s done."

A laugh—bitter and disbelieving—escaped her lips. "Just like that?"

"Yes." The word cut through the room like a blade.

She stared at him as though trying to locate the man she had once seen behind the armor. The man who, not too long ago, had stood in the rain with her, holding her hand when she had broken down. The man who had looked at her in the still of night like she was his salvation. The man who, in a rare moment of honesty, had once whispered, "Don’t leave… not you."

And now here he was—detached, cruel, distant.

"You owe me more than this, Shivansh."

"I don’t owe you anything," he said quietly, though his voice trembled just slightly at the edges.

She stepped forward, her breath uneven. "Then at least owe yourself the truth. What happened to you? Why are you suddenly—"

"It’s not sudden." He finally looked at her—eyes raw and rimmed red. But the fire was gone. "I was never meant to keep you."

His words landed like stones on her chest. She recoiled, blinking back tears that threatened to fall. "Then why did you marry me, Shivansh?"

He hesitated for the briefest moment. She saw it—the flicker of something in his gaze, the storm he was trying so hard to cage.

"You know why," he said at last, voice gravelled and low. "And I’ve repented for it every day since."

Prarthana’s fingers curled into fists. "That’s not true. You cared. I saw it. You let me in. And now you’re pretending none of it happened."

He turned away, facing the massive window that overlooked the city skyline. The setting sun bathed his silhouette in gold, but he looked more like a shadow than a man.

"You’ll be better off, Prarthana. With someone who can give you what I never could."

"Don’t decide that for me," she snapped. Her voice, strong for once, echoed in the hollow room. "Don’t take away my right to choose. You don’t get to throw me out of your life under the guise of some twisted self-sacrifice."

Silence.

A silence so thick it felt suffocating. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the soft creak of the air conditioner.

"I’ve already made the decision," he said after a long pause. "The papers are there. You just have to sign them."

Prarthana felt something rupture inside her. A quiet, devastating tear—like silk being shredded. Not with noise, but with quiet destruction.

She reached for the papers, her vision blurred by unshed tears, but her hand hovered just above them.

Then she looked at him again—at the man who was her husband, her tormentor, her solace, her storm. A man fighting demons she still didn’t understand.

"Fine," she whispered, voice trembling. "If this is what you want, then I won’t beg. But don’t you dare lie to yourself, Shivansh Randhawa. Don’t you dare pretend that this is love."

He didn’t respond. His back remained to her. But his shoulders were shaking.

She left the room.

The divorce papers remained untouched on the table. But their presence lingered like a verdict in a courtroom—delivered, final, and devastating.

Chapter 2: Breathing Without You

The walls of her room no longer felt like walls—they felt like witnesses. Quiet, uncaring witnesses to the ruin of a love that had never been fully spoken but had wrapped itself around her soul like ivy.

Prarthana sat at the edge of her bed, still dressed in the same soft blue kurti from earlier that evening. Her hands lay motionless in her lap, clutching a dupatta now twisted beyond recognition. The house, cold and grand, had never felt lonelier.

The divorce papers hadn’t moved.

Neither had she.

It had been hours since she walked away from him, from the war playing out in his hollow gaze, from the cliff-edge of their fragile relationship. And yet, she hadn’t cried. Not yet. The heartbreak sat in her chest like a storm cloud, too heavy to fall, too vast to contain.

She had married a man who didn't love easily—but had learned to care. Who had never made promises—but whose silences had spoken volumes. A man who had carried the weight of his past like armor, and slowly, painstakingly, had let her glimpse the boy buried underneath.

And now that boy was gone.

No explanation. No closure. Just an elegant lie wrapped in self-punishment—"You’ll be better off without me."

She pressed her palm against her chest.

Then why does it hurt to breathe?

Shivansh stood alone in his study, the lights dim, his glass of scotch untouched. He had been staring at the fireplace for over an hour now—though the flames had long died out.

He felt hollow. Not the dramatic, poetic kind. The terrifying, absolute kind. The kind of hollowness that echoed when you tried to speak but had no words. That came not from absence, but from deliberate loss.

He had pushed her away. Shattered her with his silence. Given her pain instead of protection.

And yet, it was the only mercy he thought he could offer.

"She’ll hate me,' he told himself. "And it will set her free."

Because if she continued to love him—despite everything he wasn’t—then she would stay trapped. With a man who couldn't promise her a peaceful tomorrow, who still woke up haunted by the ghosts of a mother who had walked away and a father whose last words had been left unanswered.

He wasn’t a husband.

He was a wreckage disguised as a man.

So he had let her go—before his ruin consumed her too.

The next morning arrived with reluctant sunlight creeping through the curtains. Prarthana lay curled in bed, eyes open, numb. Her pillow bore the weight of a thousand unshed tears, but her cheeks were dry.

She heard footsteps pass by her door. Shivansh’s.

Her heart raced instinctively.

And then… stilled.

Because she remembered.

He wouldn’t knock. Wouldn’t walk in with hesitant apologies. Wouldn’t tell her last night had been a mistake.

He had chosen this silence.

But Prarthana was no longer the girl who waited for people to love her out loud.

She rose slowly from bed, her bones aching with unspoken grief, and walked to the mirror. Her face looked pale, her eyes dim—but beneath it all was a fire refusing to die.

She would not let him pretend she hadn’t mattered.

If Shivansh Randhawa was determined to bury the truth, then she would be the storm that unearthed it.

That afternoon, she found herself staring out of the window at the rain.

Funny how it always rained when her world fell apart.

She remembered another day, not long ago, when she had stood under a similar sky, drenched and defeated, and Shivansh had offered her a towel without words—just presence. A silent promise.

He hadn’t said, "I care."

But he had stayed.

Now, he was the one retreating—and she was left tracing ghosts in the spaces he once filled.

She sat down at her desk and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. The same hands that had once packed his tiffin, fixed his cufflinks, and soothed his forehead during fever now trembled as they picked up a pen.

She began to write—not for him to read, but for herself to breathe.

"To the man who never let me in… but held my hand when I was falling,

You don’t get to walk away and call it kindness. You don’t get to shatter me and say it’s mercy. You don’t get to silence every memory we built and call it strength.

You think you’re protecting me? Then why does your absence feel like a knife lodged in my chest?

I would’ve taken your broken pieces and loved them one by one. I would’ve stood beside you in every storm. But you… you left me to drown alone.

Still, I won’t hate you.

I wish I could. It would be easier.

But I can’t.

Because even now, when the night stretches longer than my courage and your silence sounds louder than thunder—I still find myself breathing you."**

She put the letter away. Folded it carefully and slid it into her diary.

Someday, maybe he would read it. But not today.

Today, she would gather what strength she had left.

Because Prarthana Randhawa may have been pushed away—but she wasn’t finished.

Not yet...

Chapter 3: The House of Unspoken Words

The mansion stood quiet—too quiet. Its sprawling corridors echoed with absence, not sound. The chandeliers shimmered above like frozen stars, beautiful yet distant. Everything looked intact, yet nothing felt whole.

And within its heart, Shivansh and Prarthana moved like ghosts—coexisting, but never colliding.

It had been three days since the papers had landed on that table.

Three days of clipped conversations and averted eyes. Three days of plates placed silently on dining tables, of footsteps muffled down hallways, of breaths held behind closed doors.

Prarthana hadn’t signed the papers.

And Shivansh hadn’t asked again.

But the distance between them had thickened into something alive—dense, suffocating, and relentless.

Prarthana stood in the dressing room, trying to fasten the delicate clasp of her mangalsutra, her fingers trembling. It had broken yesterday—one of the links had snapped. She hadn’t told anyone. She hadn’t thrown it away either.

The tiny black beads lay against her collarbone like quiet questions.

Her reflection in the mirror stared back—drawn, tired, but unbending. Her eyes bore shadows of sleepless nights, and yet there was a flicker of defiance in them. The same flicker that had stopped her from signing the divorce.

Because he still hadn’t told her why.

Not really.

You’ll be better off without me. That wasn’t a reason. That was a coward’s prayer dressed as nobility.

She had watched him carefully these last few days. The way he lingered at the door before knocking. The way his eyes flickered toward her plate to check if she’d eaten. The way his hand would twitch, as if wanting to reach for hers—but stopping just short.

He was trying to bury his grief beneath control.

And she was done letting him.

That evening, the doorbell rang.

Raunak.

Of course it had to be him.

He stood at the threshold, holding a bouquet of white lilies and a carefully manufactured smile. His eyes, however, scanned the room like a predator.

Prarthana’s face paled.

She hadn’t called him. She hadn’t seen him like that since the day Shivansh married her instead. And she hadn’t wanted to either.

Yet here he was, standing at her door, as if time hadn’t cracked open and spilled everything she once knew into ruin.

“I heard…” he began gently, “that things aren’t exactly ideal between you two.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s none of your concern, Raunak.”

He stepped closer. “Isn’t it? You think I don’t still care? That I don’t—”

A sharp voice sliced through the room like thunder.

“She’s my wife. And this is my house. Leave.”

Shivansh.

He had emerged from the staircase, eyes blazing, posture rigid, voice low and lethal.

Raunak blinked, caught off guard. “Is she still your wife, Shivansh? Or just a prisoner who hasn’t signed yet?”

Shivansh crossed the room in three slow, deliberate steps, until his frame towered in front of Raunak. The tension between them sizzled.

Prarthana watched, frozen.

“Say one more word,” Shivansh growled, “and I’ll make sure you regret stepping into my world again.”

Raunak scoffed, but he stepped back. “Fine. But don’t think silence will keep her. Eventually, she’ll leave. She deserves someone who actually—”

Shivansh’s hand shot out, gripping his collar. “Out.”

Raunak left, muttering under his breath. The door slammed behind him.

And for a second, only the sound of two hearts breathing too loud remained.

Shivansh turned to her, eyes not angry but… pained.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, voice rough with restraint.

She stared at him. “Why did you do that?”

“What?”

“Why did you protect me just now… when you’re the one who’s trying to destroy me slowly, every day?”

He said nothing.

Just stood there, struggling for words he couldn’t let out.

“You think letting me go will save me,” she whispered, walking closer. “But you never asked what would actually destroy me.”

He looked away.

“Tell me the truth, Shivansh,” she said again, firmer this time. “Not your lies. Not your noble excuses. The truth. Why are you pushing me away?”

He took a step back. “Because I don’t want to answer questions that will make you stay.”

That was all he said.

Then he walked out.

And the silence thundered louder than any scream ever could.

Later that night, Prarthana sat by the window of her room. Rain had returned—soft, steady, melancholic.

She remembered Raunak’s face—full of bitterness and false love.

And Shivansh’s—full of pain, rage, and something far worse: restraint.

He wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t indifferent.

He was terrified.

And now… she wasn’t just watching his pain.

She was going to unravel it.

Even if it broke her first.

Chapter 4: You’re Not Allowed to Hurt Like This

The night pressed down on the Randhawa mansion like a slow, suffocating weight. Every hallway echoed with silence. Every shadow held memories trying to claw their way out.

And Prarthana—heart wounded yet determined—walked toward Shivansh’s study like a woman entering a battlefield she never wanted to fight, but could no longer avoid.

The doors to his study were slightly ajar, casting a wedge of golden lamplight into the corridor. She paused for a moment outside, her fingers resting on the carved wood, drawing one steadying breath.

Then she pushed it open.

Shivansh was seated behind his desk, his sleeves rolled up, a pen gripped tightly between his fingers but unmoving. The document before him—some business draft or another—lay forgotten.

He didn’t look up immediately.

He knew it was her. He could feel it in the change of air, in the scent of jasmine and rain that always clung faintly to her presence. It made his chest ache.

“You should be asleep,” he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the paper he wasn’t reading.

“And you should be honest,” she replied, stepping inside, her voice calm but sharp enough to wound. “But here we are.”

He looked up.

And she saw it again—the exhaustion in his eyes. Not the kind that came from long meetings and sleepless nights. The deeper kind. The kind that came from loving in silence and punishing oneself for it.

She walked closer.

“You know what hurts the most, Shivansh?” she asked, stopping just a few feet from his desk. “Not the silence. Not the distance. Not even the divorce papers.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“What hurts is the cruelty of it all. The way you decided, all by yourself, that I deserve better. That you’re not worthy. As if I’m some charity case in need of saving. As if I didn’t already choose you.”

His hands curled into fists.

“You want me to believe that you’re doing this for my good,” she continued, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “But that’s not love. That’s cowardice. That’s control dressed in martyrdom.”

“Enough, Prarthana,” he said hoarsely.

“No,” she snapped, taking another step. “Not enough. Not until you look me in the eye and admit the truth. That you’re terrified of being loved. That you’d rather destroy it than let it destroy you first.”

He stood now, the chair sliding back.

“You think I’m not already destroyed?” he thundered. “You think it doesn’t rip me apart every second I see you and know I’ll never be the man you deserve?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “And who decided that?”

“I did!” he shouted, voice breaking. “Because I know what I am. I know the man I’ve become. You think love can fix that? You think you can fix that? I was built out of abandonment, Prarthana. Molded by betrayal. I don’t know how to be gentle with something I want to keep.”

“And yet you’ve always been gentle with me,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “In your silences. In your sleepless nights. In every little thing you did without naming it.”

He turned away, pressing his palms into the edge of the desk, breathing ragged.

“I love you,” she said softly.

He stilled.

Her words hung in the air like a sacred confession, breaking open the dam they both had tried so hard to keep sealed.

“I love you,” she repeated, stepping closer. “And you don’t get to tell me I shouldn’t. You don’t get to decide I’m better off without you when I’m not even alive without you.”

He turned then, slowly, like a man facing execution.

His eyes were red. Wet. Shining with all the emotion he had tried to smother under guilt and grief.

“Prarthana…”

“No,” she said again, standing right in front of him. “You don’t get to hurt like this. Not alone. Not anymore.”

She reached up and placed her hand against his chest—right over his heart.

“I see you. All of you. And I’m not leaving.”

His lips parted, but no words came. Only a broken breath.

Then, as if gravity itself betrayed him, Shivansh collapsed into her arms.

And she held him—tight, unwavering—as his body trembled against hers.

He didn’t cry loudly. It wasn’t theatrical.

But it was raw. It was real.

His forehead rested on her shoulder. Her hand cradled the back of his head. And the man the world knew as invincible—Shivansh Randhawa, the ruthless, unshakable tycoon—finally wept like a boy who had been hurting for far too long.

Prarthana stood there, kissing his temple softly, whispering words he couldn’t hear but would feel.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

That night, no doors closed between them. No walls stood.

For the first time, truth filled the silence.

And even though their wounds were still fresh, their healing had finally begun.

Chapter 5: His Demons, Her Silence

The night had thinned into something softer. The storm outside had passed, but inside the four walls of their room, a more intimate storm was finally finding its calm.

Shivansh lay with his head on Prarthana’s lap, his breath steady but slow—as if each inhale carried the weight of a lifetime. Her fingers threaded gently through his hair, moving in quiet rhythm, not to comfort, but to anchor. She wasn’t trying to fix him. She was simply there.

That was all he had ever needed.

And never dared to ask for.

The clock ticked gently in the background. Neither of them spoke. Not yet. But the silence between them wasn’t the kind that hurt anymore.

It was the kind that healed.

A long time passed before Shivansh spoke.

His voice was a rasp—like gravel dragged across years of silence.

“I haven’t told anyone… not even Bua Maa.”

Prarthana paused her movements, giving him her undivided presence.

“She thought I had forgotten. That I had forgiven. That I buried it all when I became what I am today. But the truth is…” He swallowed. “I carry it with me. Every single day.”

He sat up slowly, as if the words required space.

“My mother didn’t just leave. She walked out with her head high… and never turned back. I was five. Five years old, and I watched her pack her sarees and jewellery and walk out of our lives like we were… some bad investment.”

Prarthana’s heart clenched, but she said nothing. He wasn’t looking for pity. He was finally speaking because he couldn’t hold it anymore.

“She said I was too cold. That I reminded her of my father. That she wanted a life where she could feel alive again.” He laughed bitterly. “So she went and found someone new. Married him. Had a child. A family. A fresh start.”

He looked up at her, eyes tired, almost ashamed. “And she never looked back. Not even once.”

Prarthana reached for his hand. He let her take it.

“I used to think I must have done something wrong,” he whispered. “Maybe if I’d smiled more. Talked more. Not acted so… serious. But that was who I was. She didn’t want me.”

Prarthana squeezed his hand tightly, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“My father never recovered. He pretended he did. Went back to work. Built the business bigger than ever. But inside… he was hollow. He drank alone at night. Smiled at strangers. And when he fell sick, he refused treatment.”

Shivansh’s voice cracked.

“I didn’t speak to him for two years before he died. Not properly. We had fought. I said things… cruel things. Told him he was weak. That he let her win. That he ruined us.”

A long, broken pause.

“The day before he died, he called me. I didn’t pick up.”

Prarthana’s heart shattered.

“I was too proud. Too angry. He died that night. Alone.”

He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders trembling under the crushing weight of guilt.

“I’ve hated myself every day since. And no matter how many companies I build, how much money I make… I still feel like that same abandoned five-year-old. Unworthy. Unlovable.”

Prarthana leaned forward and gently pulled his hands away from his face. Her thumbs wiped away the tears he couldn’t hide.

“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “So painfully wrong.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I’ve seen the way you love, Shivansh,” she said. “It’s not loud or perfect or poetic. But it’s fierce. Silent. Steady. You loved your father, even when you were angry. You loved me, even while trying to push me away. And that love… it matters.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “I’m scared that one day, you’ll wake up and realize I’m not enough. That I’m too damaged. That I’ll fail you the way I failed them.”

Prarthana cradled his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Then let me be the one who stays.”

He blinked.

“I’m not your mother. I’m not the one who leaves when things get dark. I’m the one who lights the candle and sits with you until the storm passes.”

His eyes welled up again.

“I’ll never walk out, Shivansh. Even when you’re hurting. Even when you push. Even when you break.”

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in like salvation.

She cupped his face and whispered, “Let me carry some of your pain. I have enough love to hold the parts of you you’re afraid of.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

Shivansh didn’t just cry this time—he let go.

Not of the past. But of the belief that he had to carry it alone.

That night, Prarthana didn’t sleep in her room.

She slept beside her husband—wrapped around his brokenness, tangled in truth, breathing the same rhythm. She didn’t speak further. She just held him, her touch speaking louder than words ever could.

And for the first time in decades, Shivansh dreamt of peace.

Chapter 6: The Night He Broke

The Randhawa mansion stood draped in velvet silence, lit only by the warm flicker of sconces against marble walls. It was past midnight. The household staff had long retreated to their quarters. Outside, the city exhaled in soft honks and distant sirens, but inside, time seemed to stall in wait.

Prarthana sat in the living room with her knees folded to her chest, her dupatta loosely draped, lost in the pages of a book she hadn’t really been reading. Her eyes would skim the lines, but her mind—her soul—remained tethered elsewhere.

To him.

Shivansh had left for an investor’s party earlier that evening. He hadn’t taken a driver. He hadn’t told her when he’d be back. Not that he ever did. But there was something in the way he walked out—silent, composed, eyes slightly vacant—that gnawed at her since.

So she waited.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of the main door opening. She froze.

A moment later, the door creaked shut.

And then… unsteady footsteps.

She rose instantly, the book falling unnoticed from her lap.

“Shivansh?” she called softly.

No response.

She turned the corner, and there he was.

Her breath caught.

He stood at the far end of the hallway—disheveled, swaying slightly, his shirt half unbuttoned, his blazer in one hand, the other brushing along the wall to keep himself upright. His hair was a mess, his lips parted, and his eyes…

Red. Glassy. Lost.

“Shivansh!” She rushed to him.

He stumbled forward, muttering something unintelligible.

She caught him before he could fall completely.

The sharp scent of whiskey clung to him, soaked into his skin, his breath. But beneath that—something raw, something undone.

“Why did you drink so much?” she asked, wrapping an arm around his waist, trying to lead him inside.

“I—I couldn’t think,” he mumbled. “It won’t stop… it doesn’t stop…”

She gently guided him to the couch, struggling under his weight but determined.

He collapsed into the cushions, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut before opening again with a dazed, childlike confusion.

“Prarthana…” he whispered. “Why are you still here?”

She knelt before him, her hands cradling his. “Because I love you, you idiot.”

He blinked. A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I told myself… if I pushed hard enough… you’d leave.”

Her throat tightened.

“But you didn’t,” he continued, voice thick, broken. “You stayed. Even when I gave you every reason not to. Why… why would you do that?”

“Because,” she said, stroking his knuckles, “I see the man beneath the fear. The one who holds the world on his shoulders but doesn’t know how to hold his own heart.”

His chest trembled with uneven breaths.

“I’m so tired,” he confessed. “Of pretending. Of being this version of myself that feels… hollow.”

“I know,” she said gently. “I see it every day.”

He looked at her then. Fully. No masks. No defences. Just a boy with tear-streaked cheeks and shattered pride.

“It kills me,” he whispered. “The thought of you leaving. Of you not being here. I—I think I’d die without you.”

A sob escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“I tried,” he continued, his words slurring at the edges. “Tried to be cold. Distant. Thought if I could convince you that I didn’t care, it would make it easier. For you. But it’s not working, Prarthana. It’s killing me instead.”

She cupped his face. His stubble scraped her palms. His skin was burning with alcohol and buried anguish.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” she murmured, her tears falling freely now. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He collapsed into her arms then—his weight no longer that of a powerful man, but of a broken soul finally letting go.

She held him to her chest, rocking slightly, whispering soothing nothings.

“Sleep,” she said softly. “Just sleep, Shivansh.”

He mumbled her name one last time before his body went limp against her, breath evening out.

She laid him down gently, tucking a blanket over his frame. He looked peaceful now—unburdened, just for a few hours.

And then she turned away, retreating to her room with a heart that had shattered into a thousand pieces.

She sat on her bed, clutching her knees, and finally cried.

Not for the pain he gave her.

But for the pain he carried alone for too long...

Chapter 7: Hug Me or I’ll Fall Apart

The sun dipped lazily behind the horizon, casting golden streaks across the Randhawa estate, as if nature itself was trying to paint light into a house long steeped in shadows.

But no light could reach the corners of Shivansh’s heart that evening.

He stood in front of the mirror, the previous night’s haze long gone—washed out by cold water and colder truths. The image that stared back at him wasn’t that of the refined businessman the world bowed to. It was a man who had lost control. Who had bared himself at his most vulnerable. Who had broken down in the arms of the very woman he was trying to set free.

And now he hated himself for it.

Not because he’d cried.

But because it gave him hope.

Hope was dangerous. Hope was indulgence.

Hope was her—and he didn’t deserve her.

Prarthana hadn’t spoken to him all day. She hadn’t brought up his drunken confession, hadn’t looked at him with pity or concern. She had simply let him have his silence again.

But this time, it wasn’t fear holding her back.

It was purpose.

She had decided she would not let this love be drowned under the weight of his self-imposed punishment. She wasn’t waiting for him to come around anymore.

She was going to walk in and stay.

Even if he slammed the door in her face.

It was just after sunset when she entered his room.

Shivansh was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up, eyes lost in thought. His hand was clutched around the edge of the mattress, as if grounding himself.

He looked up when he heard the door open.

Their eyes met.

She walked to him slowly.

“Don’t,” he said softly, already sensing her intent.

“Don’t what?” she replied, her voice gentle.

“Don’t make this harder.”

Her heart squeezed. “You think I’m here to make it harder?”

“You’re here to give me reasons to hope. To stay. And I can’t afford that.”

She walked even closer, step by determined step.

“I broke down last night,” he said, rising from the bed. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I said things I shouldn’t have said. Things that make it harder for both of us.”

“They were the only real things you’ve said in weeks.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were honest.”

He turned his back to her, exhaling sharply. “It doesn’t matter. None of it changes the truth. I’m still not good enough. I still can’t be what you need. I’m still—”

Before he could finish, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

He froze.

The hug was not soft.

It was desperate.

Her cheek rested between his shoulder blades, and her fingers clutched his shirt as if she were holding on to a cliff edge.

He tried to peel her arms off. “Prarthana…”

“No,” she said. “Don’t do this again. Don’t push me away.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” she whispered, pressing her face against his back. “Because I’m not leaving. Not when you’re the only person I want to stay for.”

He turned slowly, her hands falling away. But she didn’t step back.

She stood in front of him, eyes glassy, lips trembling, every inch of her radiating a quiet, relentless courage.

“You keep saying I’ll be better without you,” she said. “But don’t you see? I’m breathing you. Every heartbeat, every tear, every silence—I’ve filled it with you. You can’t tear yourself out of me and call it protection.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t,” she cut in, voice rising. “You don’t get to decide how much pain I can take. You don’t get to play God with my heart. Because you are not a burden, Shivansh. You are not some broken man I’m pitying. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, and you are being a damn fool thinking I’d survive without you.”

He stared at her, stunned.

Then slowly—brokenly—he shook his head.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “Terrified that if I let myself have this—have you—I’ll ruin it. That I’ll lose you one day and it’ll kill me.”

She took his face in her hands.

“Then let it,” she whispered. “Let it kill the fear. Let it kill the silence. Let love kill whatever pain you’re guarding, Shivansh. And then let me hold what’s left.”

His lips parted, and for a moment, no sound came.

Then he crumbled.

A raw, shuddering breath escaped him as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her—tight, trembling, as if she were the only thing keeping him alive.

She held him back with equal desperation, burying her face into his neck, breathing him in, letting her tears soak into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again and again, the words falling like rain. “I’m so sorry…”

She kissed the side of his face, his jaw, his forehead, anywhere her lips could reach, as if trying to press her love into the cracks of his soul.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she whispered. “You just have to be you. And let me stay.”

That night, the walls between them collapsed fully—not in fire or fury, but in quiet surrender.

Shivansh didn’t just hold her.

He clung to her.

And for the first time, he let himself believe—maybe love wasn’t the enemy.

Maybe it was the home he’d always run from.

Chapter 8: The Embrace

The first light of morning crept slowly into the room, weaving gold into shadows, tracing itself delicately across Shivansh’s face. He lay still, his eyes closed, breathing deep and slow. Not the restless breathing of a man haunted in his sleep, but of someone momentarily free.

Prarthana hadn’t slept much.

But she hadn’t moved either.

She sat curled beside him, her head resting on the headboard, watching him—really watching. His hair fell in lazy strands across his forehead, and his lips were parted slightly, the lines on his face softer in the morning hush. The weight that usually clung to his shoulders seemed to have loosened, if only for a moment.

She reached out and brushed her fingers gently over his brow, then let them trail down the stubble on his jaw, like a prayer she was too afraid to say aloud.

Last night, he’d collapsed in her arms like a storm breaking.

And she had held him through every tremor, every apology, every choked word.

It had been messy.

But it had been real.

And real, no matter how painful, was better than the hollow dance they’d been doing for weeks.

He stirred slightly, a flicker of tension returning to his brow.

Then his eyes fluttered open.

For a second, he blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented.

Then he turned—and saw her.

Sitting there, wide awake, eyes filled with emotion.

He sat up abruptly, instinctively pulling away as if ashamed.

But before he could distance himself further, she reached out and placed her hand on his.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please. Not again.”

His throat bobbed, his eyes refusing to meet hers.

“I… I didn’t mean to fall asleep here,” he muttered.

“You didn’t,” she said softly. “You collapsed. There’s a difference.”

He winced, his fingers tightening slightly under hers. “You should hate me.”

She smiled sadly. “If only it were that easy.”

A pause.

Then, slowly, carefully, he looked at her.

And something fragile passed between them.

No more hiding. No more pretenses.

Just the naked ache of two people who had hurt, and hurt each other, and yet still wanted nothing more than to stay.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” she murmured. “Just... stay.”

His eyes searched hers, as if trying to find the catch—the condition, the exit wound. But all he saw was her. Steady. Raw. Unflinching in love.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered.

“Good at what?”

“Letting someone in. Letting someone see me. Touch me without… burning.”

She moved closer.

“You don’t burn me, Shivansh,” she said. “You warm me. You make me feel alive. Even in your silence. Even in your pain.”

He shook his head. “But I’m heavy. I carry too much. I drag everything I touch into the dark.”

“Then take me with you,” she replied. “Because I’ve already lived in the dark. And if your darkness is the only place I get to know your truth, I’ll gladly follow.”

He stared at her, lips trembling. Then—carefully, hesitantly—he reached for her.

And this time, when he pulled her into his arms, it wasn’t in desperation.

It was acceptance.

The embrace was quiet. Lingering. His head rested in the crook of her neck, her fingers threading through his hair. It was the kind of hug that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t promise forever—only said, “I’m here. I see you. Stay.”

His arms tightened slightly. “What if I fail you?”

“You already haven’t,” she whispered. “You’re here. You’re trying. That’s all I ever needed.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

His eyes were wet again—but no longer afraid.

“I don’t know if I know how to love properly,” he said, voice low. “But I want to try. For you.”

Her heart clenched, breaking and mending at once.

She cupped his face, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead.

“Then try with me,” she said. “One day at a time. One wound at a time.”

And with that, Shivansh let go.

Not of her.

But of the walls he had clung to for too long.

Later that morning, they sat side by side in the quiet sunlit living room.

No words. No explanations.

Just two cups of chai. Two people. One beginning.

And for the first time in forever, Shivansh didn’t feel the need to escape his own home. His own heart.

He was finally learning the truth that Prarthana had always known:

Some people aren’t meant to fix you.

They’re meant to hold you while you fix yourself..

Chapter 9: The Letter He Never Sent

The attic of the Randhawa mansion had always remained untouched—an archive of silence, memories, and things best left buried. Its wooden floor creaked underfoot, thick with the scent of old paper and time. Dust floated in shafts of sunlight as if the air itself was remembering.

Shivansh hadn’t been here in years.

But today, something pulled him to it.

Perhaps it was the quiet resolve in Prarthana’s presence lately. The way her love had begun to slowly chisel away the fortress of numbness around his heart. Perhaps it was the memory of his father’s eyes—always watching, always aching, always waiting.

He had come here looking for a file.

What he found was something else entirely.

Tucked beneath a pile of old journals and business papers, bound with a crumbling red thread, lay a worn-out envelope with his teenage handwriting scrawled across the front.

To Papa – (Never Sent)

His breath caught.

The edges of the envelope were frayed, the ink slightly smudged, but it remained unopened—untouched by time, unread by the man it had been meant for.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then, slowly, he opened it.

Later that evening, the living room glowed in the soft amber of dimmed lights and flickering candles. Prarthana sat curled up on the couch with a shawl over her shoulder, a novel forgotten on her lap. She looked up when she heard him approach.

Shivansh’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were strangely distant—like he had walked through time and come back with ashes in his hands.

He sat beside her, not saying anything for a moment.

Then, without a word, he placed the old letter in her lap.

She looked down at it, brows furrowed.

“What is this?”

He inhaled. “A letter I wrote to my father. But I never sent it. I never had the courage.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

“I want you to read it,” he said quietly. “I think you deserve to know.”

She held the envelope gently, then opened it.

Her eyes moved across the page.

And with each word, her throat tightened.

Papa,

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because I’m angry. Maybe because I’m tired of being angry.

You left me.
You let her leave me. And then you turned your face away when I waited at the gate every day, hoping maybe one of you would come back. You didn’t.

You filled my birthdays with silence. You filled my holidays with shame.
I hated you.
But more than that—I missed you.

I missed your hand on my head. I missed your voice telling me I was enough. I missed having someone to fight with and forgive.

Bua Maa gave me love. But she couldn’t give me answers.

Why didn’t you fight for me?
Why didn’t you choose me?

Every time I see your face in the newspaper, praised, worshipped—I remember the boy who used to wait with school medals in hand, hoping to be noticed.

And now you’re gone.
And I never got to ask you:
Did you ever regret losing me?
Did you ever love me at all?

—Shivansh

When she finished reading, Prarthana didn’t speak.

The weight of the letter lingered in the air like fog.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the pages back, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

She turned to him.

“Why didn’t you ever send it?”

He shrugged, but his voice cracked. “I was afraid he wouldn’t respond. Or worse—that he would, and confirm everything I feared.”

Her chest tightened. “You were just a child.”

“A child who grew into a man with a hollow heart,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I spent so long trying to become someone who couldn’t be hurt. But all I did was make myself incapable of healing.”

Prarthana reached for his hand and held it tightly. “This letter… it’s filled with rage, yes. But also with longing. With love. The kind of love that never got a chance to speak.”

He shook his head. “He died without knowing how much I resented him.”

“No,” she said softly. “He died knowing how much you needed him. That’s what this letter screams, Shivansh. Not hate. Not rejection. But grief.”

He closed his eyes, the unshed emotions of years pushing against the dam in his throat.

“And I’ve done the same to you,” he whispered. “Pushed you away. Refused to let you in. What if one day I lose you too, without ever saying—”

“You won’t,” she interrupted, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “Because I’m not going anywhere. And now you don’t have to keep your grief buried like this anymore. You’re not alone in it.”

The tears came slowly this time.

Not explosive. Not dramatic.

But honest.

And when she pulled him into her arms, he let himself fall into the embrace fully—this time without apology, without resistance.

Just a man who had finally shown someone the deepest letter of his heart.

And a woman who chose not to fix him…

But to feel it with him.

Chapter 10: The Birthday Shivansh Never Celebrated

Birthdays.

For most, they are reminders of life, laughter, candles flickering over frosted cake, voices wrapped in affection, and the warmth of people who remembered.

But for Shivansh Randhawa, they were a ghost.

A date etched into the calendar that he passed every year like a cracked photograph—never glancing at it, never touching it, never breathing near it.

July 30th.

Every year, the mansion would remain cold that day. No one dared to mention it. Even Bua Maa, in her loving wisdom, had long stopped trying to celebrate it. He had built a fortress around that date so thick, so silent, even time tiptoed around it.

But this year… Prarthana wouldn’t.

She had found the date by accident—tucked in an old medical file while searching for insurance documents. When she saw the bold line: Date of Birth: 30 July, she stood frozen for a moment.

It was three days away.

Three days to reclaim a piece of him that the past had stolen.

She didn’t want to surprise him with grand gestures. No crowds. No theatrics. That wasn’t him. Shivansh had grown up unloved by those who should have loved him the most—and pretending joy for the sake of performance would only wound him deeper.

So she began quietly.

She baked.

The kitchen filled with the soft aroma of cinnamon and vanilla, ingredients carefully measured with trembling hands and quiet hope. It was nothing extraordinary—just a simple cake. But it carried the weight of a thousand missed birthdays, a thousand untouched gifts, and a childhood void that no luxury had ever filled.

She placed it in the fridge, decorated the dining area with soft lights and a few wildflowers, and kept everything still—silent and sacred.

The night of the 30th arrived.

Shivansh returned from work late, exhausted, tension etched into every muscle of his frame. The mansion was unusually quiet, yet warm. The air hummed with something unfamiliar.

As he stepped into the dining room, he halted.

There she was—standing near the table, a small cake glowing gently with a single candle.

Just one.

Not for the years he had survived.

But for the boy who never got to blow out his first.

He froze.

His first instinct was withdrawal. His brows furrowed; his breath caught.

“What is this?” he asked, voice low, unreadable.

Prarthana didn’t step forward. She just looked at him—calm, soft, certain.

“It’s your birthday.”

He scoffed. “Who told you?”

“I found it by accident,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t want to let it go unacknowledged. Not this year.”

He looked away. “I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

“I know.”

“Then why this?” he said, sharper now. “Why open a wound I’ve worked so hard to stitch shut?”

She stepped closer, carefully, like one might approach a wild creature in pain.

“Because wounds stitched without healing fester. And I couldn’t let another year pass where you pretended you were never born.”

His eyes flashed. “Maybe that’s what I wanted.”

She swallowed the ache in her throat. “Do you really mean that?”

Silence.

The flicker of the candle danced between them.

“I was seven,” he finally said, voice strained. “That was the last birthday I celebrated. Papa was out of town. Ma had already left by then. Bua Maa tried—God, she tried. There was a cake. Some neighbors. Balloons I didn’t ask for.”

He sat down heavily, as if his body couldn’t hold the memory anymore.

“And I waited the whole evening for a call. From him. From her. Something. Anything. And it never came.”

Prarthana knelt beside him.

He didn’t look at her.

“I remember blowing out that candle,” he continued, “and wishing—not for toys, not for happiness. I wished that next year, there would be no birthday. Because what’s the point of celebrating life… when no one you love is around to witness it?”

She didn’t speak.

She simply rested her head gently on his shoulder.

“And then I grew up,” he whispered. “I became this man who had everything except the one thing I wanted—someone to remember me. Not for my success. But for me.”

She reached for his hand. Interlaced her fingers with his.

“You have me now.”

He turned to her, his eyes tired and damp. “But why? After everything I’ve done?”

She smiled—tender, sad, unwavering. “Because I know what it feels like to be invisible on the days that are meant to remind you you’re alive. And I know what it means to be seen again.”

He looked at the cake then.

One candle.

One breath.

One boy finally being allowed to grieve.

She stood and extended her hand to him.

“Will you blow the candle out, Shivansh?”

He hesitated.

Then slowly, he stood beside her.

Together, they leaned forward.

And as he gently blew the flame away, a silence filled the room—not of emptiness, but of closure.

A beginning.

And then she wrapped her arms around him from behind, holding him tight.

“You were born, Shivansh,” she whispered. “And the world was better for it. I’m better for it.”

He turned, buried his face in her neck, and held her like a man who had finally come home.

And in that quiet room, beneath the dim glow of fairy lights and old pain, Shivansh Randhawa celebrated his first real birthday in twenty-three years—

Not with a party.

But with a promise:

That he was worthy of being remembered.

I am thinking of continuing it...so do tell me what did you think about it..

Thanks for reading 💞