Chapter 25
Ottimo at Westview – ITC Maurya, Diplomatic Enclave
Angad stood on the rooftop of the restaurant, the night wind curling softly around him. Rima joined him, her arms wrapped around herself—more from anticipation than the chill in the air.
"I know I'm not what you expected," she said quietly, "but I meant what I said earlier. I see something in us."
Angad turned toward her. His gaze was kind but distant.
"Rima, you're wonderful. You're smart. Kind. But you're also my sister Soni's age. And... I've never seen you that way."
Rima blinked, trying to hide the sting behind a smile.
"You could. Maybe with time?"
He sighed.
"That's just it. I don't want to give you false hope. You deserve someone who's all in."
"I'm not asking for promises, Angad," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm just asking you not to shut the door before you've even tried to open it."
He looked at her—really looked at her. She wasn't begging. She wasn't naïve. She was just someone willing to take a risk on him, even when he wasn't ready to bet on himself.
"I need time," he said gently.
Rima nodded.
"I'll wait. Just... don't disappear on me."
The Next Morning
Meera sat on the hospital bed, staring at the pale blue walls. Her body ached, but it was the silence that hurt more.
Her father, Krishnakant Sehgal, had just left—his forehead lined with worry, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the hospital reports. He'd been told she had taken a fall. A minor accident. The doctors had honoured her request for discretion.
Because Meera had begged them not to tell.
Not because she didn't want justice. Not because she wasn't furious. But because she couldn't bear to see her father break.
He had raised her after her mother died. He was her pride. Her quiet protector. And Meera knew—one word about what had been done to her would shatter him.
She had always been his brave girl. His "sitaron se roshan beti." And she wasn't ready to watch his light dim under the weight of something he couldn't fix.
So, she smiled. She lied. She hid.
And when no one was watching, she curled into herself and cried like she never had before.
Kabir's Guilt
Kabir never returned to the theatre after that night.
He sat in his room, blinds drawn, the air thick with stillness. His knuckles were still bruised from the fight, but it wasn't the injuries that hurt—it was the helplessness. The memory of being locked out, hearing Meera scream, clawing at the doors until his hands bled—played on a loop.
He stopped answering calls. His friends, Sunny and Ronny, tried reaching out, but Kabir had built a prison out of guilt—and inside it, he punished himself daily.
"She was right there," he whispered once into the silence. "And I couldn't save her."
The shame clawed at him.
He had failed. Not because he hadn't fought. But because he had lost.
He replayed that night over and over—the thud of fists, the slammed doors, Meera's voice, the sound of silence after her scream stopped.
That silence haunted him most.
He started drinking—not to forget, but to punish himself.
He kept staring at his phone, wondering if Meera would ever want to see him again.
But a part of him feared the answer. Another part feared she would come—and he wouldn't know what to say.
The Sakhujas' Concern
Downstairs at the Sakhuja home, the mood had changed.
Kabir, once the energetic, laughing life of the house, now moved like a ghost. He barely spoke at the dinner table, skipped meals, and spent hours locked in his room.
His sister Soni knocked gently one evening.
"Kabir bhaiya... are you okay? You haven't come down in days. Papa's worried. We all are."
Kabir opened the door a crack, his eyes shadowed, stubble creeping over his jaw.
"I'm fine, Soni. Just... work pressure. The script of the new ad's deadline's killing me."
"You haven't worked on a script in weeks," she replied softly.
He looked away.
"I will. Just need some space."
Later that night, Guneet and Nimrat Sakhuja sat in the living room, whispering in concern.
"I haven't seen him like this since college," Guneet murmured. "It's not just work."
"Do you think something happened?" Nimrat asked, her voice tight with worry.
"He'll talk when he's ready," Guneet sighed. "But we can't let him slip through the cracks."
Kabir heard every word through the thin walls.
But he didn't open the door.
Meera's Double Life
Back at Sehgal House, Meera returned to her routine—or at least, the appearance of one.
She resumed her work, met her Aapa for tea, even posted the occasional photograph on Instagram with a soft smile and a vague caption.
But she no longer slept with the lights off.
She jumped at sudden noises.
And she avoided Kabir's name like it was a wound she wasn't ready to clean.
At night, she wrote unsent letters.
Dear Angad,
I see you in my dreams. But now, even my dreams feel like they're watching me.
Dear Papa,
I'm sorry I've changed. I just don't know how to be your sunshine again.
Dear Kabir...
I don't know what to say to you. And maybe I never will.
She folded the letters and hid them in the pages of her diary.
Her way of breathing without speaking.
That evening, Meera sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her phone like it was a lifeline.
She stared at Kabir's contact. Her thumb hovered over the call button, heart pounding like a metronome set too fast.
After a long breath, she typed a message instead.
"I don't blame you. You fought for me. That night—I heard you. You were there. That mattered."
She sent it.
And waited.
Two ticks. Delivered. Then nothing.
The message remained unread.
The next morning, her message had vanished.
Deleted for everyone.
Her heart clenched. Kabir hadn't just ignored her. He had removed her from his world.
Kabir's Silence
Kabir stared at the blank screen of his phone, the soft buzz of Meera's message still echoing in his chest—even after he'd deleted it.
He had read it.
Every word had burned.
He wanted to reply. God, he wanted to run to her, fall at her feet, hold her and tell her he was sorry—not for what happened, but for not being enough.
But shame sat between them like a wall too thick to break through.
He couldn't unhear her scream. He couldn't unsee her lying on the floor, eyes vacant, when the door finally opened.
He had failed her once.
He couldn't risk failing her again.
Kabir and Angad's Room – One Late Evening
The room was dim except for the soft, amber glow of Angad's desk lamp. Papers rustled under his elbows as he typed away on his laptop, frowning at a draft on the screen. The whirring ceiling fan above did little to break the heavy, suffocating silence.
Kabir lay on the bed across the room, motionless, half-curled under a grey blanket. His hair was disheveled, stubble unkempt, and the bottle of rum on the floor, half-empty.
His phone buzzed again.
The ringtone—cut through the silence like a knife.
Angad winced.
It stopped. A moment of peace. Then—again.
Angad gritted his teeth.
"Kabir," he said sharply, not turning from his screen. "That's the fourth time it's ringing. Just pick it up."
No response.
He glanced behind. Kabir hadn't moved. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead, blocking out the world.
Before Angad could respond, his own phone buzzed.
Rima calling.
Angad stared at it for a second, then let out a sigh.
"What is this, a call center now?" he grumbled. "You won't talk, and now I've got my own drama calling in."
Kabir's phone rang again.
Meera calling.
Angad snapped.
"Alright, enough."
He reached the side table, grabbed both phones, and answered them simultaneously.
"Hello?" he said into both.
There was a pause on both lines.
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To be continued.
Health and Fitness
Bhabhi Ji Ghar Pe Hain?
Udne Ki Aasha
1