Amara's POV:
His voice was gentle, grounding — and that only made the guilt sting deeper. I nodded faintly, hoping he would stop looking.
But then, his brow furrowed. "That doesn't look like any job portal I've ever seen."
My heart sank. "It's just an old file I forgot to close—" I reached to shut the laptop, but his hand stopped mine, firm and calm.
"Ama," he said quietly, but there was something in his tone — something that made my breath catch. "What is this?"
"Vihaan, please, just—"
He didn't wait. One click, and the screen came alive again. The muted footage flickered across — me, panicked, cornered, pushing through that night.
For a moment, he just stared, his expression frozen in disbelief. He had an expression that I don't recognise anymore.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but his eyes… they looked broken."You were there. You had time. You could've... could've called someone — you could've called... me."
I swallowed hard. "I am sorry, I was just trying to make things work, I was trying to get proof—"
"Proof?" he echoed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You nearly got yourself killed for proof, Ama? For a damn video?"
"I thought—"
He cut me off sharply. "No. You didn't think! You walked straight into danger like it was nothing. What were you even planning to do if things went wrong?"
"I didn't have a choice!"
"There's always a choice!" His voice cracked, frustration spilling into every word. "You could've called the police, you could've called me! But no, you decided to play hero."
I looked down, my throat tightening. "If I hadn't gone there, they would've destroyed everything, Vihaan. I had to act—"
He exhaled, long and shaky, like he was holding back a thousand words. "You had to act," he repeated quietly. "Do you even hear yourself? You think this is a strength? It's not. It's you gambling with your life as if it doesn't mean anything."
"Don't say that," I whispered.
"Then stop proving it." His tone softened for just a second, but the anger didn't fade. "Do you even realise what that would've done to me if you hadn't made it out? I would've lost you without even knowing why."
The room fell silent — heavy, stifling. The video still played faintly in the background, mocking every excuse I had left.
I had no answers that could make what I did sound right. There was no justification strong enough to turn my recklessness into reason.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I just— I was reckless. I thought this one step would give us the proof we needed… that we'd finally win the case. All I could think about was my parents. I'm so sorry, Vihaan."
I stepped forward, hesitating before reaching for his hand, needing him to understand— or at least not walk away.
He looked at me then, not with anger, not even disappointment, but something far heavier.
Betrayal.
It wasn't loud, it wasn't sharp— it was quiet and hollow, the kind that made the air between us feel colder.
He held my gaze for a moment, then slowly pulled his hand from mine, his fingers slipping away as if the touch itself burned.
"You think proof can fix everything," he said softly. "But it can't bring you back if you're gone."
I tried to speak, but my throat wouldn't let me.
"You keep fighting everyone, Ama — even the people who are trying to keep you safe." His voice wavered, almost breaking, but he steadied it with a deep breath. "You don't even see what that's doing to us."
He glanced at the laptop again, then at me — and shook his head faintly. "You should rest."
And with that, he turned and walked toward the door, each step quieter than the last until the silence that followed felt unbearable.
I stood there, frozen, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. The door clicked shut softly — too softly for how hard it hit inside me.
For a few seconds, I didn't move. The room felt heavier, as if every breath had to fight its way out.
The video was still open on the screen, the last frozen frame staring back at me — my own terrified face, caught mid-moment. I reached out and shut the lid slowly.
The faint reflection of us, of what had just happened, lingered on the dark surface before fading completely.
My chest ached, not from what he said, but from what he didn't. From that look — the kind that said I trusted you, and you broke something I can't fix right now.
I sank back against the bed, my hands trembling in my lap. I had fought for proof, for justice, for my family… but somewhere in the middle of all that, I'd hurt that one person who'd stood beside me through it all.
And this time, there was no one left to blame but me.
The next morning, my body felt heavy — not from the wounds, but from the weight of everything that happened last night.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table. The screen lit up, blank. No new messages from Vihaan. Usually, there'd be at least one — a good morning, a small reminder to eat, something. But today, nothing.
The emptiness of it hurt more than any silence he could've given me in person.
I checked the time. It was barely six. He would still be home, probably awake by now, getting ready for the day.
Maybe I should call him. Try to talk. He's hurt — and I'm the reason why.
The next morning, my body felt heavy — not from the wounds, but from the weight of everything that happened last night.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table. The screen lit up, blank. No new messages from Vihaan. Usually, there'd be at least one — a good morning, a small reminder to eat, something. But today, nothing.
The emptiness of it hurt more than any silence he could've given me in person.
I checked the time. It was barely six. He would still be home, probably awake by now, getting ready for the day.
Maybe I should call him. Try to talk. He's hurt — and I'm the reason why.
My fingers hovered over his name for a few seconds before I pressed the call button. The line rang once… twice… then a third time. Every ring felt like a tiny pulse of anxiety in my chest.
On the fifth ring, he finally picked up.
"Hello," his voice came through — calm, polite, distant.
"Hey… good morning," I said softly, my throat tightening at how different he sounded. "I, um… I just wanted to check if you're okay."
A pause. Then, "I'm fine."
It wasn't harsh, but it wasn't Vihaan. Not the way I knew him.
"I couldn't sleep much," I continued, fumbling with the edge of the blanket. "About last night—"
"Let's not do this right now, Ama," he said quietly. "I have an early hearing today."
"Oh… right," I whispered.
"I'll call you later," he added — the kind of promise made out of courtesy, not intention.
And before I could find the words to stop him, the line went dead.
I sat there, staring at the phone screen, the silence humming back at me. For the first time, I realised — it wasn't his anger I was afraid of losing. It was his voice when it carried warmth.
The line went dead, but the sound of his voice lingered — clipped, cold, and heavy. I placed the phone down beside me, staring at the faint reflection on the black screen.
The apartment was silent, the kind that feels louder than noise. Even the clock ticking on the wall felt accusatory, each second reminding me of the space growing between us.
I pulled my knees close and pressed my forehead against them. I wanted to cry, but it felt useless now. Tears wouldn't undo the way he looked at me last night — like I had broken something he didn't know could break.
I got up eventually, forcing myself to move, to do something — anything. I folded the blanket, opened the window, and let the cold morning air brush against my face. It didn't help.
The laptop still sat on the desk — closed, but heavy with memories of the night before. Just looking at it made my stomach twist. I walked over, touched the lid, and for a moment thought about deleting everything. The proof, the recordings, the remnants of my so-called plan.
But I couldn't. Not yet. Not until I fixed this — not until I found a way to make him understand that I wasn't just chasing revenge. I was chasing peace.
I freshened up and sat back at the desk, finishing the unfinished part of the video. My hands moved slower than usual — not from pain, but from the weight of everything that happened.
I needed to talk it out; I couldn't just leave things hanging in silence. Yet, I knew I should give him time. He's not just hurt — he's hurt by me. By someone he trusted, someone he loved.
The memory of those hospital days came rushing back — how he used to hover around after every checkup, asking the same questions twice just to be sure, how he would watch every step I took as if I were made of glass. That same man now needed space from me… and I couldn't blame him for it.