Khushi didn't stop to look at the beaten men. She didn't even wait for her breath to steady.
The moment she found her footing, she ran—bolting past the front of the car, her soft anklets chiming faintly against the bright Udaipur afternoon.
Sunlight caught on her veil as she sprinted down the empty stretch of road, the wind swallowing her quick, uneven breaths. For a few seconds, the edge of her silhouette flickered in the heat—fragile, desperate, and breathtakingly alive.
Yuvaan stood there, hands half-raised, as though he wasn't sure if he should call out to her… or let her go.
He didn't call.
He didn't move.
He simply watched.
Watched as the small figure grew smaller, her outline trembling in the dazzling sunlight. Watched as her shadow stretched behind her. Watched as the girl who felt strangely familiar—too familiar—kept running until she was no more than a faint shape swallowed by the blinding golden horizon.
Something twisted inside him.
That feeling.
That pull.
That inexplicable connection.
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, unable to shake off the warmth still lingering on his palm where her hand had been.
Whoever she was… she wasn't just another girl.
The groans of the fallen goons broke the moment. Yuvaan's expression hardened again, all softness tucked away behind the composed steel he wore like armor.
He turned silently, slid into the driver's seat, and shut the door with a quiet finality.
The car hummed to life.
For a second, he glanced at the passenger seat—at the tiny piece of her earring still resting there, glinting in the daylight. Bewilderment flickered in his eyes.
Then, without another pause, Yuvaan pulled onto the road, driving away into the bright, unforgiving afternoon—car heading one direction, while somewhere far ahead, Khushi ran in another.
Two paths diverging.
Yet fate wasn't done with either of them.
Not even close.
Later that afternoon — Mumbai, Kiaan's School
Principal's Office
The office was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful—just uncomfortable. The ceiling fan hummed. A clock ticked somewhere on the wall. Two sets of parents sat opposite the principal, their expressions tight with complaint and wounded pride.
Yuvaan occupied the seat beside them, posture straight, face unreadable. His eyes, however, carried a different truth—a simmering restraint that only someone grieving would understand.
One of the mothers leaned forward.
"Principal ma'am, we've come here three times already. Your student"—she pressed her lips together—"has hurt our boys again. Something must be done."
Her husband didn't wait for the principal.
"And honestly, this wouldn't happen if the boy had a mother to guide him."
The comment hung in the air like a slap.
The principal straightened, startled.
"Mr. Sharma, please—"
But she didn't need to finish.
Yuvaan's head lifted slowly. His gaze sharpened, not loud, not dramatic—just cold in that way that could silence a room without effort.
His voice, when he spoke, was steady. Almost too steady.
"If you're done making assumptions about my family… we can talk about what actually happened."
The parents shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.
Yuvaan continued, tone firm but without unnecessary anger.
"You're saying my nine-year-old son attacked two boys who are both older and nearly a head taller."
He looked at the files on the desk, flipping one open with calm precision.
"Both of them have been in detention twice this term. Kiaan has not."
His eyes returned to them.
"So tell me—logically—how does a smaller child overpower two bigger ones at the same time?"
The father's posture deflated just a little.
"Well… he must've caught them off guard," he muttered weakly.
The principal interjected gently, "We should speak to the children directly."
The boys were called in.
Kiaan entered last—hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the floor the way children do when they expect blame before they expect fairness.
The principal folded her hands.
"All right, boys. No raised voices. Just the truth."
The two older boys exchanged a glance. One swallowed.
"We… we didn't mean anything," the first one mumbled.
The principal's brows lifted. "Meaning?"
The second boy exhaled shakily.
"We… said things about his mom. We shouldn't have. And we… pushed him first."
The confession was quiet, reluctant, but honest.
The parents stared at their children, stunned and embarrassed.
Kiaan lifted his chin slightly but didn't say a word. His hands remained balled in his pockets.
The principal nodded slowly.
"So Kiaan retaliated. He did not initiate."
Silence followed. Heavy, awkward, but real.
Yuvaan didn't smirk or gloat. He simply spoke with a calm firmness.
"I would like an apology. Not for me. For my son."
The parents hesitated—pride fighting shame—before they turned to Kiaan.
One mother spoke first, softly, avoiding his eyes.
"We're… sorry, beta. We should've asked you before assuming anything."
Her husband nodded stiffly.
"Yes… sorry."
Kiaan didn't reply right away. Instead, he looked at them with that mixture of suspicion and hurt that only a child who's heard too many comments about his mother could understand. After a moment, he gave a small nod.
Not forgiveness.
Not acceptance.
Just acknowledgment.
And that was enough for now.
Yuvaan's eyes softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker of relief. A flicker of the father who used to smile more easily.
They weren't healed.
Nothing resolved magically.
But something shifted. A little wall in Kiaan lowered. A little piece of Yuvaan loosened.
A beginning—slow, small, fragile…
but a beginning nonetheless.
To be continued…