🕰️ When Abir Returned
The iron gates creaked open like they resented his return.
The house stood still under the weight of something unsaid — a silence that felt like judgment. As Abir stepped out of the car, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest.
But there was no curtain fluttering.
No soft face pressed to the glass.
No Maholi.
Only stillness.
Inside, the quiet was almost vengeful. Even the walls seemed to have forgotten the rhythm of her laughter.
"Where is she?" he asked the butler, his voice lower than usual.
"In her room, sir," the man said carefully. "She's been... quiet. Not eating much. Not speaking much either."
Something in Abir's chest clenched like a fist.
He took the stairs in a sprint, a thousand regrets clawing at him.
No knock. Just the slow creak of the door.
She sat on the edge of the bed, curled into herself like a shell emptied by the sea. Earbuds in. Spine still. A figure made of quiet sorrow.
"I'm back," he whispered, like an offering.
She didn't move.
"You didn't call," he added. "Not even once."
Still, no response.
He stepped closer, the words in his mouth turning bitter.
"I—I called every night. I messaged. Didn't you get them?"
Then she turned.
And her eyes… they weren't angry.
They were hollow.
"You think I didn't try?" she said. Her voice was quieter than he remembered — like someone who'd been whispering to herself for too many nights. "I called. I texted. I waited. And then…"
She paused. Her breath shuddered.
"Then she picked up. Ruchika. Said you were with her. Said you were... busy. And I should understand my place."
A slow burn flared behind his ribs.
"That's not true," he said quickly. "I didn't know— I swear, I didn't give her my phone—"
But she stood.
Her perfume brushed his skin as she passed him, and he flinched like it cut him.
"I'm late for work," she said, wrapping her shawl over herself like armor. "We both have places to be, Abir."
The door shut behind her. Quiet. Final.
And Abir — the star who commanded screens, who made directors beg for his tears — stood in silence.
Speechless.
🎂 Birthday Night: The Shattering
The studio glittered like a dream.
Maholi stood at the edge of it, in a gown too tight, under lights too bright, with a heart too bruised.
The dress was borrowed. The smile was forced. Her lungs felt like they had to remember how to breathe.
Ruchika floated around the room in crimson silk, her hand on Abir's arm like it belonged there.
Every time Maholi saw them together — smiling, close, camera-ready — something inside her crumbled. Quietly.
The mic screeched.
Then came the voice — familiar, booming.
Abir's father.
"Tonight, we not only celebrate my son's birthday," he announced proudly, "but also… his future. I am honored to officially declare the engagement of my son, Abir Roy, and Miss Ruchika!"
Applause thundered.
Glasses clinked.
And Maholi's world—
Collapsed.
She didn't breathe. She didn't blink.
She turned to Abir.
His face was stunned. Eyes wide. Lips parted like he, too, had been blindsided.
But that didn't matter now.
Because no one stopped it.
No one said "She's lying."
No one said "This isn't true."
Not even him.
She turned.
Walked to the bar. Picked up the half-finished wine bottle someone had abandoned.
And left.
No scene. No breakdown. Just a quiet, cold exit.
Like a ghost walking out of her own story.
đź’Ą The Collapse
Abir's breath left his chest like a punch when he realized she was gone.
He pushed through the crowd like it was made of fog, calling her name loud enough to shake chandeliers.
Outside, the wind was cruel. He ran anyway.
Then he saw her.
Stumbling.
Bottle swinging like a pendulum in her hand.
"Maholi!" he shouted.
She didn't stop.
Didn't turn.
And then — she crumpled.
Like a flower too tired to bloom.
The bottle shattered beside her. Wine and glass and grief painting the pavement red.
He caught her just in time, falling to his knees. Her body was burning.
"Maholi—hey, hey—look at me. Don't do this. Don't—"
He cupped her cheeks, panic rising in his throat.
Her lips moved.
Softly.
Barely.
"Liar…"
Then her eyes rolled back.
🏥 Hospital – And a Painful Realization
White light.
Monitors beeping like an anxious heartbeat.
"Dehydration. Emotional shock. Alcohol toxicity," the doctor said. "She hasn't been eating. Haven't you noticed?"
The words slammed into Abir.
No. He hadn't.
Because he hadn't been there.
He sat beside her now, in the only place he could be.
Her hand was small and cold in his. The pulse weak. But still there.
Still fighting.
"Maholi," he whispered, his thumb brushing the back of her palm. "You never said…"
He paused.
No. She had.
In silences.
In unsent texts.
In the way she looked at him like he was her whole sky.
And he… he had treated her like an interlude.
A pause between storms.
"I didn't know you were suffering like this," he whispered, his voice cracking.
He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it once. Twice.
Then buried his face into their joined fingers — like a child seeking forgiveness from someone already gone.
And for the first time in years…
Abir Roy wept.