It had been three full weeks—Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of distance.
Three weeks of aching to see her just once.

twenty-one days of silence, guilt, and restless nights—when Ishaan finally broke.
He couldn't hold himself back anymore.

He just wanted to see her face once... even if she didn't want to see his.

Every note he sent had been a piece of his remorse, a trembling fragment of his heart... but none of it felt enough. Not when he knew she was hurting somewhere behind those walls. Not when he knew he was the reason.

So he went.To the place he once feared, once left behind, once entered only because of her.

The Verma Mansion.

His steps were hesitant, almost ashamed. His breath uneven. His palms cold. But his eyes... his eyes were searching, desperate, hopeful—just for a glimpse of her.

But the moment he stepped inside the entry corridor:

"Where are you going, young man?"

Mr. Verma's voice sliced through the air—sharp, mocking, deliberate.

Ishaan froze.
He turned, forcing a polite, nervous greeting.

"Umm... hi—hi uncle."

Mr. Verma crossed his arms, his expression unreadable.

"Oh, hello Mr. Ishaan Mehra," he said, emphasizing the last two words mockingly.
"What brings you here? As far as I remember, you stopped coming to this house when you were ten."

Ishaan swallowed, guilt rising like saltwater up his throat.

"Yes... I stopped coming. I stopped because of Aanya back then. And later... I only came because of her again. And today—today also, I'm here for her. I want to meet her."

Mr. Verma raised an eyebrow.
"To meet her? Why?"

"I... I need to talk to her, uncle," Ishaan whispered, voice trembling. "I need to apologize. To her face to face."

Mr. Verma laughed once—a short, sharp, humorless sound.

"Oh, apology. I see." "And why should I let you meet her? Last time when I came to your house to meet my daughter... you didn't let me. You sent me away. You didn't even give me one minute with her."

His eyes narrowed. "So tell me—why should I give you that chance today?"

Ishaan felt his chest tighten.
He deserved that. Every word.

But he stepped closer, voice cracking under the weight of everything he carried.

"Uncle... I'm sorry. Please. Forgive me for what I did. I know I was wrong. I know I hurt her. But please... give me one chance. Just one chance to fix what I broke. Please."

Mr. Verma stared at him for a long, silent moment. He didn't hate this boy. How could he?

He had known Ishaan since his childhood—bright, innocent, fragile, a boy who grew too fast and suffered too early. He was the son of his best friend's. He was the boy who carried responsibilities nobody his age should have to carry.

No, he didn't hate him. He had loved Ishaan once — as the son of his closest friend, as a child who used to call him "uncle" with pure affection. He was just... angry. Angry for the pain etched into his daughter's eyes.

Angry for the way her laughter had disappeared. Angry that his strong, cheerful, sunshine-like girl now sat silently in her room—as if someone had dimmed the world inside her.

And that someone was standing in front of him.

"I can't let you meet her," Mr. Verma said finally, voice firm but heavy. "She is already hurt. I will not allow you to hurt her again. So leave, Ishaan."

The words hit Ishaan like a strike to the chest.

He didn't argue. He didn't defend himself.
He simply lowered his head... and then, slowly, painfully—

He folded his hands.

"Please, uncle," he whispered.
A broken plea A man begging for his women.
"Please forgive me. Please let me meet her once. Just once. Please... I'm begging you."

Mr. Verma looked away, jaw clenched.
He felt the ache in this boy's voice—but the ache in his daughter's silence was louder.

With a sigh, he stepped back and—

closed the door.

Right in Ishaan's face.

The sound echoed, sharp and final.

Ishaan didn't move.

The closed door stood tall in front of him—cold, unwelcoming, the same way he had once made his own home's door feel when Mr. Verma came pleading for his daughter.

A bitter chuckle escaped him—soft, humorless, almost choked.

"Karma... such a cruel thing," he whispered to himself. "There was a time uncle came for Aanya... and I insulted him, sent him away..."
He shut his eyes, breath shaking. "And today... I am begging to see the same girl... and he is sending me away."

He pressed a hand against his forehead, shame burning his skin.

"You deserve this, Ishaan Mehra," he muttered. "You deserve every bit of hatred they give you."

He didn't leave.

He sat down right beside the gate—on the cold marble step—eyes fixed on the mansion door with fragile, foolish hope.

Maybe Aanya would come out.
Maybe she would open the gate.
Maybe she would look at him... just once.
He didn't care how long it took.

Minutes. Hours. Days.
He would wait.

Because for the first time in his life, Ishaan Mehra wasn't fighting fate—

He was surrendering to it.

__

Mr. Verma stood by the large Victorian window of the living room, the faint yellow glow from the chandelier casting soft shadows over his tired face. He slowly drew the curtain aside, and his heart pulled painfully at the sight before him.

Ishaan.

Sitting outside the mansion gates, curled slightly forward, arms wrapped around himself as the cold night air wrapped around him even tighter.

His head was bowed, his breath uneven, his body trembling with exhaustion and the piercing winter breeze — yet he didn't move... not an inch.

Mr. Verma exhaled deeply, shoulders dropping with the weight of a father's dilemma. He wasn't blind to the boy's suffering. He wasn't heartless. He was just... a father trying to protect his already broken daughter.

He turned away from the window and walked toward the hallway, footsteps slow, heavy.

Just as he was about to step outside, he saw Aransh exiting the living room, phone pressed to his ear. he was on call with nisha.

Mr. Verma called out softly,
"Aransh."

Aransh paused mid-step and turned, lowering the phone slightly. "Yes, Dad? What happened?"

Mr. Verma rubbed his forehead, a silent sigh slipping out before he spoke.

"Tell Nisha... to come take Ishaan home."

Aransh blinked, confusion flooding his face.
"Ishaan? He's here?" He asked, disbelief thick in his voice.

"Yes," Mr. Verma said, voice low, tired.
"He's been sitting outside for a long time. He wanted to meet Aanya. I didn't allow him. And since then... he hasn't moved from that spot." His gaze softened, though his jaw remained firm.

"It's already late... the weather is cold... if he keeps sitting like that, he'll fall sick. Tell Nisha to take him. The guards tried, but he refused to listen to anyone. He will only listen to Nisha."

Aransh sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, Dad. I'll tell her."

Mr. Verma simply nodded and walked away, leaving the house heavy with unspoken worry.

Before Aransh could even finish saying, "Nish, you—", a clear, determined voice came through the speaker on the other end.

"I heard everything. I'm on the way," she said, breathless, the sound of metal keys jingling faintly behind her words.

Aransh closed his eyes for a moment, grateful. "Okay," he murmured, and ended the call.

He walked toward the window again, unlatched it, and pushed it open, letting the icy wind brush across his face.

Down below, illuminated by the dim gate light, he saw Ishaan — still sitting on the cold marble floor, head resting weakly against the side pillar, his entire body shivering uncontrollably.

Ishaan looked so small in that moment.
So unlike the confident Mehra boy the world knew. Just a young man carrying too much guilt, waiting for someone who wouldn't come.

Aransh's chest tightened.

"You both are so stubborn..." he whispered, the words slipping out like a resigned breath.

He closed the window gently, the latch clicking into place — a soft but final sound in the quiet house.

__

The gates of the Verma mansion stood silent and still under the cold night sky when a car rolled to a stop just outside. Headlights washed over Ishaan's shivering form, yet he didn't lift his head, didn't react, didn't even blink.

Nisha stepped out before the car fully halted.
Her breath caught instantly. There he was.

Her brother.

Not the Ishaan Mehra the world admired — but a broken, trembling version of him, sitting on the freezing ground like he had nowhere else to go... nothing else to ask for except forgiveness he feared he no longer deserved.

Her throat tightened painfully.

"Dii..." he whispered in her memories — the voice from years ago, when he was small and scared.

Tonight, he looked just like that.

Nisha walked toward him quickly, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. She stopped right in front of him, but Ishaan didn't lift his head. It was as if guilt had pinned him permanently to the cold floor.

She crouched down slowly.

"Ishaan," she whispered.

At the sound of her voice — that soft, familiar voice — he finally moved Barely.

His head lifted a little, eyes hazy with exhaustion, lashes damp from cold winds and unspoken pain.

"Dii..." he breathed, voice cracking like something inside him had snapped.

Nisha's chest twisted. She cupped his face gently, her hands warm against his ice-cold skin. "Oh, god ishaan... what have you done to yourself?" she murmured, brushing away the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.
"You're freezing."

Ishaan swallowed, a faint tremor passing through him. "I... I just wanted to see her," he whispered, voice hoarse from the cold and hours of silence."I thought... maybe if I waited... she'd come. Or... or at least open the gate."

His eyes filled, the vulnerability raw, unguarded — a man stripped of every layer of strength.

Nisha shook her head softly, tears blurring her vision.

"You can't sit here like this," she said, voice breaking. "It's been hours, Ishaan. You'll fall sick."

"I don't care," he murmured.
"If this is the only way I can be close to her... then I'll sit here every night."

She closed her eyes, pain slicing through her.

"You think she would want to see you like this?" she whispered fiercely. "She's hurting too, Ishaan. But your suffering won't heal hers."

His fingers curled weakly around the edge of the gate pillar.

"I just... I just need one chance to fix it," he said, voice trembling. "Just one. I don't want her to hate me, dii..."

Nisha's heart broke — quietly, deeply.

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his, grounding him, warming him.

"She doesn't hate you," she whispered.
"She's just wounded. And wounds need time. Let her breathe, Ishaan... let her choose you on her own."

He closed his eyes as tears slid silently down his cold cheeks.

"I'm scared," he confessed — so softly it barely existed.
"What if she doesn't choose me?"

Nisha held his face, her voice gentle but firm.

"Then you will survive it," she said.
"Because love isn't proven by holding tightly... it's proven by standing back when they need space."

Ishaan's body leaned into her touch, exhausted, breaking, surrendering.

"Come," she whispered, brushing his cheek with her thumb.
"Please. Stand up. Let me take you home."

He didn't move.

So she slipped her hands under his arms, her strength quiet but unwavering, and slowly helped him rise to his feet.

His legs shook violently, and Nisha steadied him, wrapping her arm around his cold, trembling shoulders.

As she guided him to the car, Ishaan turned one last time —looking at the mansion,
at the window he had stared at for two weeks, at the girl he could not reach.

His lips moved silently.

I'm sorry.

Nisha opened the door, settled him inside, and pulled the blanket around him.

And whisper:

"She'll come back to you... but not because you begged, Ishaan. She'll come back when your love feels safe again.

As Nisha closed the car door and stepped back, her eyes drifted once more to the Verma mansion — silent, towering, and holding the silent. She inhaled shakily, trying to compose herself.

Then the heavy gate creaked open.

Aransh stepped out, the cold breeze ruffling his hair. He looked exhausted, as if he had been carrying everyone's pain on his shoulders.

His gaze moved to the car... and froze.

Ishaan sat inside, motionless — a shadow of the boy he once called his brother. His body stiff, eyes lost, shoulders sagging under the weight of guilt heavier than the night itself.

Aransh exhaled deeply.

Nisha walked toward him, her steps unsteady from the emotional storm inside her. When she reached him, she didn't say anything — she simply pulled him into a tight hug.

"It hurts, Aransh..." she whispered, voice trembling against his shoulder.
"It hurts to see him like this. What am I supposed to do? How do I help him when he's breaking from the inside?"

Aransh closed his eyes, one hand gently rubbing her back — the gesture soft, steady, lovingly.

"I know, Nish," he said quietly.
"I understand your pain  Aanya is also hurting just as much. She isn't fine either. This... this pain isn't one-sided."He stepped back slightly, looking into her overwhelmed eyes.

"They love each other, but this is their battle. We can't fight it for them. We can't choose for them. We just... let Aanya decide what she wants."

Nisha nodded slowly, her eyes shining with tears she refused to let fall.

She took a breath and then asked, almost fearfully, "Aransh... you said you'd send divorce papers to Ishaan. Did you really want them to separate?"

A shadow passed across his expression — regret, frustration, sorrow, all at once.

"No, Nisha," he answered honestly.
"I said that only to make him feel Aanya's pain — the pain she went through for months, without any fault of her own."
His jaw clenched, but his voice remained soft.

"If Aanya goes back easily, he'll never understand the weight of his mistakes. He needed to know what he almost lost... and what losing her could truly mean."

He looked toward the car again, where Ishaan still sat, numb and defeated.

"I've known him since childhood," Aransh continued. "I can read his eyes. And right now, they're not lying. He's desperate. He's shattered. He wants her... not out of guilt, but out of love. But even then... he has to prove he deserves her trust again."

Nisha placed a hand on his arm, understanding but pained.

"And Aanya?" she asked softly.

He sighed, the weight pressing into his chest.

"If she chooses to divorce him," he said, voice tight with emotion, "I won't stop her. I'll stand by her. Because she deserves peace."

Nisha gave a small, sad nod.

"I just want Aanya to heal," she whispered. "To choose for herself... something that makes her truly happy."

They hugged again, brief but full of shared helplessness. Then they parted, and Nisha returned to the car.

Aransh watched as the vehicle moved slowly down the road, carrying Ishaan away — leaving behind a trail of heartbreak and hope tangled together.

"I just hope they find their way," he murmured to himself. "I know they love each other... but love alone isn't always enough."

He sighed and turned back toward the mansion, heavy steps echoing in the cold night.

But what he didn't know...

What no one knew...

Was that Aanya stood at her window — her fingers gripping the cold metal frame as she watched everything unfold below.

She had seen Nisha help Ishaan into the car.

She had seen him shivering, broken, defeated.

She had seen the man who once terrified her vulnerability... now shatter under his own.

Her heart clenched painfully.

She didn't know what to feel anymore.

Pain?
Pity?
Love?
Fear?
Guilt?

Her emotions were a storm, each wave crashing into another until she couldn't breathe.

Seeing him like that hurt her.
But remembering her own nights of silent trembling... hurt her deeper.

Her voice escaped in a trembling whisper:

"I need to leave..."

The night air brushed past her, cold and soft against her tear-warmed cheeks.

"I can't see him like this," she whispered.
"And I can't go to him either. Not like this. Not when I'm still bleeding from the past."

Her hand pressed against her heart, as if holding a fracture together.

"I need time... to forget, to heal, to breathe."

Her gaze stayed on the road where the car had disappeared moments ago.

"Leaving... is the only way," she whispered.
"For both of us."

And for the first time in weeks — her decision felt heavy, but clear.

She would go.

Not to run away.

But to find the strength to someday face him again... without breaking.

___

After nights filled with heaviness, sleeplessness, and a constant ache she could not silence, Aanya sat curled on her bed, pretending to read. Her eyes traced the same paragraph again and again, but not a single word stayed in her mind. When her room door gently opened, she straightened immediately.

Mrs. Verma stepped inside quietly, her presence soft and comforting. Aanya forced a small smile as if nothing was wrong and quickly lifted her book higher, hiding her trembling emotions behind it.

Her mother sighed, walked to the bed, and sat beside her. "How are you, Aanya?" she asked softly.

"I—I'm good, Mom," Aanya whispered, her voice barely steady.

Mrs. Verma didn't argue. She knew her daughter too well. Instead, she slowly extended her hand. Resting on her palm was a small piece of red cloth—faded, frayed at the edges, but still holding the innocence of childhood.

"Look what I found in the store room," she said gently.

Aanya blinked, lowered her book, and frowned in confusion. For a moment she simply stared at the cloth... then her eyes widened.
A tiny, nostalgic smile touched her lips.

"My Super Robo's cape..." she breathed.

"Yes," her mother nodded. "Your favorite Super Robo."

Aanya touched the cloth with trembling fingers. But her smile slowly fell.

"Why did you keep this, Mom? My Super Robo broke... what is the point of keeping just this?" she said sadly.

Mrs. Verma watched her daughter's face carefully. "So you do remember your favorite toy," she said softly.

"Of course I remember—Dad bought it for me when I turned five. I kept it so safely, but... it still broke."

"And do you remember how it broke? Who broke it?" her mother asked calmly.

Aanya tried to think. Faint images flickered in her mind, blurry and incomplete.
"I think... someone broke it. I can't remember clearly."

Her mother nodded patiently.
"You were only eight... so maybe it slipped from your memory. But do you remember a boy? The one you used to call..."
She paused.

Aanya frowned, searching her mind.

"...toothless cry baby?" her mother completed.

Aanya's face brightened instantly.
"Yes! Yes! That's him! That toothless cry baby! He always broke my toys and I always beat him up. He cried so easily..." she laughed softly, remembering tiny fragments of those days.

But then a thought struck her sharply.
Her smile faded.

"Mom... wasn't he... your best friend's child?" she asked slowly, her shock growing with every word.

"Yes," her mother replied.

"And your best friend is...?" Aanya whispered.

"Mrs. Ishwari Mehra," her mother said gently.

Aanya gasped, her hand covering her mouth as if the truth had physically hit her.
Her heart thudded violently, disbelief flooding her face.

No.
No... this couldn't be possible.

"It's him, Beta," her mother said softly. "Ishaan. Your toothless crybaby. The boy you used to hit for every small thing... the boy who only wanted to be your friend. You made fun of him because he had lost his front teeth... and yes, he cried too much... but he adored you."

Aanya's eyes filled with tears—shock, guilt, disbelief, and an unexpected wave of tenderness mixing all at once.

"How... how did I not remeber him? I stayed with him for five whole months. And I don't even remember..." she whispered, her voice breaking. "The first boy who ever asked to be my friend... and I rejected him because he cried too much..."

Mrs. Verma chuckled softly.
"And that was the first time you smacked his head."

Aanya gave a watery smile.

"But he stopped coming to our house after his tenth birthday," her mother added quietly.

Aanya looked down, her brows knitting as old memories slowly unwrapped themselves inside her mind—like opening a dusty box left untouched for years.

"I remember..." she said suddenly.
"We went to his tenth birthday party. I enjoyed so much... I didn't even let him cut his own cake. I was the one who cut it. And he didn't say anything... he just smiled and let me." Her voice softened. "He was always like that."

Her mother nodded.

"And then... the next day, he came to our house," Aanya whispered, her eyes drifting far away.
___

Memory__

It was a bright afternoon—the kind of warm, golden day when childhood feels endless. The Verma mansion was filled with silence except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the distant chirping of birds outside. Little Aanya sat cross-legged on the carpet, her tiny world spread around her—dolls lined in perfect rows, tiny cars arranged by color, and at the center of it all, her most prized possession:

Super Robo.
The toy she slept beside, ate beside, guarded like a sacred treasure.

That day, the doorbell rang, and before anyone could call her name, Ishaan came running inside with a burst of excitement. His hair was messy, his cheeks flushed, and his large, innocent eyes sparkled with the leftover joy of the previous night's birthday celebration.

He held a brand-new red toy car in his hand—shiny, polished, and too big for his tiny palm.
"Aanya! Look! See my new car!" he squealed.

Without waiting for permission, he dropped to the floor beside her, legs awkwardly folded, his small body trembling with excitement. His attention jumped from his new car to the colorful world Aanya had created. And then his eyes landed on it—

Super Robo.

He reached for it with unfiltered joy, the way children do when they see something beautiful. "Aanya, can I—?"

He didn't even finish the sentence before picking it up.

Aanya turned sharply, her protective instinct rising, but Ishaan was already lost in the game forming in his head. He made the Robo 'fly', wobbling it through the air with sound effects only a child could imagine.

"Whoooosh! Robo is flying to save the day!"
His laughter filled the entire room—high, bright, happy.

For a moment, Aanya softened.
He looked so happy—gap-toothed, careless, glowing.

But then it happened.

Ishaan tried to balance the Robo on the edge of the table, as if making it do a heroic landing.

His tiny hand slipped.

The Robo fell.

Time slowed.

Aanya's eyes widened as she watched it hit the wooden edge and crash to the floor. The sound was small but sharp enough to pierce her heart.

Crack.

A long, painful line split across the Robo's chest plate.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"My... my Super Robo..." she whispered, disbelief turning into fire inside her.

Ishaan froze, his smile collapsing instantly.
"I... I didn't—"

But Aanya didn't hear anything after that.

Anger—pure, childish, uncontrollable—tore through her like a storm. Before she could think, before she could breathe, before she could understand...

She grabbed the heavy, half-broken Robo from the floor.

"I told you not to touch it!" she screamed.

Ishaan's eyes widened—fear swallowing his features.

"Aanya, I—"

She swung.

The metal body hit his small head with a sickening, hollow thud.

The world snapped.

Ishaan stumbled backward, the toy car falling from his hand. His knees buckled, and he fell to the carpet, his tiny body curling instinctively.

A thin stream of blood slowly began to trickle down from the side of his forehead.
It ran over his cheek, bright and terrifying against his pale skin.

Then came the cry.

A sound so broken, so raw, so painful that it echoed through the entire mansion—
a sobbing, trembling wail that shook the little boy's entire chest.

Aanya's fury disappeared instantly.

Her hands went cold.

Her lips trembled.

"I... I didn't mean to... Ishaan... I didn't mean to hit you so hard..." she whispered, her voice cracking, tears filling her eyes.

She dropped the Robo, and it rolled away from her hand.

She stepped forward, wanting to help him, but her feet wouldn't move.

Ishaan lay there, crying loudly, clutching his head, tiny whimpers escaping between sobs. The metallic scent of blood filled the air.

Hearing the echo of his cries, the parents came rushing in—first Mrs. Verma, then Mrs. Mehra and Mr. Mehra.

They stopped dead at the doorway.

There on the carpet—

Ishaan lay bleeding, shaking, crying uncontrollably.
Aanya stood beside him, frozen, guilt-stricken, holding the broken toy like a weapon she never meant to use.

Mrs. Mehra screamed his name and ran to him, lifting his fragile body in her arms.
Mr. Mehra pressed his handkerchief to Ishaan's wound, panic written all over his face.

And Aanya...

She kept whispering—

"I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to..."

But no one heard her.

The only sound in the room was Ishaan's broken, painful, heart-shredding sobs.

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