The flash drive sat in the center of the table all night.
None of us touched it.
Not because we were afraid of what it held—
but because we already knew what it would confirm.
Sometimes, truth doesn't need to be watched to be real.
Riyan was the one who finally broke the silence.
"I'll hand it over in the morning," he said. "Directly. No intermediaries."
Arjun nodded. "Good. Let them see it exactly as it is."
I traced the rim of my cup slowly.
"And after that?" I asked.
Riyan looked at me.
Not with strategy.
Not with plans.
With honesty.
"After that," he said, "there will be nothing left to hide behind."
---
The next day moved quickly.
Lawyers.
Calls.
Official acknowledgements.
By evening, the news broke—not as speculation, not as leaks, but as confirmation.
NEW EVIDENCE SUBMITTED IN MALHOTRA CASE
INDEPENDENT WITNESS FOOTAGE VALIDATES TESTIMONY
I watched the headline appear on my phone without the familiar rush of dread.
No shaking hands.
No racing thoughts.
Just a quiet sense of inevitability.
Arjun exhaled slowly from the couch.
"That's it," he said. "They can't twist this anymore."
Riyan leaned back, eyes closed for a moment.
"For the first time," he said, "I don't feel like I need to prepare for impact."
I smiled faintly. "That's because the impact already happened. We're standing after it."
---
Later, after Arjun left for the night, Riyan and I stood on the balcony again.
It had become a habit.
Not a lookout point.
A grounding point.
"You know," he said quietly, "when all this started, I thought justice would feel like victory."
"And now?" I asked.
"Now it feels like… relief," he said. "Like setting down something I didn't realize I was carrying."
I nodded.
"They carried it too," I said. "All of them. And made others hold it for them."
He looked at me carefully.
"You're lighter," he said. "Not happier exactly. But… steadier."
"That's because I'm not holding their secrets anymore," I replied.
Silence stretched—comfortable, earned.
"I don't know what comes next for us," Riyan said finally. "But I know what I don't want."
"What?"
"To build anything on fear again."
I met his gaze.
"Then we won't," I said. "Or we walk away."
He accepted that without argument.
---
Before bed, I opened the notebook one last time that day.
I wrote:
Closure doesn't arrive with apologies.
It arrives when the truth no longer needs protection.
I closed the notebook and placed it back on the table.
For years, I had carried a weight that wasn't mine.
Tonight, it was finally gone.
And in its absence—
There was space.
Not for answers.
Not for promises.
But for a life that didn't need to be defended anymore.
And that—
That felt like freedom.