The house felt different after the news settled.
Not quieter—
but honest.
No phones ringing every minute.
No urgent whispers behind doors.
No sense that something was about to explode.
Just space.
Riyan was at the dining table, papers spread out but untouched. He wasn't working. He was staring at nothing in particular, like someone relearning how to sit with his own thoughts.
"You're avoiding them," I said gently.
He looked up. "I'm choosing not to react."
"That's new."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'm trying."
Outside, the city moved on like it always did. People didn't pause because a powerful family fell. They rarely do. Life kept flowing—and for the first time, I didn't feel left behind by it.
Arjun arrived later that afternoon.
No drama.
No guards announcing him.
Just a knock and his familiar voice complaining about stairs.
"I swear," he said, collapsing onto the couch, "surviving conspiracies is easier than surviving physical therapy."
I smiled. "You're alive. You don't get to complain."
"Yes, I do," he replied. "It's in the contract."
Riyan handed him a glass of water.
They didn't talk about the case.
Didn't talk about their mother.
Didn't talk about revenge.
They talked about small things.
Movies they missed.
Food they wanted to eat again.
Places they might go someday.
It felt unreal—in the best way.
At some point, Arjun looked at me seriously.
"What are you going to do now?" he asked.
The question didn't scare me.
"I don't know yet," I said honestly. "But for once, that doesn't feel like failure."
Riyan watched me closely.
"You don't owe this family anything anymore," he said. "Not even a goodbye."
I nodded. "I know."
The words settled gently instead of tearing something open.
Later that evening, when Arjun left and the apartment grew quiet again, I stood by the window with my notebook in hand.
The pages were no longer empty.
Not full either.
Just… lived in.
I wrote slowly.
The truth didn't give me answers.
It gave me permission.
Permission to choose silence when I wanted.
Permission to speak when I needed.
Permission to stay—or to walk away.
Riyan stood behind me, close but not invading.
"You're thinking about leaving," he said quietly.
"I'm thinking about choosing," I replied.
He didn't argue.
Didn't plead.
Didn't try to anchor me with guilt.
"Whatever you decide," he said, "it won't erase what we survived."
I turned to face him.
"And it won't erase what you did wrong either," I said softly. "But it doesn't have to define everything."
He nodded, accepting the truth without defense.
That night, as I lay in bed, I realized something important:
The story wasn't ending because there was nothing left to tell.
It was ending because the pain no longer demanded the spotlight.
What remained now wasn't drama.
It was choice.
And tomorrow, I would make one.