Morning came without urgency.
No calls.
No headlines screaming for attention.
No past clawing at my chest the moment I opened my eyes.
Just quiet sunlight and the steady rhythm of a city that didn't need anything from me.
I sat at the edge of the bed for a long moment, letting that sink in.
For the first time in my life, nothing was chasing me.
Riyan was already awake, standing by the window, sleeves rolled up, phone face-down on the table like a conscious decision.
"You're not checking it," I said.
He glanced back. "I told the board I'm unavailable today."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's new."
"So is choosing peace," he replied.
I smiled faintly.
We didn't talk much over breakfast. Not because things were awkward—but because some silences didn't need fixing.
After a while, he spoke.
"I made a decision," he said carefully. "About the company."
I looked at him. "You don't have to tell me."
"I want to," he said. "I'm stepping back. Not forever. But long enough to rebuild it without fear running the place."
"That's a big shift," I said.
"I learned something watching you," he replied. "Power that costs someone their memory isn't power. It's theft."
The words landed quietly.
"I won't ask you to stay," he continued. "And I won't ask you to leave either."
I nodded.
"Good," I said. "Because I need to say something too."
He waited. Didn't interrupt. Didn't brace.
"I don't hate you anymore," I said. "And I don't love you the way I thought love was supposed to feel either."
His jaw tightened—but he didn't look away.
"What I feel," I continued, "is clarity. And trust. And something that could grow… if it's given space."
He exhaled slowly.
"I can live with that," he said. "Even if it scares me."
"It scares me too," I admitted.
Later that afternoon, I met Arjun alone at a quiet café.
"You look lighter," he said after one glance.
"I am," I replied.
"You leaving?" he asked gently.
"I'm choosing," I corrected. "That's different."
He nodded approvingly.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I'm glad you stayed long enough to remember."
"So am I," I said.
As evening settled in, I walked alone for a while.
No guards.
No destination.
Just me and the certainty that whatever I decided next would come from truth—not pressure.
When I returned, Riyan was on the balcony again.
He didn't ask where I'd been.
He just looked at me.
"I'm not ready to answer everything," I said. "But I know this much."
He waited.
"I won't disappear," I continued/npm. "And I won't stay out of fear. If this continues, it will be because we both choose it—every day."
He nodded, eyes steady.
"That's the only way I want it."
That night, as I wrote in my notebook, I realized something quietly profound:
This wasn't the end yet.
But it was the moment the story stopped being about survival—
and became about intention.
And tomorrow…
I would finally decide what that meant.