Three months into pregnancy, Aarya had learned how to sit with silence.
Not the sharp kind that used to follow arguments, or the cold pauses that once filled
her marriage like fog. This silence was different. It existed in the early
mornings, when London was still half asleep and the house breathed softly
around her.
She stood near the window, barefoot on the cool floor, one hand resting over her
stomach out of habit more than intention. The child inside her moved rarely
now—still small, still private—but the awareness of life had settled into her
bones.
Two months married.
The words felt unreal when she thought them. This marriage had arrived without
drama, without witnesses who mattered. No one had demanded promises from her.
No one had asked her to become smaller in order to fit.
Sometimes that frightened her more than chaos ever had.
Her thoughts wandered back, the way they often did, to the people she no longer had
the chance to speak to.
Riya came first. She always did.
Riya had known before Aarya herself admitted it. Had watched the way Aarya's laughter softened, then disappeared. The way she checked her phone too often. The way
she apologized for things she hadn't done.
"You're not difficult," Riya had said once,
anger sharp in her voice. "You're just loved by the wrong man."
Aarya had argued that night. She remembered it clearly. She had said love required
patience, compromise, endurance. She had said Rudra was tired, stressed,
misunderstood.
Riya had looked at her for a long time, eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Love doesn't make you feel alone while lying next to someone," she said.
The miscarriage came weeks later.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and quiet panic. Aarya remembered staring at
the ceiling while a nurse spoke gently and avoided her eyes. She remembered
Rudra
standing near the door, his face closed, as if
grief were something happening elsewhere.
Meera had spoken for him.
"She's sensitive," Meera had said calmly. "The medication might need adjustment.
Stress can cause these things."
Aarya had nodded. She hadn't had the strength to question it. She wanted answers that didn't involve blame. She wanted comfort without confrontation.
Riya had refused to let it go.
"She changed your medicine," Riya had said, voice shaking with certainty. "I don't
care how kind she sounds. She did this."
Aarya had begged her to stop. She wasn't ready to believe it. Belief would mean
accepting that love hadn't failed—judgment had.
Riya decided to act alone.
She never told Aarya she was meeting Meera. She thought she could fix things.
Thought she could force an apology. Thought she could protect her friend by
being louder.They met once.
Riya demanded answers. She demanded
accountability for the pregnancy that never became a child. She demanded Meera
apologize.
Meera never did.
That night, Riya died.
They called it an accident. A careless driver. A dark road.
Aarya remembered the funeral in fragments —the heat, the smoke, the way Meera cried
with her face buried in a handkerchief while Rudra stood beside her, steady and
distant.
Everyone told Aarya it was coincidence.
Her heart never accepted it.
Now, months later, standing in a different country with a different life growing
inside her, the guilt still surfaced unexpectedly. Riya had tried to save her.
And paid for it.
Aarya inhaled slowly, grounding herself.
Behind her, Devraj moved quietly through the room, careful not to break her thoughts.
He had learned her silences, respected them.
"You've been standing there a long time," he said softly.
"Iknow."
"Are you ready?" he asked, not pressing.
She nodded.
Her father deserved the truth. Not fragments. Not excuses.
She dialed his number.
He answered immediately.
"Aarya," he said warmly. "Are you eating properly?"
She smiled despite herself. "Yes, Papa."
"You sound calmer," he observed.
"I am."
She told him then. About the marriage. About choosing differently this time. About
waiting because she wanted peace—not permission.
There was a pause when she told him she was
pregnant.
"How far along?" he asked.
She lies to her father and informed him it is " 2 months."
Another pause.
"Are you happy?"
"Yes."
That was enough.
"I trust you," her father said simply. "And I will come to see you soon."
When the call ended, Aarya sat down slowly, her hand returning to her stomach.
She wasn't trying to fix the past anymore.
She wasn't trying to justify it.
She was carrying forward what remained—love that didn't hurt, memory that didn't
control her, and a future she had chosen with open eyes.
Outside, the city continued its ordinary life.
Inside, Aarya finally felt present in her own.