I had no idea how much time had passed when Drishti finally stopped crying.
Her breathing slowed, but the weight of everything still sat clearly on her face—heavy, unmoving. The kind of silence that follows a storm. Quiet, but not peaceful.
I hate this silence.
It doesn't mean the pain is gone—only that it's catching its breath.
I looked at her gently.
Say something normal. Don't let your worry show.
"So… what exactly happened?"
She hesitated, then spoke. Two days earlier, her father had asked her to meet a boy. For an arranged marriage.
There it is.
The word that turns breathing into pressure.
I took a slow breath before responding.
Think before you speak, Ishu. She needs calm—not panic.
"Okay," I said carefully. "Then do what feels right in that situation. Meet the boy. After that, we'll see what happens."
She looked at me, panic flickering in her eyes.
She's already living ten steps ahead—imagining cages where none exist yet.
"Why are you stressing so much already?" I continued. "If you don't like him, no one can force you. Your dad loves you. He won't trap you into something you don't want."
I hope she believes this.
I need her to believe this.
She didn't reply, but her shoulders relaxed slightly.
Good. One breath at a time.
"And hey," I added, nudging her arm, "I'm here. You're not alone in this. If needed, I'll talk to your dad myself. You have absolutely nothing to fear."
And if fear comes anyway, I'll stand between it and you.
I pushed the coffee cup toward her.
Hot coffee fixes nothing—but it gives hands something to hold.
"Now drink this, you dramatic little crybaby. Everything's cooled down."
She let out a weak laugh—the first sign of relief.
Laughter. Thank God. She's still here.
Then she looked at me again. That look.
The one she gets when she's about to ask for something she's afraid to want.
"Ishu… can I come stay at your place for a few days? I just need to step away. Clear my head."
It wasn't the first time Drishti had stayed with us. She'd been to my house countless times, and my mother adored her. Still, a tiny bulb lit up in my head—if Drishti stayed with me, my family wouldn't start cooking up imaginary wedding plans. And maybe… her mood would improve.
And maybe mine would too.
So I said yes.
Some answers don't need thinking.
We made a quick plan. We'd leave in two days. I cancelled my ticket because, of course, madam suddenly decided she wanted a road trip instead.
Why am I not surprised?
Chaos follows her like a hobby.
By the time we finished planning, it was already afternoon. Drishti had some work to handle, so she hugged me, said goodbye, and left.
She walked away lighter than she arrived.
That's enough for now.
I picked up my bag.
Life doesn't pause just because emotions run high.
Shopping awaited.
For my family.
Normal things. Grounding things.
And somehow, everything felt lighter than it had that morning.
Not because the problem disappeared—but because she didn't have to face it alone.
As I moved from one shop to another, time slipped away without warning. I didn't realize when evening turned into night. The only thing left on my mental checklist was a coloring book—for my niece.
She had called me especially.
"Ishu, please bring me a coloring book," she'd said, her tiny voice far too serious for a three-year-old. "No one in this house buys me books."
I smiled at the memory.
She was the cutest little human alive—three years old, yet she spoke like a disappointed old woman filing a formal complaint. Apparently, the entire household had failed her, and I was her last hope.
So naturally, I bought not one, but two coloring books.
Justice had to be served.
After that, I packed dinner and finally headed back to my one-bedroom apartment. Exhausted, I entered my building and pressed the button for the sixth floor.
As the elevator doors slid shut, I pulled out my phone.
No missed calls. No messages.
That's strange.
Drishti usually calls the moment she reaches home.
I checked the time—8:00 p.m. exactly.
Before I could overthink it, a sudden chill crept up the back of my neck. The kind that doesn't come from cold air, but from instinct.
Why do I feel like someone is watching me?
I scanned the elevator. Three… maybe four people. All quiet. All normal.
Then my eyes landed on a tall man in his forties.
He was looking straight at me.
My heart skipped.
Did I do something weird?
I turned to the mirror, pretending to check my reflection. I adjusted my hair, straightened my t-shirt, smoothed an imaginary crease.
When I looked again, he was staring somewhere else.
Okay. False alarm.
I exhaled slowly.
This is what happens when you read detective novels every night.
Next thing you know, you'll start suspecting your own shadow.
The elevator went ting-ting.
Sixth floor.
I stepped out. An elderly man exited beside me—someone's grandfather, slow and harmless. Probably a neighbor. I walked ahead, my legs aching.
Whoever said shopping is relaxing has clearly never carried bags for hours.
Finally, I reached my door.
I slid my right hand into my jeans pocket and pulled out the keys.
Muscle memory took over.
Key into lock.
Turn.
Nothing.
I frowned.
I tried again.
The key turned far too easily.
My stomach dropped.
The door wasn't locked.
My fingers tightened around the handle as I pushed it open—just a little.
It moved.
Smoothly.
Silently.
My heart began to pound so loudly I was sure someone could hear it.
The apartment greeted me with darkness.
No lights.
No movement.
No sound.
The air smelled… normal. Too normal. No open windows. No signs of chaos.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Silence pressed against my ears—thick, watchful.
Okay, Ishita… think, my mind whispered.
Either you forgot to lock the door…
or someone didn't want it locked.
I stood still, listening.
That's when I noticed it.
The shoe rack.
One pair—slightly out of place. Turned the wrong way.
A tiny detail.
The kind you only notice when something inside you has already decided this isn't normal.
My breath stalled.
Those shoes weren't mine.
Not Drishti's.
Not my mother's emergency "I'll stay for a night" slippers either.
They were men's shoes.
Large. Worn. Placed carefully—but wrong. As if someone had tried to remember how other people leave things… and failed.
I didn't move.