The first time I stepped outside, the sky was a violent, perfect blue.

Mocking me.

The world hadn't stopped.

It hadn't paused.

It hadn't even stumbled.

People bustled down the streets, laughing into their phones, sipping coffees, holding hands.

How could they?

How could the world still spin when mine had shattered?

Vansh bhai walked beside me, careful, quiet, treating me like glass he was afraid to crack further.

I wore Kabir's clothes still — sleeves too long, hood pulled low over my face, trying to disappear into it.

The sunlight burned my skin.

The noise hurt my ears.

I stumbled through the crowd, my chest tightening, tightening, tightening—

the deeper I moved into a world that had no place for my grief.

They didn't know.

No one knew.

No one even looked twice at the broken girl dragging herself through the sidewalks like a ghost.

I stopped at the edge of a busy crossing.

Staring blankly at the people laughing, living.

A couple stood in front of me.

The boy kissed the girl's forehead.

Kabir used to do that.

Every damn morning.

Press his lips to my forehead and whisper, "Mine."

I gasped.

The street blurred.

The faces blurred.

I dropped to my knees, right there on the dirty sidewalk, sobbing into my hands like a child abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

People stared.

Some stopped.

Most walked around me.

Vansh bhai was there in a second, dropping to his knees, pulling me against him.

"Shanu—Shanu, breathe—breathe with me," he begged, voice thick with panic.

"I can't—" I choked, clawing at my chest. "I can't breathe—I can't—I can't—he's not here—he's supposed to be here—"

"Shhh, baby girl, I know, I know—" Vansh bhai rocked me back and forth, shielding me from the stares, from the world, from everything.

But nothing could protect me from the hole inside me.

Nothing.

-----

LATER THAT NIGHT

The penthouse was too quiet again.

Too heavy.

I sat curled up on the couch, numb, staring at the city lights without seeing them.

The doorbell rang.

I didn't move.

Vansh bhai opened it.

I heard her voice before I saw her.

"Where is she?"

Mom.

Soft, urgent, breaking.

A second later, she was in front of me.

Her face crumpled when she saw me

—

not the daughter she remembered.

Not the girl she raised.

Just a shell.

"Oh, my baby..." she whispered, sinking to her knees.

I blinked at her.

Then—

like something inside me snapped—

I threw myself into her arms.

"Mom—" I sobbed, fists clutching her shirt, clinging to her like I was five years old again. "Mom, make it stop—make it stop hurting—please—"

She held me like she could absorb the pain with her bare hands.

"My love, my heart—shhh, I'm here. I'm here."

I broke apart in her arms.

All the screams I had swallowed.

All the sobs I had silenced.

All the hope I had killed to survive—

it all spilled out against her chest.

"I loved him so much," I cried. "He promised me forever—and now I'm just—"

"You're not nothing," she said fiercely, pulling back to cup my face. Tears poured down her cheeks too. "You are my girl. You are strong. And you are not alone."

I shook my head wildly, choking. "I can't live without him. I don't know how."

"You learn," she whispered. "Not all at once. Not even a little bit at first. But you learn, baby. You take one breath. Then another. Then another."

"But it hurts—"

"I know," she said, pressing her forehead to mine. "It will always hurt. But it won't always destroy you."

Her hands ran through my tangled hair, smoothing it back like she used to when I was small and afraid of nightmares.

"You'll carry him," she whispered. "In your heart. In your dreams. In your bones. And you'll keep living. Because that's what love does. It doesn't die."

I sobbed harder, clinging to her, letting her words soak into the wreckage of me.

I didn't know if I believed her yet.

But for the first time in weeks, I felt something crack open inside me —

a small, trembling breath of hope.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe I could live.

Even if it was with half my heart missing.

Maybe, somehow, someday, I would find my way back.

------

THREE MONTHS LATER

The world didn't spin for me the same way anymore.

Days blurred. Nights dragged.

Grief became a quiet thing now— no longer screaming, just silently bleeding inside me.

I wasn't better.

I wasn't healed.

I was just... breathing. Somehow.

I sat in the living room, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders even though it wasn't cold.

When the doorbell rang, I didn't move.

Vansh opened it, quietly stepping aside.

I looked up.

Kabir's family stood there.

His mother.

His father.

Rohit.

And Shreya.

My chest tightened painfully.

His mother moved first—slowly, almost timidly, like she was afraid I'd shatter again if she came too fast.

"Shanaya," she whispered.

I stood up on legs that felt like paper.

She reached me — and for a moment we just stared at each other, two broken women carrying the wreckage of the same boy.

Then she opened her arms.

I hesitated.

And then—

I collapsed into her embrace.

A sob escaped my throat before I could stop it.

She held me like I was hers too. And maybe in some ways, I was.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered into my hair, her voice shaking. "I'm so, so sorry for everything, my sweet girl."

I clutched her tightly, unable to speak.

After a long moment, she pulled back, cupping my face gently.

Her eyes were rimmed with red, her hands trembling.

"As a mother," she said brokenly, "I beg you — someday, when you are ready — forgive my son."

My throat burned.

She took a deep breath, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"But as a woman," she continued, voice steadying, "I beg you — never forget what he took from you. Never forget your own worth. You deserved a love that didn't come with this kind of agony."

My heart cracked down the middle again.

"I don't know if I can forgive him," I whispered, my voice so small it didn't even sound like mine.

"You don't have to," she said softly. "Not for me. Not for anyone. Only if — someday — you find peace in it."

I nodded, blinking hard, letting the tears fall.

She pressed a kiss to my forehead — the same place Kabir used to.

And somehow, it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. It hurt differently.

Softer. Sadder. Like an old wound that still ached when it rained.

Kabir's mother squeezed my hands one last time before stepping aside.

His father approached next.

Kabir's father had always been a towering presence — strong, proud, slightly intimidating.

Now, he just looked tired.

Old in a way grief makes you.

He sat down beside me on the couch without a word.

For a moment, he just stared out the window, gathering his thoughts.

"When Kabir was little," he said finally, voice gravelly, "he used to tell me he was going to build a kingdom."

I looked at him, surprised.

"A kingdom just for the people he loved," he continued. "Where nothing could ever hurt them."

He chuckled dryly, wiping at his eyes.

"He failed," he said simply.

Tears blurred my vision.

"He tried to protect you," he said hoarsely. "In the only way he knew how. And he hurt you instead. I... I am sorry. As a father, I failed too. I raised a boy who didn't know how to save the one thing that mattered most."

I shook my head, my voice cracking. "He loved me. He just didn't know... how to love me right."

The man nodded slowly.

"None of us are taught how to love," he said. "We learn by breaking. By losing. By surviving."

We sat there, two grieving hearts who had both lost Kabir in different ways.

Finally, he reached out and squeezed my hand — rough, steady.

"I am proud of you," he said simply. "For surviving him."

I broke again, silently, tears slipping down my face.

He stood up and quietly walked away.

I sat there trembling, the weight of so many unspoken words crushing me.

And then —

Rohit came.

The boy who looked so much like Kabir it hurt to breathe.

Shreya hovered by the door, giving us space.

Rohit sat down across from me, wringing his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, voice cracking. "God, Shanaya, I'm so sorry for everything—"

I shook my head quickly. "Rohit, no. You're not him."

He flinched.

"But I was his brother," he said brokenly. "I knew how reckless he could be. How self-destructive. And I didn't stop him. I didn't protect you."

"You couldn't," I whispered, my throat raw. "No one could."

"I should have tried harder," he said fiercely. "You didn't deserve what happened to you. You deserved... you deserved a life with him. A happy one."

I pressed my fists into my lap, struggling to stay together.

"You deserved your brother too," I said finally.

He blinked, tears falling.

"I miss him," he choked out.

"I know," I whispered.

Silence stretched between us — heavy, but not bitter. Just... tired.

Then Rohit did something that shattered me.

He knelt down at my feet, like a little boy, resting his forehead against my knees.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

I ran my fingers through his hair, the way I used to when Kabir would rest his head in my lap.

We stayed like that — two broken pieces of a boy we both loved, trying to patch ourselves together with apologies and grief.

Trying — somehow — to keep breathing.

-------

AUTHOR'S NOTE :

This chapter is a quiet storm — a slow, aching portrayal of love, regret, and forgiveness stitched into the fragile spaces left behind by grief. Here, Shanaya meets the family Kabir left her to face, and with every conversation, a piece of her shattered heart is both broken and mended.

I hope you feel every tear, every word, every unspoken ache between them. Thank you for letting Shanaya's journey touch your heart.

______________________________________