Chapter 10: Shadows of the Past

The café's warm ambiance faded into the night as Aman and Anjali lingered over their conversation. They hadn't spoken this candidly in years, and though the tension remained, there was an unspoken understanding between them. For Aman, the questions about their past were no longer suffocating, but Anjali's mention of their father had reopened old wounds he thought were long buried.

As they stood to leave, Anjali placed a hand on Aman's shoulder. "I'm glad we talked. Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Aman smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I won't."

With that, she turned and walked into the night, leaving Aman alone on the quiet street. He watched her disappear into the crowd, his mind racing. So much had been left unsaid between them, but for now, he was content with the progress they had made. There would be time for more later—at least, he hoped there would be.

---

The next morning, Aman returned to the set, but something felt different. He was still the same person, wearing the same carefully crafted mask, but the weight on his shoulders felt heavier than usual. The meeting with Anjali had unearthed memories he had spent years avoiding—memories of their father, of the expectations placed on him from such a young age.

Stepping onto the set, Aman noticed the crew bustling about, setting up for the next scene. He found his spot and began reviewing the script for the day, but his mind was elsewhere. Every line, every direction seemed blurred, as if the words on the page couldn't quite penetrate the fog of his thoughts.

Nisha arrived soon after, her usual composed self. She flashed him a brief smile before turning her attention to the script. Aman could tell she was focused, but there was a lingering tension in her, one he hadn't noticed before. Was it the pressure of the upcoming scene? Or was it something more personal?

"Aman, are you ready for the scene?" Arjun's voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

He looked up at the director, nodding slightly. "Yeah, I'm ready."

---

The day's shoot involved a pivotal flashback scene—a moment that peeled back the layers of his character's history, revealing a troubled childhood and an emotionally distant father. It was a sequence Aman had dreaded filming, not just because of its emotional intensity, but because it hit too close to home. He had played countless roles in his career, but this was different. It felt almost as if he was being forced to relive his own past.

As the cameras rolled, Aman felt himself slipping into the scene, losing himself in the character's pain and frustration. His movements were slower, more deliberate. The words that came out of his mouth felt real, not scripted. Every ounce of anger, every touch of sadness he portrayed was an extension of the emotions he had spent years suppressing.

Nisha watched from a distance, her eyes tracking his every move. Though they had grown comfortable working together, she could tell something was off about Aman today. His performance was flawless—perhaps too flawless. There was a rawness in him that hadn't been there before, as if he was no longer acting but simply laying himself bare for the camera to capture.

In the scene, Aman's character was a young man confronting his father's legacy. The father, a powerful but cold figure, stood at a distance, his back turned as his son delivered a heartfelt monologue.

"I never asked for this!" Aman's character shouted, his voice echoing across the empty room. "I never wanted to be your puppet, to live in your shadow!"

Aman's voice cracked with emotion as he delivered the lines, his fists clenched at his sides. The camera zoomed in on his face, capturing every twitch of his expression, every tear that threatened to fall.

"I'm not you," he continued, his voice softer now, but no less intense. "I'll never be you."

As the scene ended, the room fell into silence. The crew, usually quick to reset for another take, remained still. Even Arjun, who was known for his hands-on direction, stood back, visibly moved by the performance.

Aman, however, was far from satisfied. He took a deep breath, wiping a hand across his face as he tried to shake off the emotions that had surfaced. But they clung to him, refusing to let go.

Nisha approached him cautiously. "That was… incredible, Aman. Are you okay?"

He looked at her, the edges of his control fraying. "I'm fine," he said quickly, though the tightness in his voice betrayed him.

"You don't seem fine," Nisha pressed gently. "If you need to take a break—"

"I said I'm fine," he snapped, immediately regretting the outburst. Nisha recoiled slightly, but her expression softened as she gave him a nod, understanding that something more was going on beneath the surface.

---

After the shoot, Aman retreated to his trailer, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He sank into the small couch, staring at his reflection in the vanity mirror. The man staring back at him looked tired—more than tired. He looked worn out, like someone who had been carrying a burden far too heavy for far too long.

His phone buzzed on the table beside him, breaking the silence. He glanced at the screen and saw Anjali's name flash across it. For a moment, he considered ignoring it, but something in him compelled him to answer.

"Hey," he said quietly, holding the phone to his ear.

"I've been thinking about our conversation," Anjali's voice came through, soft but direct. "I wanted to tell you… I'm sorry."

Aman's heart tightened at the words. "For what?"

"For leaving you with all of it. For walking away when you needed me." She paused, as if choosing her next words carefully. "I realize now that it wasn't fair to you."

Aman closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the couch. "You had your reasons."

"Maybe," Anjali said. "But I still should have been there for you."

There was a long silence between them, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air. Aman had spent so long resenting her, blaming her for leaving him to deal with their father's death and the aftermath of it all. But now, for the first time, he realized that she had been suffering too.

"I'm sorry too," he finally said. "For not understanding why you left."

They sat in silence for a moment longer, the conversation neither awkward nor uncomfortable—just the quiet acknowledgment of years of hurt and regret.

"Let's not lose touch again, okay?" Anjali said softly.

"Yeah," Aman agreed. "Let's not."

As he hung up the phone, Aman felt a strange sense of relief. The heaviness that had been following him since their father's death hadn't completely lifted, but it was lighter now. He wasn't carrying it alone anymore.

For the first time in years, Aman allowed himself to breathe.