unspoken longing

Rakshit's POV

I was merely voicing my doubts to Aaliyah—sharing the storm raging within me. My intention was never to paint Ms. Anika as a villain. But no matter how much I try to be fair, I can't forget what she did. A woman so selfish that, for the sake of her own desires, she abandoned her little daughter and a husband like Aaditya Mittal—a man who was loving, devoted, and everything a husband should be.

And for what? A man who was only after her wealth. And now, when his true colors have been exposed, she has the audacity to waltz back into Radhya's and Uncle's lives, playing the victim. Did she even pause to consider the consequences of her return? That Aaditya is now married? That my mother is his wife? How disturbing this must be for both of them—their privacy, their peace, disrupted just because she decided to return?

And Radhya... the girl who never received a mother's love, who was never nurtured by her, is now the one taking care of her. The irony is as cruel as it is infuriating. Call me heartless, call me cruel, but I refuse to stand by and watch two of the most important people in my life suffer because of Ms. Anika.

I know my words must have hurt Radhya. But I don't regret a single one of them. Not even for a second. To me, everything that woman says, apart from her lies, is empty and meaningless. The power she holds—how could anyone bully her? And that too, a man with no identity of his own? A man who has survived on her scraps, who knows his place beneath her? That man wouldn't dare. No, something doesn't add up. My gut tells me there's a missing piece in this puzzle.

But that hardly matters right now because Radhya is even angrier with me. Earlier, she was just ignoring me—now, she seems to be on a mission to erase me from her world entirely.

The look on her face when she saw me standing at my door... I wasn't prepared for it. Her wide, shocked eyes bore into me, as if I was the last person she expected to see. And then, they turned cold. Accusing. Filled with a pain I wasn't sure I could bear to witness. It was as if someone had doused me in ice water, leaving me shivering from the inside out.

I followed her to her room, desperate to explain, to make her understand my side of things. But before I could say a word, she slammed the door in my face.

I knocked. Again. And again. But she didn't open it.

I knew she was hurt. And I understood. This was about her mother.

First, there was the distance between us because of that kiss. And now, this. Just when I try to bridge the gap, fate pulls us further apart. Maybe I'm cursed.

"Give her some time," Aaliyah's gentle voice pulled me from my thoughts. She placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, her touch filled with both concern and quiet urgency.

Maybe she was right.

With a heavy heart, I turned away and walked toward my room.

I know Radhya too well—until she clears her mind, she won't talk to me. And until then, all I can do is wait.

The night was long. Longer than usual.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the silence of my room pressing down on me. Sleep was a distant thought, overshadowed by the storm inside me. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Radhya's face—her piercing gaze, the disappointment in her eyes, the way she shut the door on me like I was nothing.

I had seen Radhya angry before, frustrated, even furious. But this… this was different. This hurt. And I caused it.

With a sigh, I sat up, running a hand through my hair. I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to check on her, even if from a distance.

Quietly, I stepped out of my room and walked toward hers. The hallway was dark, the only source of light coming from the faint glow of her bedside lamp visible through the gap beneath her door. She was awake.

I hesitated for a moment before raising my hand to knock. But just as my knuckles were about to touch the wood, I heard movement inside.

Then, a muffled sniffles.

I froze

.

Was she… crying?

A sharp pang shot through my chest. Radhya rarely cried. She was the kind of person who swallowed her pain, who laughed even when she was breaking. If she was crying now, it meant she was truly hurting.

And I was the reason for it.

I leaned against the door, pressing my forehead to the wood. I wanted to say something, to fix this, but what could I possibly say that would take away her pain?

"Radhya…" I whispered, my voice barely audible

.

Silence.

Then, the sound of movement.

For a brief second, I thought she might open the door. My breath hitched in anticipation.

But the next thing I heard was the distinct click of her lamp being turned off.

She was shutting me out. Completely.

A part of me wanted to keep knocking, to force her to talk to me. But I knew her too well—if I pushed her now, she'd only retreat further.

Defeated, I stepped back, glancing at her closed door one last time before walking away.

As I made my way back to my room, a single thought weighed heavy in my mind—

I had broken something tonight. And I wasn't sure how to fix it.

Two days had passed. Two long, agonizing days.

Not a single word had been exchanged between us. Forget words—Radhya wouldn't even spare me a glance.

And it was killing me from the inside.

She meant too much to me. More than I could ever put into words. Losing her—even for a moment—felt like dying a slow death. And yet, she was slipping away, putting up walls I couldn't break through. No matter how much I tried, she refused to give me a chance—to explain, to fix things, to just talk to her.

Every time I tried approaching her, she locked herself in her room. I couldn't talk in front of everyone, and now, frustration was clawing at my insides.

Tonight, after dinner, when she got up to leave, I didn't think—I simply followed.

Mom called out to me from behind, but I didn't stop. I didn't care about anything or anyone at that moment.

I just needed to talk to her.

She reached her room, her hand on the doorknob, just about to twist it open.

And that's when I did it.

I grabbed her wrist from behind and, before she could react, I pushed the door open and pulled her inside with me.

The door shut with a soft thud, sealing us in.

Before she could make sense of what had happened, before she could say a single word, I closed the distance between us—swiftly, desperately.

Her back hit the wall.

My hands caged her in, my chest pressing against hers, our breaths mingling in the thick silence.

Her stunned gaze met mine, wide with shock, her lips parting as if to protest. But no words came out.

For a moment, we just stood there—her trapped between the wall and me, her warm breath fanning against my skin.

"Bas. Bahut ho gaya, Radhya." My voice was low, strained with suppressed emotions. "Mujhse yeh aur bardasht nahi ho raha."

("Enough. This is it, Radhya," I said, my voice low, strained with suppressed emotions. "I can't take this anymore.")

She swallowed hard, her hands pushing weakly against my chest. "Rakshit—"

"Nahi," I cut her off, leaning in, our faces mere inches apart. "First, you'll listen to me. And this time, you won't run away."

She stilled, her lashes fluttering, her breath uneven.

My fingers gently brushed against her wrist, the same wrist I had held moments ago in desperation. My grip softened, but I didn't move away.

"You've been ignoring me for two days. But just look me in the eyes and tell me that none of this matters to you—even once—and I'll walk away," I whispered, my forehead almost touching hers.

Silence.

Her lips trembled, her eyes searching mine, as if looking for a way out. But there wasn't one. Not this time.

Because she knew.

And I knew.

She wasn't unaffected.

She never was.