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The journey of Bezubaan Ishq is getting deeper, darker, and more unforgettable.

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The city, that day, was louder than usual. Even the traffic seemed impatient — horns blaring like unresolved desires. Yet inside the house, time had slowed. The air was heavy, like it knew something irreversible was about to take place.

Meher folded laundry at the edge of her bed, her hands moving but her mind elsewhere. Every fabric she touched felt like memory. The shirt Ayaan wore on the first day. The towel she dried her hair with while he silently watched from the corridor. The scarf she dropped… and he picked up like it meant something.

Three days. That’s all he gave himself. That’s all she had left.

She didn’t know what she feared more — his presence or his absence.

Downstairs, Samar was fixing a pipe in the kitchen, humming a tune he’d always liked. Their mother spoke to the maid about groceries. And Ayaan…

Ayaan stood in the hallway, watching Meher from the shadow of the doorframe. She hadn’t seen him. Not yet.

But he had memorized her already.

The way she bit her lower lip when thinking.

The gentle crease between her brows when folding clothes.

The tiny scratch on her wrist she kept hiding with her bangles.

He should’ve looked away.

Should’ve walked away.

Instead, he stepped in.

“I’ll be gone by Sunday,” he said.

Meher startled, the shirt in her hand slipping to the floor.

She didn’t look at him. “I read the note.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “you said nothing.”

She finally turned. “What was I supposed to say?”

“That it means something to you.”

She stared at him. “It does.”

The silence between them thickened.

Then Ayaan stepped closer, voice low. “Meher... I’ll leave. I won’t let this ruin you. But don’t lie to me. Not now. Not when I’m already breaking.”

Something in her cracked.

She walked past him — her shoulder brushing his — then stopped.

Not turning, just standing. Breathing. Shaking.

“You think I’m not breaking too?” she whispered.

Ayaan closed his eyes, fists clenched. “Then tell me.”

Meher turned, tears threatening. “What’s the use? You’ll leave anyway.”

“I’ll stay if you say the word.”

She looked at him then, really looked.

And that’s when Samar’s voice echoed up the stairs.

“Bhabhi! Come down! We’re leaving in ten!”

They both froze.

Duty had a voice.

It always did.

She wiped her tears quickly, walking away without another glance.

And Ayaan?

He stood still.

A prisoner of choice.

A victim of timing.

The next day.

Samar, Meher, and Ayaan drove together to the outskirts — a temple visit. Something mother had insisted on. “For blessings,” she had said.

But blessings felt like a cruel joke now.

The temple stood high on a hill. White. Serene.

Ironically holy.

As they climbed the steps, Meher stumbled. Just a little. A sudden cramp.

Ayaan was behind her. His hand flew out, steadying her waist instinctively.

Their eyes locked.

She didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

But Samar saw.

Not the touch — that was gone too quickly.

He saw the look.

And for the first time, his smile faltered.

Samar didn’t speak for the rest of the climb. Not even a word.

He walked ahead, steps louder than necessary, his silence heavier than the temple bells that echoed in the wind.

Ayaan followed behind, his fingers still tingling from the touch of her waist, the warmth of her skin haunting his every breath.

Meher, caught between them, didn’t know who to feel guilty for—

The man she married…

Or the man who felt like home.

Inside the temple, incense smoke coiled in the air like unanswered prayers. The priest chanted mantras as garlands were offered, but the divine air was no match for the unholy storm swirling inside them.

As they stood before the deity, Samar folded his hands, whispering a quiet prayer.

Meher kept her eyes closed.

Ayaan didn’t pray. He watched her.

Her lashes trembled.

Her lips moved silently.

She looked like she was asking for forgiveness… or strength… maybe both.

When they stepped out, a sudden drizzle began — light at first, just a few rebellious drops. The kind of rain that made everything feel cinematic.

“Looks like the storm’s coming,” Samar said, almost absent-mindedly.

Ayaan replied without looking at him. “It’s already here.”

Meher flinched.

The drive back was even quieter than the climb up. Meher sat in the middle, Samar at the wheel, and Ayaan beside the window, lost in the blur of rain.

Then Samar said it.

Out of nowhere.

Without emotion.

Like he was reading a news headline.

“You two… have something going on?”

Meher’s breath stopped.

Ayaan turned slowly.

“What?” she whispered.

Samar didn't repeat. He kept driving.

“Stop the car,” Ayaan said.

Samar didn’t.

“I said, stop the damn car!” Ayaan shouted.

Samar slammed the brakes, tires skidding slightly in the wet mud. The silence afterward was deafening.

Meher’s heart pounded in her chest.

Ayaan leaned forward, voice rough. “I would never cross that line. No matter what I feel.”

Samar turned. “So, you do feel something?”

Ayaan didn’t reply.

That silence said everything.

Meher closed her eyes. Her fingers trembled on her lap.

“I trusted you, Ayaan,” Samar’s voice broke just a little. “You’re my brother.”

“And I still am,” Ayaan said, voice cracking. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

Samar shook his head, tears shining but refusing to fall. “You should’ve left before she looked at you the way she looks now.”

Meher gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth, shocked by how naked the truth sounded when spoken aloud.

Ayaan stepped out of the car, the rain soaking him instantly. He didn’t look back.

Not even once.

Meher stared at the road ahead.

And Samar?

He didn’t cry.

He simply drove on.

Silence louder than betrayal.

The rain poured harder now. It slapped against the windshield like an accusation, and Samar's grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Meher sat beside him, drenched in more than just water. The silence that followed Ayaan’s departure wasn’t peaceful—it was punishing.

Her throat burned with things unsaid.

He didn’t ask.

She didn’t explain.

The car became a confessional booth without confession.

Samar suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road. The tires crunched against the gravel and mud. The rain drummed on the roof.

He didn’t look at her. “How long?”

Meher swallowed. Her voice barely made it past her lips. “There’s nothing between us.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She stared at her lap, the mangalsutra heavy against her neck.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It wasn’t… planned.”

Samar laughed—a low, bitter sound. “No affair ever is.”

“It wasn’t an affair,” she snapped, the edge of guilt cutting into anger. “We never crossed that line.”

“But you wanted to.” His voice was sharp now. “And worse—he did too.”

Meher’s tears came fast. She turned to him, eyes red. “You think I’m proud of this? You think I sleep peacefully at night?”

Samar looked at her, finally. And for the first time, his pain wasn’t masked.

“You were mine, Meher,” he said. “Even if we were strangers in this marriage… you were still mine.”

The words hit her like a slap.

She opened the door, stepped out into the rain. The cold was a relief compared to the burn inside her chest.

Samar didn’t stop her.

She walked a few paces and stood on the roadside, under the thunderous sky, her body trembling.

A flash of lightning streaked across the clouds.

She whispered to herself, “Why did it have to be him?”

Behind her, Samar got out too. Rain soaked through his shirt, but he didn't care. He looked at her from a distance. The woman he had married. The woman he never really knew.

“You should’ve told me,” he said.

“I was scared,” she replied. “Of myself. Of losing everything.”

“You already have,” Samar whispered.

She turned slowly to face him.

“But I never meant to hurt you.”

“And yet,” Samar said, walking past her, “intent doesn't erase pain.”

He got back in the car.

Left her standing there.

Rain. Thunder. Silence.

Later that night, Meher returned to an empty house.

Ayaan's room was locked. His suitcase gone.

Samar’s room was dark. The door shut.

Her room—too bright, too quiet.

She walked to the kitchen. Stood at the same spot where it had all begun.

The midnight kitchen.

The glass of water.

The brush of fingers.

She leaned on the counter and let herself break. No more strength. No more pretending.

Somewhere outside, the rain slowed…

But the storm inside her?

It was just beginning.

Meher didn’t sleep that night.

The storm outside had calmed, but inside her, waves still crashed. She lay curled on her side, her eyes dry now—not because the tears had stopped, but because she’d run out of them.

The house, once silent, now felt haunted by everything unsaid. By footsteps that would never return. By glances that once lingered, but were now memories.

She got up slowly. Her feet cold against the floor.

She walked past Ayaan’s room again. Touched the locked door.

Her fingers hesitated on the doorknob…

But she didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Instead, she went to the balcony—the one that faced the temple dome. The air was fresh from the rain, and the moon was fractured in puddles below.

That’s how she felt.

Fractured.

Samar’s words echoed again.

> “You were mine, Meher…”

She wished she could scream.

She wished she could defend herself.

She wished she could say it wasn’t love. That it was just… comfort. Loneliness recognizing loneliness. Two silences speaking to each other.

But it would be a lie.

She had fallen.

Into Ayaan’s voice.

Into the warmth in his eyes.

Into the way he looked at her like he knew she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

And now he was gone.

She didn’t even get to say goodbye.

The next morning, the house was awake before she was.

Samar had already left.

The cook didn’t speak much.

The maid avoided eye contact.

Meher made tea she didn’t drink.

Laid a table she didn’t sit at.

She wandered back upstairs, her steps heavy.

This time, she stopped in front of Ayaan’s room again.

This time, she turned the knob.

It was unlocked.

Inside, everything was neat. Too neat.

Like someone had erased themselves carefully, so their absence wouldn’t be loud.

But absence doesn’t whisper—it screams.

She walked in slowly. Her fingers grazed the desk where he used to write. His journal was gone. But a single page remained tucked under a paperweight.

She hesitated.

Then picked it up.

"Some storms are worth walking into,

Even if they leave you drowning."

— A.

Her breath caught.

The ink was fresh.

He had written it for her. Or maybe for himself. She didn’t know. But it didn’t matter.

Because it meant he had felt it too.

This wasn’t imagination.

It wasn’t one-sided.

It wasn’t just a moment.

It was real.

And now… it was gone.

She folded the note gently and placed it in the folds of her saree. Close to her heart.

Downstairs, the world moved on. But Meher stayed in that room for a little longer.

In the ghost of a touch.

In the shadow of a glance.

In the wreckage of a love that never found its name.

She closed her eyes.

And whispered, “Why did we meet… if we were never meant to stay?”

The wind offered no answer.

But in the hush that followed, her heart replied with a truth she hadn’t dared admit—

She still wanted him.

Even now.

Especially now.

The note remained clutched in Meher’s palm as she sat on the edge of Ayaan’s now-empty bed.

The same bed where their fingers had brushed when she handed him the blanket.

The same space where their silences had once hummed louder than any words.

Now it was still.

Cold.

A museum of what could never be.

She traced the headboard absently, as if touching it would somehow bring him back. A shadow. A scent. Even an echo. But nothing came.

Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to remember the sound of his laugh.

She failed.

Her breath hitched.

In the garden downstairs, the gardener was humming an old tune.

Life outside the walls of her grief didn’t pause.

And that made it worse.

She stepped back into the hallway, and just as she turned, something on the floor caught her eye—a fallen pen. Ayaan’s favorite one. The one he’d borrowed from her during that night of poetry and chai.

She picked it up, heart stumbling.

As she held it, a memory came uninvited—

That night they’d sat together under the faint moonlight, him reciting a Ghalib couplet, his eyes half-lidded, his voice low like a secret meant only for her.

> “Ishq par zor nahi, yeh woh aatish Ghalib,

Jo lagaye na lage… aur bujhaye na bane…”

No control over love, he had said.

The fire that couldn’t be lit… or extinguished.

She hadn’t known then. But he had.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Until the front door creaked open.

She froze.

Footsteps. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Her breath hitched as she descended the stairs.

And there he was.

Ayaan.

Standing by the door. Wet from rain. Breathless.

Their eyes met.

Everything stopped.

No words. No questions. Just the storm between them now inside this house.

“You… came back,” she whispered, barely audible.

His voice was hoarse. “I couldn’t leave like that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of pain, of longing, of love too dangerous to speak.

“I left my pen,” he said, eyes flicking to her hand.

She held it tighter. “You left more than that.”

A step closer.

The air trembled between them.

“You think I don’t know?” she said, voice cracking. “You think I didn’t feel it too?”

He looked at her like she was light after months of darkness. “Then why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because I’m married to your brother.”

The truth was ugly. Brutal. Final.

And yet, neither of them moved away.

“Meher…” he stepped closer again. “This... whatever this is... it won’t leave me. I tried. I swear, I did. But I couldn’t.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

She looked at him with the kind of ache that only love built on guilt can carry. “Then don’t say anything else. Please… don’t make me choose.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then… he nodded.

Just once.

“I won’t,” he whispered. “But I’ll wait.”

She swallowed hard.

And before either of them could say another word, he turned—leaving again.

But this time, something had shifted.

They both knew they had crossed a line.

And there was no coming back.

The door closed behind Ayaan with a soft finality.

But the storm he brought in… still lingered.

Meher stood frozen at the foot of the stairs, the pen still in her hand. Her chest heaved like she’d run a marathon, but all she’d done was speak the truth she’d been denying for weeks.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t collapse.

She just… stood there.

Until Samar’s voice echoed from the upper floor.

“Meher?”

Her breath caught.

She quickly wiped her face, shoved the pen into the drawer by the side table, and turned just as Samar came down, adjusting his collar.

“There was a sound,” he said, looking around.

“Just the wind,” Meher replied, voice steady. Too steady.

Samar smiled. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

But her fingers trembled behind her back.

He kissed her forehead and muttered something about a meeting, unaware that the ruins of their marriage stood right beneath his feet.

As he walked out, Meher sat down on the edge of the sofa. The silence after he left was deafening.

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Later that night…

Rain pelted the windowpane like a rhythm she couldn’t ignore.

Meher opened her journal. The one she hadn’t touched since Ayaan left.

And for the first time since everything spiraled, she wrote:

“They say unspoken love is the heaviest to carry.

But ours…

Ours has weight, shape, sound.

A breath. A pause. A pen I still hide in my drawer.

What do I do with a love that dared not bloom,

Yet roots itself deeper with every silence between us?”

She stopped, closed the book, and let the tears fall.

This time, she didn’t wipe them away.

This time, she let them write their own story.

One where love didn’t need to be loud to be real.

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