📚✨ If this story has moved you even a little,

do Like ❤️

Comment your thoughts 💭

Share it with someone who understands unspoken emotions.

Your support means everything!

Follow me for more chapters

Instagram: @author_syncs

📩 Email: santusyncs@gmail.com

The first week after the wedding passed in a quiet blur.

For the world, Meher and Samar looked like a dream — a picture-perfect couple. Their social media was filled with warm portraits from their honeymoon in Udaipur, where lakes shimmered like secrets and old palaces held stories older than time.

But in private, Meher was like water — calm on the surface, turbulent beneath.

Samar was gentle, always. Too gentle.

He noticed her pauses, her distant gaze, her delayed responses — but he never asked.

Maybe he already knew.

Maybe he was choosing silence over answers.

One night, they sat on the rooftop of their new apartment, the city lights flickering below like a thousand unsaid things. Samar handed her a cup of chai.

“I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you,” he said quietly, watching the sky.

Meher's fingers curled around the cup. Warm. Safe. Heavy.

“I know,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to love me back today,” he added after a pause. “But I hope, one day, you’ll see me.”

Her heart cracked a little at the edges.

Because she did see him.

That was the problem.

He deserved all the love in the world. He deserved someone who didn’t flinch at his touch. Someone who didn’t search for another pair of eyes across a room full of people.

But Meher was not that woman.

Not yet.

Not when her heart still responded to a voice it wasn’t supposed to.

That night, when Samar fell asleep beside her, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan. Spinning. Circling. Never resting.

A message buzzed on her phone.

She reached for it quietly, her heart thudding.

Ayaan: Stop pretending you’re happy. It’s killing me.

She stared at the screen for a long time.

Then deleted the message.

Not because she didn’t feel the same.

But because if she responded, everything would shatter.

Again.

The days blurred, but the silence inside Meher only sharpened.

Samar had started coming home later from the hospital — not out of neglect, but perhaps out of grace. He gave her space without asking why she needed it. That was his way of loving her: gentle, quiet, dignified.

She hated that kindness sometimes.

Because it made her feel like the villain in her own marriage.

On a rainy Friday evening, Meher found herself alone again in the apartment. The storm outside echoed the one inside her chest. The city lights blurred behind the water sliding down the windows, and a familiar loneliness crept in.

She stood by the window, her wedding bangles clinking softly as she held a warm cup of coffee. And then, without planning to, she picked up her phone and opened her gallery.

There it was — a photo taken months ago.

Ayaan, half-laughing, half-arguing with her about the ending of some film they'd both hated. His eyes alive. Her face glowing.

She hadn’t smiled like that since.

A knock at the door startled her.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

When she opened it, her heart stumbled.

It wasn’t Ayaan. But it might as well have been.

It was a package. A book, wrapped in brown paper, no sender mentioned.

She opened it slowly, her fingers trembling. Inside was a note tucked between pages.

> “In the margins of every life, there’s a story no one dares to write. You were mine. – A.”

She closed the book, her breath catching.

Every wall she had built threatened to fall.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile.

She just sat on the floor, holding the book to her chest like a sin she didn’t have the courage to confess.

That night, Samar came home, drenched from the rain, smiling gently. He kissed her forehead as always and asked, “Did you eat?”

She nodded.

He didn’t press further.

And once again, they went to sleep as two strangers under the same sheet — one trying, the other surviving.

Meher’s eyes stayed open long into the night.

In her mind, Ayaan’s words echoed louder than the thunder.

> “You were mine.”

The next morning, Meher stood before the mirror, staring at herself.

There was nothing wrong with her reflection.

The sindoor still graced her parting. The mangalsutra still rested above her heart. Her face still carried the warmth and softness that Samar adored. And yet…

She felt like she was wearing someone else’s story.

In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. She walked toward it, more out of routine than intention. Her fingers reached for two cups — instinct again — and she paused. Samar was still asleep.

But even before she could stop herself, she made tea for both.

By the time Samar entered the kitchen, towel draped around his neck and hair damp from a shower, she had placed his cup on the table.

He smiled. “You read my mind.”

She returned the smile. That practiced, polite smile.

They sipped their tea quietly.

Moments like these made her ache in strange ways — because they looked so perfect on the outside. Two people in domestic bliss. And yet, inside her, something fragile was screaming for honesty.

Samar glanced at her, as if sensing something. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

Meher froze.

This was the opening. The moment to say everything.

But she looked up, her lips parting… and the words never came.

Instead, she shook her head. “Just tired. That’s all.”

Samar nodded, not pressing. “We could go away somewhere, maybe? Just the two of us. Get some air. Change of scenery.”

It sounded lovely.

It sounded unbearable.

Because no matter where they went, she would carry this silence with her. And the ghost of the man she shouldn’t be thinking about.

Later that day, she stood at her dressing table, running her fingers along the edge of the book Ayaan had sent. She hadn’t opened it again. She didn’t need to.

His words had already settled like ink in her chest.

That evening, as Samar prepared to leave for a night shift, he lingered at the door a moment longer than usual.

“Meher…”

She turned.

He looked at her gently. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… tell me when you're ready. I’m not going anywhere.”

And then he left.

She closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it, her heart both breaking and grateful.

In the stillness of that night, Meher stood at the window again, the city lights flickering like little truths waiting to be spoken.

And deep in her bones, she realized something.

She loved Samar for all the right reasons.

But she felt Ayaan for all the wrong ones.

And maybe… that’s what made it impossible to forget him.

That night, the house was quieter than usual.

The ticking of the old wall clock echoed louder. Every tick reminded Meher of time slipping through her fingers — time that belonged to someone she never truly said goodbye to.

She sat on the floor of her bedroom, back resting against the bed, a soft shawl wrapped around her shoulders. In her lap, the book Ayaan had written remained unopened, still wrapped in brown paper.

She hadn’t had the courage to open it. Not yet.

But tonight… something inside her cracked. A quiet rebellion. A need not for answers — but for connection.

With trembling fingers, she tore through the paper.

The cover was simple. Elegant. Just like him.

She flipped to the first page. A note fell out. Handwritten.

> "To Meher —

Some truths are too sacred for noise.

This is everything I couldn’t say.

— Ayaan."

Her heart clenched.

She didn't read the whole book that night — she didn’t have to. She only needed the first chapter. Every sentence, every line, sounded like Ayaan’s voice in the room with her — warm, poetic, restrained. Haunted.

He hadn’t forgotten her. He had turned their silence into sentences. Their moments into metaphors.

And now they lived between the lines.

The next morning, Meher awoke on the floor, the book resting beside her like a secret lover.

Samar was already gone — he had left early, probably not wanting to disturb her.

On the breakfast table, she found a small note in his handwriting.

> “Didn’t want to wake you. Let’s talk tonight?”

She stared at it for a long while.

Yes. They did need to talk.

But she didn’t know how to start a conversation that could ruin everything.

Later that day, as she walked to the balcony with her phone, her fingers hovered over Ayaan’s contact. She didn’t call him. But she didn’t delete his number either.

Instead, she typed a message…

> “I opened it.”

And hit send.

No ‘hi.’ No ‘hope you’re doing well.’ Just that.

A few minutes later, a reply buzzed.

> “Then you already know how I’ve been.”

Outside, the sky began to cloud over.

Inside Meher’s heart, it had already started raining.

The story wasn’t just hers anymore. It belonged to three hearts now — one who gave her everything, one who wrote her into pages, and one… that still didn’t know which side she truly stood on.

Meher stood in the shower far longer than usual. Water ran down her skin, but it couldn’t wash away the guilt blooming inside her.

Ayaan’s message echoed in her mind.

> “Then you already know how I’ve been.”

He had loved her — maybe he still did.

And she? She wasn’t sure what she felt anymore.

Samar had been nothing but kind. Gentle. Loving. Their marriage had begun with unfamiliarity, but he was trying. She knew it. Last night, when he’d kissed her forehead before sleeping, there had been warmth in his touch — the kind that asked for permission rather than demanded love.

She appreciated him.

But appreciation wasn’t the same as longing.

Not the kind she’d once felt for Ayaan — that wild, unspeakable pull that lived in the silence between their glances. The way time would slow when their hands brushed accidentally, and everything would crackle with something unsaid.

That kind of love didn’t fade easily.

That kind of love left shadows even in sunlight.

Later that evening, as the golden hour painted the house in soft hues, Meher found herself in the living room, flipping through an old family album.

There, nestled between childhood photos, she saw one of Ayaan. He was standing at the edge of a lake, holding a book, wind ruffling his hair, eyes lost somewhere distant.

It was how she remembered him best — always partly present, partly elsewhere.

“Meher?” Samar’s voice broke her thoughts.

She looked up.

He was holding two mugs of tea.

She smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

He sat beside her, a little closer than usual. “You’ve been quiet today.”

She hesitated, then looked at him. “Do you ever wonder... if we rushed this?”

He didn’t flinch. “Sometimes. But I also think... maybe we needed to.”

Silence.

She sipped her tea slowly. “You’re good to me, Samar. Better than I deserve.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m not trying to be good. I’m just... trying to be enough.”

That broke her.

She looked away, blinking back the tears. “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He placed his hand over hers.

And she didn’t pull away.

But her heart didn’t race either.

That night, Meher lay awake, watching the moonlight spill across the bed. Her phone buzzed again.

Another message from Ayaan.

> “I’m not asking you to come back. I just want to know... do you still feel it too?”

She stared at it.

Typing…

Deleting…

Typing again.

Finally, she replied:

> “I feel everything. That’s the problem.”

And with that, she turned off the light.

Torn between the man she married…

And the man who still lived in her heart.

The house was quiet the next morning, the kind of quiet that didn’t soothe — it echoed.

Meher stood in the kitchen, her hands steady as she prepared tea, but inside, she was trembling. Every sound — the soft boil of water, the clink of the spoon — seemed louder than usual.

She heard footsteps.

Ayaan entered, dressed in a simple kurta, eyes a little red, as if he hadn’t slept either.

He stopped at the entrance, watching her from a distance. “Good morning.”

She didn’t look at him. “Tea?”

He nodded. “Only if you made it.”

Meher handed him the cup without a word. Their fingers didn’t touch. She made sure of that.

But Ayaan — his gaze lingered, searching her face.

“I wasn’t trying to make things hard for you last night,” he said softly. “I just… I needed to be honest.”

She exhaled. “Some truths don’t need to be said out loud, Ayaan.”

“Maybe. But they don’t stop being true.”

The tension stretched between them like a violin string pulled too tight.

Samar entered suddenly, his presence calm, grounding.

“Morning, bhai,” he said, clapping Ayaan’s back.

Meher watched them — two brothers, unaware of the emotional war waging in her chest.

“We were just talking about tea,” Ayaan replied, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good,” Samar said, walking up to Meher, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “You’re my best reason to wake up.”

Meher froze.

Her smile wavered. “You’re sweet.”

And Ayaan looked away.

Later that evening, a light drizzle fell outside, tapping gently on the windows like an old memory wanting to be let in.

Meher found herself alone in the study, staring at the old typewriter Ayaan used to write his stories. She touched one of the keys absently. A faint imprint of his world still lingered there — metaphors and confessions in ink.

She sat.

Closed her eyes.

And whispered into the quiet, “Why did life bring me here?”

Behind her, the door creaked.

She turned — it was Ayaan.

He didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his expression unreadable. And for a second, neither did she.

Because words… had betrayed her once before.

So she stayed silent.

And in that silence, everything between them screamed.

That night, Meher lay beside Samar, his arms wrapped gently around her like vines growing toward the warmth of light. His breath was even. His sleep, peaceful.

Hers wasn't.

Her eyes stared at the ceiling, tracing invisible cracks that weren’t there — much like the ones forming inside her.

Samar shifted in his sleep, murmuring her name, the soft weight of love resting on her chest. She turned slightly, watching his face — so trusting, so kind. He had no idea. About her turmoil. About the moments stolen when no one was watching. About the silence between his wife and his brother that now said too much.

She hated herself for what her heart had begun to feel. For the ache that shouldn't exist. For the way her body remained next to Samar’s, but her soul… lingered elsewhere.

Her fingers curled into the bedsheet.

She couldn’t cry. She had no right.

But her breath came shallower now.

She remembered Ayaan in the hallway earlier — the way he looked at her without expectation. The way he saw her pain even when she wore her best smile.

She remembered his words from yesterday.

"It’s not just you. I feel it too. And I hate that I do."

Meher closed her eyes.

And for a second, in the darkness, she allowed herself to imagine an alternate life — one where she hadn’t married Samar. One where her first glance and first pull had been toward Ayaan, not through him.

But only for a second.

Because fantasy was a luxury she could no longer afford.

The next morning was overcast. A gray sky mirrored her thoughts.

Meher stood on the terrace, clutching her cup of chai tightly. Below, the house stirred to life — servants setting breakfast, her in-laws talking softly in the drawing room, and somewhere inside, Ayaan’s voice… laughing.

She turned sharply.

That laugh. It was rare.

And it hit her in the chest like a forgotten melody.

She walked back inside.

In the hallway, they crossed paths.

Ayaan slowed, brushing past her with a cautious look. “You didn’t sleep,” he said softly, not as a question.

“No.”

“I didn’t either.”

She didn’t reply.

“You ever wish things had happened differently?” he asked, not looking at her.

Meher’s throat tightened. “Wishing is dangerous.”

“So is silence.”

There it was — the unspoken between them, wrapped in gentle words, covered in restraint.

But just then, Samar’s voice echoed from the other room: “Meher, where are you, love?”

Ayaan stepped back.

She forced a smile toward her husband’s voice, then looked at Ayaan one last time before turning away.

She walked back into the room where she was loved.

And left behind the man who understood her silence.

.

.

.

.

To be continued...