Jhanvi's POV:

 The days after that evening passed in a strange blur.

Everything around me looked the same—our home, my room, the sun filtering through the windows in the morning—but inside me, something had changed forever. It was as if a part of my heart had gone quiet, like a song that had suddenly stopped mid-note.

I didn’t cry much. Not the way people expect someone to when they’re heartbroken. It was a quieter kind of pain—the kind that settled deep in my chest and stayed there, heavy and unmoving. I smiled when spoken to, nodded when asked something, and went through the motions like nothing had happened. Only I knew the ache that lived behind the calm on my face.

 At night, though, the silence of my room would wrap around me, and that’s when it would hit me hardest. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything—every word Arjun said, every moment we shared, and every dream I had painted in secret. I would clutch my pillow and let the tears fall silently, letting the sadness wash over me in waves I couldn’t stop.

What hurt the most wasn’t that Arjun didn’t love me—it was that I had never even seen it coming. I had loved him so purely, so deeply, for so long… and all that time, he had been loving someone else. Someone I knew. Someone I called my sister.

 I didn’t blame Ayesha. Not really. Love isn’t something you can control, and neither of them had done anything to hurt me on purpose. But that didn’t make it easier. I avoided her those first few days—not because I was angry, but because I didn’t know how to look her in the eye without feeling the sting of what I’d lost.

Mama noticed. She asked if something was wrong, if I wasn’t eating well, if I was tired. I gave her quiet answers and small smiles, not ready to let her into the mess that lived inside me. I wasn’t ready to speak it aloud. Saying it out loud would make it real all over again.

So, I turned to the only thing that had always brought me peace—our garden.

 Every morning, I began going there alone. I would kneel beside the flower beds, feeling the soil between my fingers, trimming wilted petals, pulling out weeds. It was a small kind of healing, but it helped. The flowers didn’t ask questions. The earth didn’t judge my silence. And for those few moments, I could just be.

Slowly, I began to breathe again. Not fully. Not freely. But enough.

One morning, while watering the marigolds, I whispered to myself, “Maybe some love stories are meant to live only in your heart.”

And somehow, that made it a little easier to carry.

 I still thought of him. I still missed the way he laughed, the way he listened to my silly stories, the way we used to plant seeds together and talk about life. But I knew now that some bonds are not meant to grow into love, no matter how much you water them.

And maybe, just maybe, in time… I would find a new kind of love. One that was meant for me. One that saw me the way I had seen him.

But for now, I just let myself heal—quietly, gently, and on my own.

Note to Readers

The story is a slow-paced, mysterious and emotional one. So, the initial chapters will be slow and as you read, it will start becoming interesting in further chapters.

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