"Isha wasn't a mistake. Losing her will be." His voice broke at the edge.
Priyal tried to reach for his hand, but he recoiled. "I was wrong to let you back in."
He walked past her, grabbing his keys, his phone, his resolve.
Reem opened the door to find him standing there in the rain. Isha was still on the balcony. Karan's eyes went straight to her.
"I`m not here to explain my mistake, "he said, voice thick. "I just want you to know… she staged it. I didn't kiss her. I didn't touch her back. But I froze. And I'm sorry. Not because you left. But because I made staying so hard."
Isha stood, wrapping her shawl tighter. She didn`t look at him and said, "What are you asking from me, Karan?"
"Nothing," he whispered. "I'll wait. For however long it takes."
Reem gave him a look, part sympathetic, part cautious, as he turned and left.
That night, Isha opened her phone. A message from Karan:
You're not a choice. You're the only truth I forgot how to protect.
She didn't reply.
But for the first time in days, she slept without crying.
And across the city, Karan sat on the cold floor of their room, staring at the shut door, holding onto nothing but hope and the memory of how she once smiled when he kissed her forehead.
Because now, more than ever, he realized: the house wasn't a home without her in it.
The next morning, the gates creaked open. Karan's mother walked into the house with two bags in her hand and the weight of something unspoken on her face. She had returned from her sister's after a week away, expecting warm laughter, some mess, and maybe a bit of music. Instead, she stepped into silence so sharp it made her stop at the threshold.
"Karan?" she called.
No answer.
She found him in the living room, sitting on the floor, back against the couch, his eyes dull, beard grown in, the television playing static.
She sat beside him, quietly. A few minutes passed before she finally asked, "Where is she?"
Karan didn't move, his gaze fixed on nothing, distant and hollow. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks—no words, no sighs, just a quiet ache etched into every line of his face.
His mother didn't flinch. "And you let her go?"
Karan lowered his head onto his mother's lap, and the dam finally broke. "I didn't stop her," he whispered, his words muffled between sobs. His chest heaved with the weight of unspoken pain, the kind that had been sitting heavy and unexpressed for far too long. Tears soaked through her dupatta as his hands clutched the fabric of her kurta like a child seeking shelter in a storm.
She turned, her voice gentle but cutting.
"Do you know what real love is, Karan? It's not about grand gestures when things are easy. It's about fighting like hell when it gets hard. It's about standing in the fire, not running from the smoke."
Karan's throat tightened. "I froze. I didn't betray her, maa. But I didn't fight either. Not when it mattered."
She placed a hand on his head, brushing through his hair. "Then fight now."
That night, the lanes outside Isha's building were unusually quiet. The clock ticked past midnight. A few dogs barked, and window lights began to dim. Then suddenly, the silence broke.
A familiar voice echoed softly through the alleyways.
Karan stood near the corner chai stall, guitar in hand, softly singing the song he once played for Isha when she was sick and cranky and refusing to eat. The same song that made her laugh back then, off-tune and silly. But this time, it was slower, aching, real.
Reem peeked through the curtain, startled. "Oh my God," she whispered. "Isha… come here."
Isha, wrapped in her blanket, stood still at the window. She didn't laugh, didn't smile, but didn't cry either. A storm of emotions churned in her chest: confusion, ache, a flicker of something soft. Her heart paused as her eyes fixed on him, that familiar boy now a stranger, standing in the street as though the world had collapsed inside him.
Karan, in that street, beneath the flickering streetlight, strumming like the world ended and music was all that remained.
He wasn't performing. He was confessing.
"Let it be, let go of these distances,
Without you, I wouldn't be able to survive…"
He paused. Looked up toward her balcony. His eyes found hers. He didn't smile. Didn't plead.
He just… waited.
Reem whispered, "He's been standing here for an hour."
Tears welled up in Isha's eyes.
Later that week, she found a note tucked in her window grill:
I won't defend what I failed to do. But I'll prove what I still can.
Over the next few days, the efforts didn't stop. He began showing up at Reem's gate with coffee for both of them. Left little paper cranes with old jokes they once laughed about. One day, he even called the kulfi stall, which used to be Isha's childhood favorite. Reem's whole neighborhood watched, some shaking their heads, some smiling.
But Karan never crossed a line. Never demanded. Just remained.
One night, Reem asked Isha, "Why haven't you spoken to him?"
Isha exhaled. "Because I want to be sure he's not doing this to undo guilt. I want to know if he's doing it… because he still loves me."
Reem tilted her head. "And what do you feel when you see him out there?"
Isha looked down. A single tear slipped down her cheek.
"Home," she said. "I feel like I'm looking at home."
And outside, Karan looked up once more, not knowing what tomorrow held.
But still… he waited. Because for the first time in years, he was learning what it meant to deserve love. And he would fight for it.
With songs. With silence. With everything he still had left.