Aayansh’s POV
I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that had happened over the past few days. So much had broken. So much had been said. And somehow… We were still standing.
Things weren’t perfect. They weren’t magically healed. But they were honest.
Ruhi had forgiven me. Not just me, everyone. For hiding things. For deciding for her. For thinking silence was safer than truth.
That alone felt unreal.
She wasn’t angry anymore. Not the sharp, burning anger at least. And that made me happy and relieved in a way I didn’t know how to explain. But the absence of her anger didn’t erase my guilt. If anything, it made me want to do more.
Not to impress her. Not to win points.
Just… to show her that I saw her. That I respected the woman she was becoming.
I knew I couldn’t undo the past. But maybe I could give her something that belonged only to the present.
Something chosen.Something gentle.
The thought made my chest tighten with nerves. What if she didn’t like it? What if it felt like pressure? What if I crossed a line without meaning to?
I kept reminding myself this wasn’t about grand gestures. It was about care.
Eventually, sleep crept in, carrying my thoughts with it.
The next morning
I woke up earlier than usual, my heart already restless. The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, soft and pale, like it hadn’t fully decided to arrive yet.
I checked my phone.
No message from her.
I got ready slowly, deliberately. Every movement felt weighted with intention. I kept replaying her words in my head, no pressure, no expectations, no decisions made for her.
Before leaving, I paused for a moment, my hand on the door and other hand a small diary, taking a deep breath.Whatever happens today, I told myself, let it be her choice.
And then I stepped out, carrying nothing but nervous hope and the quiet belief that sometimes, showing up gently was enough
The diary wasn’t new. I had bought it weeks ago, back when everything was still breaking and I didn’t know what fixing even meant. Plain cover. No color. No design.
I opened it again, reading the only line I’d written.
This diaryis for the truths I don’t get to decide for you anymore.
That was it.
No apology. No explanation. No promises I couldn’t keep.
I closed it and exhaled slowly.
When I reached her place later, I didn’t announce myself. I didn’t show up with energy or expectations. She let me in with a quiet nod, like she’d been doing lately.
We sat in her room.
Sunlight spilled through the window, catching dust in the air. Everything felt… ordinary.
And that mattered.
“I won’t take much time,” I said, breaking the silence. My voice was steady, even though my hands weren’t.
She looked at me, attentive but guarded. “Okay.”
I reached into my bag and took out the diary, holding it loosely instead of offering it right away.
“I don’t want to explain this,” I said. “Because explanations can start sounding like control again.”
Her gaze sharpened slightly.“So I’ll just give it to you.”
I placed it on the table between us and slid it toward her.
She didn’t touch it immediately.
I watched her eyes trace the cover, like she was bracing herself for something heavy.
“Open it,” I said gently. “Only if you want to.”
She did.
Her fingers turned the first page blank.Then the second.
She read the line once.Then again.
Her breath changed. Not a sob. Not a gasp. Just… deeper.
I didn’t speak. Minutes passed.
Finally, she looked up at me. “You didn’t write anything else.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Unless you ask me to.”
She closed the diary slowly, holding it against her palm like it was something fragile.
“This doesn’t mean I won’t still get angry sometimes,” she said.
“I know.”
“And I might write things you won’t like.”
“That’s the point.” I said you can write anything you want whatever you feel good or bad anything and just give it to me and ill make sure to correct the things and work on it together.
She studied my face, searching for something to fear, maybe. Or expectation.
She didn’t find either.
“You’re not asking me for forgiveness,” she said quietly.
“I already got it,” I replied. “I’m asking to earn your trust again. And that takes longer.”
Her eyes softened not completely, but enough.
She stood up, walked to the window, then turned back to me.
“This dairy,” she said, “isn’t a gift.”
I nodded. “It’s a responsibility.”
She came back and held it to her chest.
“For the first time,” she said softly, “it feels like my story belongs to me.”
My throat tightened.
“I never want to borrow it again,” I said. “Only listen if you choose to share.”
She didn’t smile.She stepped forward and rested her forehead briefly against my shoulder. Just for a second.
But it was her choice.And that made it everything.
She stayed there only for a heartbeat.Then she stepped back.
Not because she was scared.
Because she was choosing the distance as much as she had chosen the closeness.
I didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. I let the silence settle where it belonged.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You don’t have to reply to it,” I added after a moment. “You don’t even have to show it to me. It’s yours. Completely.”
She nodded, her fingers still curled around the diary. “I know.”
We stood there, unsure of what came next. This was the strange part of healing there was no script anymore. No roles. No expectations.
“I should go,” I said finally, not because I wanted to leave, but because I didn’t want to overstay the moment.
She hesitated. Just a second.
Then, Ill “Walk with you downstairs.”
My heart skipped not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to notice.We walked side by side again. Not touching. Not distant. The kind
Ruhi’s POV
I didn’t move when he stepped back.
For a moment, I just stood there, holding the Dairy to my chest like it might slip away if I loosened my grip. My heart was beating strangely, not fast, not panicked. Just… aware.
Of everything.
Of the fact that he hadn’t touched me unless I let him.
Of the fact that he hadn’t explained, defended, or wrapped the moment in pretty words.
Of the fact that for once, something had been given to me without being shaped in advance.
When he said he should go, I felt something unexpected, sharp and quiet.
Not because I needed him to stay. But because I wanted the choice to be mine.
“Walk with me downstairs,” I heard myself say before I could overthink it.
His eyes flickered, surprised, then soft. He nodded, once. No questions.
We walked out of the room together. The house felt different lately less like a place full of people watching me, more like a space that waited for me to speak first. Each step down the stairs grounded me. Each step reminded me that I wasn’t floating anymore. I was here. In my body. In my life.
He didn’t reach for my hand.
That mattered more than if he had.
I kept thinking about the dairy. About that single line inside it.
This diary is for the truths I don’t get to decide for you anymore.
No one had ever said that to me before. Not like this.
All my life, people had taken my silence as permission. My confusion as weakness. My pain is something to manage instead of understanding.
And now, here was something empty. Waiting. Not demanding to be filled.
At the bottom of the stairs, we stopped.
“I might write things that don’t make sense,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Some days I won’t even know what I’m feeling.”
“That’s okay,” he replied. “You don’t owe clarity to anyone.”
The words settled deep.
I looked at him then really looked. Not the version of him I’d loved blindly. Not the version I’d been angry at. Just… the man standing in front of me, trying to unlearn control and relearn patience.
“I’m still scared,” I admitted.
He didn’t say what. He didn’t rush to fix it.
“I know,” he said. And for once, I believed that he did.
I hugged the dairy tighter.
This wasn’t forgiveness wrapped up neatly with a bow.
This wasn’t a reunion sealed with promises.
It was quieter than that.
But as he turned to leave, and I watched him go without feeling abandoned, I understood something that made my chest ache in the best way:
For the first time, love didn’t feel like something I had to survive.
It felt like something I could step toward slowly, carefully.
Until I am ready.
And that dairy in my hands?
It wasn’t about the past.It was proof that my future finally belonged to me.
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