Shaurya’s POV

When Siya came and told me Saaisha was awake but wanted to be alone.
I didn’t argue.

But something didn’t feel right.

She’d just had a panic attack.

And I’ve seen what those attacks do to her.

I’ve seen her body tremble like a storm is tearing through her.

I’ve seen her gasping for breath, scratching walls until her nails bled, until skin peeled off her fingers.

I’ve seen her break - quietly, painfully, again and again.

So no, I couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in my chest.

I walked toward her room, a strange chill running through me.

And when I reached the door…

I froze.

My heart… just stopped.

She was standing there.

Knife in hand.

Ready to slash her wrist.

It felt like ice water had poured through every vein in my body.
My breath caught. My fists clenched.

I wanted to scream, to rush to her, to yank that blade away

But something inside me told me to wait.

Was she aware of what she was doing? Or was it her trauma hijacking her again?

So I did the unthinkable.

Said the cruelest words I’ve ever let out of my mouth.

“Wahan se nahi… thoda upar se kaato. Jaldi mar jaaogi.”

She froze. Her breath hitched.

I stepped forward.

“Kyun ruk gayi?”

Her hands started trembling violently. The knife slipped from her grip and hit the floor with a dull thud.

She knew.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

This wasn’t just a panic attack. This was her breaking point.

I slowly exhaled. My chest burned.

“Mere saath chaliye,” I said softly.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Just stood there, eyes glued to the floor like she wished she could vanish into it.

I raised my voice slightly not in anger, but in urgency.

“Maine kaha, chaliye mere saath, Saaisha.”

She flinched.

And then… she looked at me.

And in that one look—I cursed myself.

Because for the first time…

I saw fear.

Fear of me.

And it shattered something deep inside.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a deep breath, forcing the softness back into my voice.

“Mere saath chaliye, Lotus… please.”

Her eyes widened—confused. Maybe even a little comforted by the name. But she didn’t react much. She just followed.

We walked in silence. Down the hallway, out of the house, into the car.

She didn’t ask where we were going.

Just stared out of the window like the world outside was too far away to reach her anymore.

I kept stealing glances at her.

Her hands were still trembling.

I could still feel that knife in her grip, like it was burned into my memory.

I didn’t take her to a therapist.

I didn’t take her to a doctor.

I took her to a place where stories like hers are not met with pity but with understanding.

An NGO my mother built ten years ago, a home for women the world tried to break, but who chose to rise anyway.

When we reached the NGO, I stepped out and opened the passenger door for her. She seemed lost in her thoughts, until I said softly, “Bahar aaiye.”

She blinked, coming out of her daze, and hesitantly stepped out of the car.

As we walked inside, an elderly woman in her fifties approached us with a warm smile. She lived here with the girls and looked after them like her own.

Saaisha’s eyes scanned the place filled with confusion, curiosity, and a hint of nervousness.

Just then, my phone rang. It was an important call. I turned to her and said gently, “I have to take this call. It’s important. I’ll be right here.”

Then I pulled out a small notepad and pen from my pocket and handed them to her—the only way she could communicate with them for now.

I always keep it with me.

Because with her… I never know when I’ll need it.

I didn’t take her there to say, “Look, others have suffered too.”

No.

That pain… It isn't a competition.

I took her there because I knew the why behind her suicide attempt.

It’s never about wanting to die.

It’s about believing there's no one left to listen.

Or worse, believing that even if someone listens, they’ll laugh. They’ll judge.

And I can promise her through words, but she needs more than words.

She needs to feel it.

While she spoke with Nandini—one of the strongest souls I know. I stood at a distance, phone to my ear, watching. Listening.

Nandini had lost her leg at eighteen.

The bastard who did it to her?

He died on a railway track.

I made sure of it.

He felt every bone in his body shatter—just like he shattered her life.

After having lunch with them, we came back home. I dropped her off and headed straight to work.

By the time I returned late that night, exhaustion weighed heavy on me. All I wanted was a few hours of quiet sleep.

But as I moved toward my room, the image of her holding that knife flashed in my mind.

My steps froze.

Without thinking, I turned and walked to her room. I needed to make sure she was okay.

As I neared the door, the faint scent of paint wrapped around me strangely vivid, almost nostalgic.

I remembered the day I brought her those art supplies.

I had just found out she was a topper at her art college.

I thought maybe... just maybe...

If I gave her something that once gave her peace, it might help with the silence.

With the screams she couldn't voice.

With the nightmares that left her gasping at 3 a.m.

So I bought everything.

The best paints. Every brush type. Sketchbooks.

Even a custom easel.

Not because I expected her to use them right away...

But because I wanted her to know

She still had that part of her.

But days passed.

She never touched them.

I think today she used that paints-her art and I wanted to look at it.

But when I looked around, there were no brushes. No canvases. No open tubes or stained cloths.

Just her.

Sitting silently on the armchair by the window, staring out, completely lost in thought.

I knocked gently.

She turned to look at me, surprised.

“May I?” I asked.

She gave a small nod.

As I stepped inside, my eyes instinctively scanned the room—searching for colors, signs of creation. But there was nothing.

Until I saw a small stack of paper resting neatly on the table.

I picked up the first one. It was entirely black. Dark. Heavy.

A strange uneasiness gripped me excitement, curiosity, and fear, all tangled together.

I turned to look at her. She was already watching me eyes wide, fingers fidgeting, teeth digging into her lower lip.

Waiting. Wondering.

I didn’t want to react in front of her. Didn’t want her to read too deeply into whatever emotion might crawl onto my face.

So I asked gently, “Can I take these with me? Just for tonight. I’ll return them tomorrow.”

She hesitated, then gave a soft nod.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Now get some rest. It’s late.”

She nodded again.

I left the room with the stack of paintings pressed tightly to my chest.

Sleep was no longer an option.

Now, I sat in my home office, the door shut behind me. The night is still. The silence loud.

I glance down at the sheets in my lap.

And for some reason… I feel like I’m not ready.

Not for what I might see.

Not for what she’s silently screaming through these colors.

But I owe it to her to look.

To feel.

To understand.

The first paper…

Just black.

Not a shape, not a line only a pitch-dark sheet as if warning me: Don’t go further unless you’re ready to see the truth.

I set it aside.

The next one

A heart. Not the kind you doodle in margins, but a raw, anatomical heart.

Drawn entirely in black, scarred with deep gashes, like it had been stabbed again and again.

No blood.

Just silence.

As if it had long stopped feeling pain.

Something inside me shifted. My fingers curled into fists as I swallowed hard and moved on.

The third sheet.

A girl... sitting with her back turned to the world.

But it’s her back that tells the real story

Covered in welts and deep scars, like someone punished her over and over… not to kill her, but to break her.

As if they wanted the pain to settle into her bones

To haunt her silently every time she tried to breathe.

Each lash was a message: “You are nothing.”

Each scar, a reminder: “You will never forget.”

My hands tightened around the sheet.

A thick lump rose in my throat, and I couldn’t swallow it down this time.

I blinked hard… but the sting in my eyes remained.

turned to the next.

And then

My breath hitched. The paper almost slipped from my hands. I gripped it tighter, forcing myself to look.

A girl lies limp.

Multiple hands restrain her—

One covering her mouth.

Another yanking her hair.

One on her throat.

One on her chest.

But her eyes...

Her eyes are wide, pleading not for mercy, but for it to just stop.

To be left alone.

To be free.

My breathing faltered. Rage crawled up my spine.

I swear to you, Lotus... whoever did this to you will suffer tenfold. I promise you that.

There was only one sheet left.

My heart thundered. My hands trembled.

Do I even have the strength to face this one?

But this isn’t about me.

It’s about her.

Her pain. Her truth.

And if I want to be the one to carry even a fraction of her sorrow, then I have to see it. All of it.

I picked up the last sheet.

She lies there.

Naked.

Bruised.

Arms curled tightly around her chest, trying to shield what little she can.

Half-conscious. Half-slaughtered.

Exactly how I found her that night.

Every single painting in black.

Not a drop of color.

As if her world was drained of everything but shadows.

She wore white to show us she’s still standing.

She painted in black to show us she’s still bleeding.

I was the one who gave her paints through which she can scream and share her thoughts.

And she did.

But now... what do I have to offer her in return?

I don’t know how to give her hope when every brushstroke is a cry for help.

Yes, she painted her pain... but I promised to be the one to help her heal.

"Mai aisa kya karun... jisse uske zakhm gehre hone ki jagah bharna shuru ho jaye?"

"Aisa kya karun... jisse uske dard mein halka sa  sukoon utar aaye?"

"Aisa kya karun... jisse usse umeed mile... ki der se hi sahi, sab theek ho jayega?"

“Aisa kya karun… jisse woh mujhe pai thoda sa bharosa kar sakhe.”
("What should I do... so that instead of deepening, her wounds start to heal?"

"What should I do... so that a little peace finds its way into her pain?"

"What should I do... so that she finds hope... that even if late, everything will be okay?"

"What should I do... so that she can trust me... even if just a little?")
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