Carter's POV
I wait.
Not like I waited at the café, watching the clock tick past minutes that never came back. This wait is different. It's quieter. Darker. Like a void I've stepped into without knowing how deep it really goes. With each passing second, the darkness grows more familiar, wrapping around me like an old friend I never wanted to meet again.
I wait for a message.
Just one. Anything. A "sorry," a "let's talk," even a "leave me alone" that doesn't sound like it came from someone else's mouth. But the screen stays dark. The silence stretches. It's thick, gnawing at me like guilt I don't know how to shake—guilt for believing, for hoping, for letting myself trust that something beautiful could last.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I misread everything—her smiles, the way she looked at me like I mattered, like she saw me even when I didn't want to be seen. The way her fingers would brush against mine when we exchanged sketchbooks, lingering just a moment too long to be accidental. The tiny sigh she would release when she thought I wasn't listening, like she was letting go of something heavy she'd been carrying all day. Maybe I was just someone to pass the time with, someone she used to escape her picture-perfect world for a second. A distraction.
But even as I think it, I don't believe it. Because when she said I was just a stranger, her eyes trembled.
Not her voice. Not her words. Just her eyes.
Like they didn't agree with anything her mouth was saying. Like they were screaming a truth her lips refused to form.
I replay the fight like a broken reel in my head, each word hitting harder the more I remember it. The way her hands shook when she said she loved Aaron. The way she couldn't look at me when she said we couldn't even be friends. The subtle crack in her voice when she told me to leave.
The way she looked like she was drowning and still refused to reach for me.
I should hate her for it. Should be angry, or at least numb. But I'm not. I'm hollow. Emptied out like someone reached inside and scooped everything away, leaving only the raw edges of what used to be there.
I walk home in the rain even though it isn't raining. My shoes drag against the pavement like I'm sleepwalking. People pass me, cars honk, and city lights blink. It all feels like a dream I can't wake from. The world continues turning, indifferent to the fact that mine has stopped.
Back in my apartment, I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
I toss it on the table like it's betrayed me and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to scrub away the image of her face. The way she looked the last time we met at the studio, her eyes wide and wounded, when I asked why she hadn't shown up. The way her lips parted like she wanted to say something else—something true—she sealed them shut again.
I want to forget her.
But I can't.
And that scares me more than anything else.
Because I think I have some feelings for her. Hard. Deep. Without a parachute. And now there's nothing but air beneath me, miles of emptiness before I hit the ground.
My apartment feels too small now. Too empty. The walls seem to close in, reminding me that I'm alone again. That I'll always end up alone.
I reach for the sketchbook on my nightstand—the one I've filled with her. Her eyes, her hands, the curve of her neck when she bent over her drawings. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. I've captured every detail, trying to preserve something I knew, somehow, I was going to lose.
My fingers trace the outlines, and I wonder if she knew. If she could tell from the way I drew her that I was already in too deep. That she had become the air in my lungs, the beat in my chest, the color in a world that had been grey for so long.
I slam the book shut and throw it across the room.
It lands with a dull thud against the wall, then falls to the floor, pages splayed open like a wounded bird.
This has to stop.
I have to stop.
I grab my jacket and keys, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of memories in this room. The night air is cold against my face as I step outside, but I welcome it. It's something real. Something I can feel besides this ache.
Outside, the city is alive with light and sound, oblivious to my pain. People laugh, argue, love, live—all around me, while I'm frozen in place, stuck between wanting to forget and being terrified that I might.
Because forgetting Aishwariya means forgetting the first time in years that I felt something real.
And I'm not ready to let that go.
Aishweriya's POV
I close the door to my room as quietly as I can, even though I know Aaron's not home right now. Still, I feel like I'm being watched. Always. Judged. The weight of invisible eyes follows me everywhere, measuring my steps, counting my breaths, waiting for me to make another mistake.
I sit on the floor and pull my sketchbook from under the mattress.
It's the only place he won't look. Or maybe he just doesn't care anymore, now that he's taken my phone. My freedom. My voice. The last connections I had to a world outside these walls.
He said it was for my safety. Said too many distractions were making me "emotional." Said the world outside didn't understand me the way he did. And when I protested—when I raised my voice and told him he had no right—he smiled.
That awful, calm, practiced smile that never reaches his eyes. The smile that says he's already won, and I'm just wasting energy fighting it.
And he said, "Aishwariya, I'm protecting you. You just don't see it yet."
So I let him take the phone.
Not because I agreed. But I was too tired to keep fighting. Because every battle with him leaves me a little more hollow, a little more broken. Because every time I stand up, something inside me crumbles a little more.
But I know I did the right thing with Carter.
It burns beneath my skin, this certainty mixed with an emptiness I can't explain. Even as I sit here, trapped in this beautiful cage, part of me is still screaming, still reaching for something I'm not allowed to have, even though I know it's better this way.
Carter's face flashes behind my eyes the second my pencil hits the page. His eyes, full of disbelief and hurt, asked me why I didn't come. Asking me why I was pretending. The slight tremble in his voice when he asked if anything between us was real. The way his hands hung at his sides, not reaching for me, as if he already knew the answer.
He didn't yell. He didn't beg. He just stood there, waiting for me to tell the truth.
And I didn't.
I told him I loved Aaron.
I told him he was just a stranger.
I watched the light in his eyes dim like a candle being slowly extinguished, and I did nothing to save it.
God.
I press my hand to my chest like I can stop the ache from crawling deeper. Like I can physically hold back the tide of confusion that threatens to drown me every time I breathe.
He doesn't know the truth. He doesn't know Aaron blocked his number or read my messages before deleting them. He doesn't know I sat in this room with my fists clenched, screaming into a pillow when I couldn't reach him. That I cried myself sick. That I've traced his name on my palm a thousand times since then, a secret prayer I keep to myself.
And he never will. Because I made sure of it.
I told him to leave. Told him we shouldn't meet again.
He said okay.
And then he walked away.
I haven't heard from him since.
I haven't felt whole since.
I tell myself it's better this way. That I've protected him from the mess my life has become. That if he knew how tightly I'm being held in place—by my father's expectations, by Aaron's threats, by my own fear—he would've done something reckless.
He would've stayed.
And I can't let him do that.
I can't ruin him, too.
This was the right choice. The only choice. For him. For my family. For everything that matters.
So why do I feel so lost?
Why am I still drawing him?
His eyes, sharp and sad. His lips, caught between a smile and a goodbye. His hands, the way they used to shake when he talked about his past, then calm when he held my wrist to guide me through a sketch. The tiny scar above his eyebrow that he got when he was ten, falling from a tree he climbed to rescue a cat. The way his voice would soften when he spoke about his art, like he was sharing a secret with the universe.
He made me feel safe.
In a world where I've learned to fear everything—my words, my thoughts, my dreams—he made me feel like I could breathe again. Like I was allowed to exist without apology.
And I broke that.
I shattered it with words I didn't mean, with lies that tasted like ash on my tongue.
I hear the front door slam, and my heart jumps into my throat. I shove the sketchbook back under the mattress and stand like I've done something wrong. My skin buzzes with the anxiety of being caught. Of being seen. Of being punished for daring to remember a happiness I'm not supposed to want.
"Aishwariya?" Aaron's voice echoes from the hallway, smooth as silk and just as cold.
"Yeah?" I answer, keeping my tone light, neutral, careful. I've become an expert at hiding tremors in my voice.
"You okay?"
"Just tired. Lying down." The lies come easily now. I've practiced them so often they slide off my tongue without effort.
A pause. Then, "I brought dinner. Come eat soon."
His voice is too soft. It means he's still testing me, still watching, waiting to see if I'll disobey again. Waiting to see if I'll give him a reason to tighten the leash further.
"I'll be right there."
I wait until I hear his footsteps fade before I sit down again. Not to draw. Not now. Just to breathe. To gather the pieces of myself that keep falling apart. To remember who I was before this cage became my home.
There's a knock on the door.
"Hey," Priya's voice whispers. "Can I come in?"
I rush to the door and let her in, locking it behind us. She's the only light I have left in this place. The only person who sees me—really sees me—through all the masks I wear.
"What happened?" she asks. "You didn't text me back."
"I don't have my phone."
"What? Why?"
"Aaron took it. Said I needed space."
Priya's expression darkens, her eyes flashing with an anger I'm too afraid to feel myself. "This is not okay, Aish. You know that, right?"
I nod. But I don't do anything. Because what can I do? My father's business, my family's reputation, my future—all of it hangs in the balance. All of it depends on me being the perfect daughter, the perfect fiancée, the perfect silent doll in a house of glass.
She sits beside me on the floor. "Did something happen with Carter?"
I nod again, feeling the tears starting to build behind my eyes.
"I told him I didn't want to see him anymore."
Priya's eyes widen. "Why? You like him."
"Because it's the right thing to do, Priya. Because I'm engaged to Aaron. Because my family depends on this relationship," I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. "I had to end it before it got too complicated."
"But at what cost, Aish? You're clearly miserable."
I shake my head firmly. "It doesn't matter. This is what true love is—sacrifice. Putting others before yourself. My father's company, my family's security, our reputation in the community... all of that matters more than some fleeting feelings."
Priya grabs my hand. "That's not true love, Aishwariya. You're sacrificing your happiness for what? For people who won't even let you make your own choices?"
"You don't understand what true love is," I snap, pulling my hand away. "Sometimes it means doing the hard thing. The right thing. Even when it hurts."
"And this is the right thing? Locking yourself in a cage with a man who takes your phone? Who controls your every move?" Priya's voice rises slightly before she catches herself and lowers it again. "Carter made you happy. I saw it with my own eyes."
"That wasn't real," I insist, even as my heart contradicts every word. "It was just an escape. A fantasy."
Priya looks at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. "You don't believe that."
I look away. "It doesn't matter what I believe."
"Yes, it does," she says. "You matter. Your happiness matters."
Tears burn my eyes, and I try to blink them away, but they spill over anyway. Hot, silent tears that carve paths down my cheeks like rivers cutting through stone.
"I did the right thing," I whisper, more to convince myself than her. "So why do I feel so lost?"
Priya's expression softens. "Because your heart knows the truth even when your mind is trying to deny it."
I don't answer.
Because I don't know how. I don't know how to reconcile the certainty that I made the right choice with this emptiness that follows me everywhere. I don't know how to live with this contradiction—doing what's right and feeling so wrong about it.
I lean my head against Priya's shoulder, allowing myself this small comfort, this tiny rebellion against the solitude that's been forced upon me.
"He made me feel real," I whisper. "Like I was a person, not just a reflection of what everyone else wanted me to be."
Priya's arm tightens around me. "You are real. With or without him. But Aish... you can't keep living like this. Something has to change."
The truth of it cuts deep, opening wounds I've tried to ignore.
"I just want to stop feeling this way," I admit. "Torn. Lost. Like I'm doing the right thing but it's killing me inside."
"Then maybe it's not the right thing," Priya suggests gently.
I shake my head. "You don't understand. You've never had to choose between your happiness and your family's wellbeing. Between what you want and what everyone expects from you."
Priya pulls back, looking me directly in the eyes. "You're right, I haven't. But I see what it's doing to you, and it scares me, Aish. I'm watching you fade away a little more each day."
"I'll be fine," I say automatically. "This is just... temporary. The hurt will pass."
But even as I say it, I don't believe it. Because how do you move on from someone who showed you who you could be? How do you forget the feeling of freedom after you've tasted it?
"I did the right thing," I repeat, my voice barely a whisper now. "I know I did."
But if this is right, why does everything inside me scream that it's wrong?
Carter's POV
It's been days.
Five, to be exact. I've counted each one like a prisoner marking time on a wall. Each morning I wake up thinking today will be different. Today the ache will be less. Today I'll stop wondering what if.
Still nothing.
I've gone from checking my phone every five minutes to once every hour, then eventually just leaving it face down. It's a ritual of disappointment I'm tired of repeating. A cycle of hope and pain that leaves me more hollow each time.
I go back to the café, even though I know she won't be there. I order coffee I don't drink. I sit at our table—it will always be our table now—and watch the door like it might open any second to reveal her standing there, breathless and apologetic, ready to explain everything.
But it doesn't.
No one comes.
I stare at the window and wonder how the hell I let myself fall again. After everything that happened before, all the walls I built, all the promises I made to protect myself—how did I let someone slip through my defenses so easily?
But I did.
I fell for a girl who smiles like she's apologizing and hurts like she's used to it. A girl who paints the world in color even when her own life is in grey. A girl who looked at my scars—the ones on my skin and the ones hidden deeper—and didn't flinch.
And I lost her.
Because I wasn't enough. Just like I'm never enough.
The coffee grows cold in front of me. The barista gives me sympathetic looks when she thinks I'm not watching. Maybe I'm not the first person to haunt this place, waiting for someone who never comes back.
I keep telling myself to move on. To forget. But part of me is still stuck in that art studio, watching her lie to me with tears in her eyes. Remembering the way her hands trembled when she pushed me away. The way her voice broke on the word "stranger," like even she couldn't believe what she was saying.
Maybe she really does love him.
Maybe she just pitied me.
Maybe I'll never know.
But I can't let her ruin me.
I've clawed my way out of too many holes to fall into another one. I've rebuilt myself too many times to crumble now. I've survived worse—much worse—than a broken heart.
So I get up.
I leave enough money on the table to cover a coffee I barely touched.
I walk away from the café.
And I try.
I try to breathe again.
Even though it hurts.
Even though each breath feels like glass in my lungs.
Even though part of me is still waiting.
Still hoping.
Outside, the city continues its relentless pace, indifferent to my pain. People rush past, lives intersecting for brief moments before separating again. How many of them are carrying hearts as heavy as mine? How many are walking around with names etched on their souls that they can't erase?
I stop at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and look up at the sky. It's vast and empty, a canvas waiting to be filled. Just like the empty pages in my sketchbook. Just like the hollow space in my chest where something warm used to beat.
The light changes. People move forward. I stand still.
Because moving on means accepting she's really gone. That what we had—or what I thought we had—was never real.
And I'm not ready for that truth.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
So I wait.
Not like I waited at the café, watching the clock tick past minutes that never came back.
But like someone who knows that some people are worth waiting for, even if they never return.
Even if all you're left with is the memory of what could have been.
Even if it breaks you in the end.