The sharp chill of early morning crept under the blanket and brushed across Deepak's face, pulling him awake before the first slant of daylight had reached the horizon.

The hotel room was silent, the air dense with unsaid things. He lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, then turned slowly to his side-instinctively.

It was just 5 AM, midnight for Kodaikkanal.

The bed beside him was cold, the blanket undisturbed. Empty.

His eyes drifted to the sofa.

Priya.

She was curled up awkwardly, her arms tucked beneath her cheek on the armrest, her legs folded tightly beneath her torso.

Even in her sleep, she looked uncomfortable, like someone trying to make herself invisible inside a foreign space.

The dim blue light from the curtain gap illuminated the edges of her face-still, soft, and utterly alone.

He didn't know what he felt then. Not pity. Not guilt. Maybe a muted kind of confusion.

But there was one thing he knew-he didn't want this vacation, this place, this fragile time they had bought for themselves, to be devoured by the things they were too broken to say aloud.

So, without a word or note, he stood up quietly, slid into his hoodie and jeans, and stepped outside.

The iron door clicked softly behind him.

The air was piercing. He inhaled deeply, letting the cold burn his lungs as he stepped into the mist that blanketed the hill town. Kodaikanal was slowly waking up-lazy, reluctant, still half-asleep in its blankets of fog.

The scent of dampness floated in the air.

Deepak began to walk.

His feet led him naturally to the lake. The path around it was slick with dew, but the early joggers were already out. A few uncles in sweaters and monkey caps moved in a steady rhythm.

Children in their school uniforms, walked hand-in-hand with parents towards the bus stop. The schools were at the foothills, an hour and a half by bus and the uphill families started early. There was something calming in that ordinariness.

He walked slowly, hands buried in his pockets, letting the lake's calm surface mimic the stillness he craved inside. But the thoughts came anyway.

Her words.

That night.

He found himself angry. Furiously, irrationally angry.

Not at her past, not even at the man who ruined her-but at the fact that she had married him carrying this truth like a stone in her pocket, heavy and hidden.

That she had used him-yes, that word again. Used. Just like others had.

He kicked a small pebble into the lake.

It made a series of ripples, spreading silently.

Nothing had been simple between them.

She ignored him for days. She had walked around the house like he didn't exist.

And now she gave him her truth like a burden and expected him to carry it quietly.

He didn't even know what the right emotion was anymore.

The world told him to be kind, to be understanding. But inside, something bitter clung to him.

Why did he feel like the only one bleeding here?

A few steps ahead of him, a young couple strolled together. They looked recently married - the kind that still walked with fingers loosely brushing against each other, smiles exchanged without a reason.

The girl leaned slightly towards the man as they walked. Something about the way she looked up at him - like he was her sun and sky - made Deepak's chest tighten.

His wife used him as a trash bin.

Just then, the husband turned around. "Excuse me, sir!" he called out to Deepak with a friendly grin. "Can you take a photo of us? Just one?"

Deepak paused, startled for a second.

A faint smile crossed his face. "Sure," he said, walking toward them and accepting the phone.

He held up the camera and took two pictures of the couple in front of a beautiful hill view.

But the girl raised a hand, "Please wait for a minute... We haven't done with the photos yet..."

She sat down on a stone nearby and, with a quiet ease, unbuckled her left shoe and then, carefully, detached her prosthetic leg.

Deepak's breath caught.

She stood now on one leg, the other side of her body balanced lightly on her husband's support. Without hesitation, he bent down and lifted her up in a bridal style - cradling her with practiced gentleness.

They both beamed as Deepak snapped the photo, completely unbothered by stares or whispers from a few others walking by.

"What a pose," Deepak muttered under his breath, still stunned. He handed the phone back to the man, who was already chuckling.

"Sir, I know what you're thinking," the man said, noticing his lingering gaze. "You haven't seen something like this, right?"

Deepak gave an embarrassed shrug.

"My wife lost her leg in an accident," the man continued, his tone proud. "And during the wedding arrangement, her family told us that she was physically fine. We didn't know about the prosthetic leg. Even I didn't. She wore it so confidently, I never guessed."

Deepak blinked, unsure how to respond.

"But," the man went on, "you know what she did? Just when the priest asked me to tie the thaali, she stopped everything. Removed her leg. Told me the truth in front of a hundred people."

Deepak's eyes widened.

"My parents were angry. They said we should cancel the wedding. Said her family lied. But I told them, if she had wanted to lie, she could've waited ten more seconds. But she didn't. She chose the truth even if it came with shame. And I chose her."

There was no trace of bitterness in his voice. Only pride.

"She lives with courage. And I get to live beside her. So yeah... this photo's going on our wall. First trip as husband and wife," he said, pocketing his phone with a soft grin.

The couple walked away, her hand around his neck, and him holding her with ease.

Deepak stood frozen for a moment. The words circled him like wind chimes, clinking softly in the back of his mind.

Only when they left, Deepak realised that he had been outside for hours. The fog had thinned. Sunlight was cutting through the branches.

The time was 9:30 AM

A jolt passed through him.

He hadn't messaged Priya. Hadn't called. Hadn't told her he was stepping out.

What would she have thought? Had she woken up and panicked? Did she think he left her behind?

Despite the tightness still inside him, he felt a flicker of guilt.

He didn't want to hurt her. Not more than she was already hurt.

He spun around and began walking faster. Then running. Past the trees. Past the benches. Past the calm of the lake.

He walked to a nearby tea shop that was still serving breakfast. He packed a few soft idlis and vada. He asked for coffee to be packed in a thermos flask. The shopkeeper tied everything neatly in a brown parcel and gave it to him with a smile.

He wasn't healed from the shock and betrayal. The confusion still lurked under the surface. But maybe he could be gentle today.

Maybe he could act normal. Maybe they could still have that horse ride she'd wanted. Or walk around the lake again. Or try boating, if it opened.

He didn't want to punish her with silence. He didn't want to end this trip with wounds stitched half-heartedly.

He was tired of being hurt. Tired of hurting.

She had given him the truth. Broken, painful, bleeding. And though his heart wasn't yet ready to fully hold it, he knew one thing.

He didn't want to become like the men she feared. Cold, distant, emotionally absent.

If anything, he could try to be gentle. He wasn't made for harshness.

Even if just for a day or two.

*****

When Deepak reached the hotel, the time was around 10:45 a.m. The room door was slightly ajar, not fully closed. For a second, his mind flashed all kinds of possibilities.

Did someone break in? His instincts calmed that fear almost instantly. Nothing looked disturbed. Nothing was stolen. Everything was in its place.

Except... except for the floor outside the bathroom.

It was soaked. The water had spread outward, tracing a path with wet footprints-small, bare ones-leading toward the balcony. The droplets hadn't dried yet. In a place like Kodaikanal, where the sun rarely burned hot, wetness lingered like sorrow.

He moved carefully, following the prints. As he reached the open balcony door, he saw her.

Priya.

She was crouched on the damp tiled floor, a blanket draped loosely over her. Her knees were drawn up tightly to her chest, and her arms encircled them like vines trying to hold together a crumbling ruin. The blanket had absorbed the floor's moisture and hung heavy on her like grief itself.

"Priya," he said softly, crouching beside her. "I got breakfast. Come and eat."

No response from her.

He leaned a little closer. "Hey, I got idli and chapati. Coffee too. Come on. Just a little bit."

Still no movement.

He hesitated, then reached out and gently touched her face. As he tilted her chin up, a sharp breath caught in his throat.

Her eyes-red, swollen, emptied of presence.

Her skin-burnt.

At first, it didn't register. He thought it was just an irritation from crying.

But then the blanket slipped slightly, and the rawness emerged. Patches of her skin had peeled. The upper arms, the collarbone, the side of her neck-it looked like her body had been pressed against fire.

"God... Priya," he whispered.

There was no reaction. Her eyes were not looking at him, not even through him. They were fixed on something far beyond like she had already left this space and taken refuge in a deeper void.

Without thinking further, he slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and lifted her. The blanket nearly fell but he caught it and wrapped it tighter around her.

He carried her in, placed her gently on the bed, and stood for a second in helpless silence. Then he opened the blanket to reveal her naked form.

Burned skin and peeled all over her body.

Some had second degree burns while some places, just the skin got scraped.

He looked around, opened drawers, flipped through the toiletries they had bought on arrival.

He found a small tube of Burnol. God, at least that.

He sat beside her and uncapped the ointment. His hands trembled. As he started to apply a thin line along a particularly red streak on her shoulders.

She flinched slightly, finally, a reaction.

"I want to go away," she whispered, her voice hollow. "I don't want to be with you. Just leave me and go."

He stopped. The words hit like shards.

He looked at her again. Not just her burns. Her eyes. Her silence. Her soul.

And slowly, his mind began to recall the day she was helpless under the hot shower just because she had a panic attack.

It pinched him even to think of how many days she must've burnt herself before their marriage..

Just because of a bastard that ruined her life.

His fingers tightened around the Burnol tube.

She hadn't been in pain since Kodaikanal. But when he started to ignore her, the old pain resurfaced.

He remembered her voice trembling as she told him the truth that evening.

She had trusted him when she couldn't even trust her parents.

And what did he do?

He withdrew. Shut himself inside his mind, let anger breed, let judgment grow. He assumed the worst of her. Punished her with silence. With cold glances. With withheld affection.

He failed her.

She didn't ask for the pain from her own family, still, she endured it.

And when she found a moment of peace in him, she tried to be brave enough to share the darkness she never dared say aloud before.

And how did he repay her?

By thinking he was used by her.

By thinking he was the victim.

He looked at her again-her chest barely rising with breath, her face hollowed by grief, her skin crying from invisible fire.

His heart twisted.

Guilt shot inside him like fire. He had been in her safe place and then he became the trigger of her pain.

How much pain must she have borne to return to scalding herself?

How much must she hate herself to think she deserved to be peeled to the bone?

He didn't know what to say. No words came.

He continued applying the ointment, lightly, gently, as if even the air might hurt her.

She didn't protest anymore. She had closed eyes, sleeping in pain and tiredness. A feeling where she was cursed to be alive.

He pulled the blanket over her again, slowly, careful not to press down on her wounds.

Then, he sat beside her, unsure of what came next.

The breakfast lay untouched on the table. The flask of coffee sat cooling beside it.

Outside the room, the mist of Kodaikanal thickened. Inside the room, the silence was heavier than fog.

And in that moment, Deepak knew whatever came next, he would never allow her to hurt herself again.