Thank you for sharing this powerful draft, Gul🌹. You've crafted a deeply moving and emotionally layered narrative. I've done a careful revision that:

Reduces the word count from ~2,500 to ~2,000, mainly by trimming redundancy and tightening prose.

Preserves your scene divisions, emotional flow, and character arcs.

Maintains your voice, with no additions of my own-just pruning for clarity, grammar, and rhythm.

✂️ Edited Version (Approx. 2,000 words)

Scene 1: A Small Beginning

It was almost noon when sunlight filtered into the apartment in golden streaks, warming the corners of the once-lonely space. The events of the previous night still echoed faintly in Priya's mind, but something had shifted. For the first time in weeks, her heart wasn't weighed down by fear.

She sat on the bed, brushing her damp hair, eyes falling on her phone screen. A notification blinked. She unlocked it and scrolled to a folder named Kathak Days. Her breath caught.

There she was-fifteen, in ghungroos, smiling mid-spin. Another photo-on stage, hands frozen mid-mudra, anklets blurred with motion, the reds and golds of her costume vivid against the dark.

She kept swiping.

Her city festival solo. The Durga piece. Group shows with her guru. She hadn't looked at these in years.

And now, someone had encouraged her to return.

Deepak had actually listened.

She couldn't stop smiling. The way he'd said, "It's a great idea," eyes lighting up-not vague politeness but genuine support.

She closed the gallery, fingers trembling, and opened YouTube.

"Paneer Pasanda Recipe," she typed quickly.

Several thumbnails popped up. She clicked three and began watching intently, noting ingredients and steps.

She didn't want to say thank you with words-not yet.

But through food.

He loved paneer. She'd noticed him sneak an extra cube two days ago. That was enough.

She scribbled a list: paneer blocks, cashews, cream, green chillies, ginger-garlic paste, spices, chapati flour.

On Swiggy Instamart, she added everything. Even a milk chocolate bar-just in case.

By 3 p.m., groceries arrived. The kitchen filled with the smell of roasted spices and butter.

She tied her dupatta like an apron and played a cheerful instrumental on her phone as she worked.

The kitchen began to feel like hers.

She sliced paneer into triangles, stuffed them with mashed paneer, chillies, and crushed dry fruits. Each was dipped in thick batter and pan-fried golden.

She chuckled aloud. "No burning the dish today, madam," stirring the gravy. "Elegant, not emergency room."

The tomato-cashew gravy simmered. She blended, strained, and finished with cream.

By 5 p.m., only the chapatis were left. She let the dough rest, just like the video said.

The table was set-two steel plates, salad bowl, one small candle. Not lit, just placed for effect.

He usually came at 7:15. She had time. A soft hum escaped her lips-a Kathak beat from school days. She tapped her toe, nearly dancing.

She was going to wear ghungroos again.

Her mother had spent years in the kitchen. Priya now saw it-it wasn't just duty. It was art.

She didn't hear the key turn or the door open.

Scene 2: The Trigger

The smell of chapati and ghee lingered in the air as Deepak stepped in, work bag slung over his shoulder. He paused at the kitchen entrance.

She stood in a simple kurta, back turned, cooking a chapati, feet tapping gently to some melody.

He smiled.

"Chef madam," he said lightly from behind.

She screamed.

The rolling pin clattered to the floor. She spun around, eyes wide, stumbled backward, tripped on the mat-and fell with a thud.

"Priya!" Deepak rushed forward.

But she was scrambling back, face pale with terror. "Don't come near me!" she cried. "Don't touch me! Please don't hurt me..."

Her voice cracked into a sob. She curled into herself, fists clenched, tears pouring.

She was trembling, her shoulders shaking.

"Priya," he whispered, holding up both hands, "I-I didn't mean to scare you. I just came in..."

She wasn't here. Not anymore.

Then, just like that, her sobbing stopped. Her body slackened.

"Priya?" he stepped forward.

She fainted.

For a moment, the only sound was the chapati burning on the pan. He turned off the stove with trembling fingers.

He scooped her up-she felt weightless-and carried her to the bedroom. The sheets were still crumpled that morning.

As he stepped back, her fingers twitched, brushing his wrist.

"Don't... touch me..." she murmured before falling back into sleep.

He stared at her pale face, chest heavy. He had seen fear before-but not like this. Not in someone who had just started to trust him.

He pulled the blanket over her gently and sat in the chair near the bed.

His hands still trembled.

She had looked at him like he was a monster.

The house was silent, choked with a kind of stillness that follows trauma.

He didn't move for over an hour. No phone. No water. Just listening to her soft breathing.

Her begging replayed in his mind.

He had never touched her without permission. Never raised his voice. Never asked why she was distant.

But now he wondered-what was she carrying?

He didn't sleep that night. Something in him had shifted.

This wasn't about patience anymore.

It was about her healing.

And he didn't care how long it would take.

***

Priya stirred. Her eyelids were heavy. Her body ached. Sunlight streamed through the curtains.

She blinked-and saw Deepak.

He was slumped against the cupboard, sleeping awkwardly, shoes still on, shirt wrinkled, wrist bruised from pressure. One hand clutched the edge of the bed-not on it, just near.

Flashes returned. The kitchen. Her fall. His voice: "Chef madam."

That was all she remembered clearly.

She threw off the blanket and tiptoed past him. Her chest was heavy. She entered the hallway silently.

The house felt fragile. Quiet like the aftermath of a storm.

In the bathroom, she locked the door and switched on the water heater.

Minutes later, she stepped into the shower. Steam hissed around her.

She let the boiling water scorch her skin.

And she cried.

Pressed against the wet wall, her body shook with sobs. She scrubbed her arms furiously-first with her hands, then with a loofah. Again and again.

Trying to erase the memory.

Why had she screamed?

Why did she react like that to someone who had only shown kindness?

She didn't understand. All she knew was-something broke last night. And now she couldn't stop crying.

Her voice cracked into loud sobs. "Why me? Why me?!"

Scene 4: The Rescue

Outside, Deepak stirred, neck stiff, eyes foggy. A sound reached him-muffled crying.

He stood, heart pounding. "Priya?" he called. No answer.

He walked to the bathroom. Her sobs were louder now.

"Priya! Are you okay?"

"Go away!" she screamed. "Don't come!"

But her voice was broken, full of pain. Then-something hit the wall.

"Priya!" He banged the door. "Please open it!"

Still nothing. His heart raced.

He stepped back-and rammed into the door. Once. Twice. On the third, the latch snapped.

Steam burst out. Glasses fogged. Clothes soaked.

She was crouched under the scalding water, hugging her knees, skin red and raw.

He rushed in and grabbed her arm. The heat bit his skin.

"No! Leave me!"

But he held on. "Come out! You're burning yourself!"

They slipped on the floor. He caught her.

She sobbed into his shoulder and, this time, didn't push him away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to scream. I don't know what happened."

He stilled. "You don't have to explain. I just want you safe."

"I thought... if I could wash it away..."

She stared at her hands, voice cracking. "I'm broken."