Rudraksh’s eyes fluttered open, only to squeeze shut again as a sharp, splintering pain sliced through his skull like a thousand tiny knives stabbing at once. He groaned, lifting his head an inch before letting it fall back onto the pillow with a soft thud. The ceiling spun above him, and his mouth felt dry, parched like the Sahara.

Blinking against the harsh light filtering through the half-drawn curtains, he squinted at the room, unfamiliar yet oddly known. The muted green walls, the mess of those thick law books on the study table, the camphor and sandalwood fragrance in the air...

“Sid…dharth’s room?” he rasped, a thread of panic running through his voice. “What on the earth am I doing here?”

He forced himself upright, clutching his pounding head, fingers pressing into his temples as if trying to keep his thoughts from scattering. “Ugh, damn it! My head’s gonna explode.” A low groan escaped him as his gaze scanned the room, searching for any clues about the previous night events.

The sound of door creaking open filled the silence. Siddharth stepped in, carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming hangover soup and a glass of water. “Good afternoon, Sunshine,” he greeted, lips stretching into a bright smile before pressing together tightly.

Rudraksh, still clutching his head, winced, eyes narrowing as he looked at his friend. “Sid...what... What happened last night?” he stammered, voice hoarse and brittle.

Siddharth set the tray down on the side table with a soft clink. Folding his arms sternly against his white kurta cladded chest, he looked at Rudraksh with raised eyebrows. “Well, let’s say... you tried to drink the entire bar dry, my friend.” His lips curled down. “Very heroic.”

His words were teasing, but the worry behind his eyes was harder to hide. He sighed, walking over to the cupboard, and pulled out a clean shirt and a pair of joggers. “Go freshen up first,” he said, handing the attire to the confused man. “We need to talk.”

Rudraksh nodded wordlessly, grabbing the clothes, and dragged himself to the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet click. A moment later, the sound of running water filled the air, broken occasionally by muffled groans. The fog in his head hadn’t cleared yet, but one thing was certain — something had cracked wide open last night.

About thirty minutes later, Rudraksh emerged from the bathroom, looking marginally more human. He wore grey trousers and a crisp white shirt, the collar slightly damp from the towel slung around his neck. His long, black wet hair clung to his diamond-shaped face, strands falling over his almond-shaped black eyes and straight nose as he ran a hand through it, pushing them back. The redness in his eyes lent a touch of menace to his already sharp features.

With the unkempt beard and mustache creeping towards ascetic lengths, Siddharth couldn't help but wonder: He is looking less like a broken man and more like a meditative sage, one who had seen too much. Shaking his head with a little smile spread across his face, he asked quietly, eyebrows raising a little, “Okay?”

Rudraksh gave a slow nod, this one softer, tinged with silent gratitude.

Siddharth nodded in return and gestured to the tray on the table. “First, drink this soup. It'll help with the headache.”

Rudraksh gingerly moved, as if each limb had to be negotiated with, dropping onto the couch beside him. He picked up the bowl and took a cautious sip. His brows lifted in surprise. “Wow, Siddharth… I didn’t know you could cook this much better. This is really good.”

Siddharth let out a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. “Thanks. Maa made sure I know how to survive without starving, or depending on anyone.” He shook his head, half-grinning.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, broken only by the clink of the spoon against the bowl. Rudraksh’s chest loosened with every sip, the flavors dancing on his taste buds. He felt a sense of gratitude towards Siddharth. He realised that his friend had been taking care of him, nursing him back to health, and now was offering him a lifeline to confront the events of the previous night.

Minutes passed like that, Siddharth slid an arm gently around Rudraksh's shoulder. His voice was steady, almost clinical, but not cold. “Rudraksh… we’ve been best friends since we were what—four? Six?”

Rudraksh didn’t look at him. He simply nodded, eyes glued to the floor.

Siddharth's hand gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We've shared everything — joy, pain; secrets, fears; fights, dreams. We've been each other's rock, through thick and thin." He paused, collecting his thoughts, his tone firm now. “So tell me honestly—why are you doing this to yourself?”

The question landed with the weight of a slap, direct and emotionless, but deliberate.

Rudraksh blinked. His hands were locked together on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly. “You wouldn’t understand, Sid,” he murmured, almost inaudible. “I… I loved her, truly.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Sanam was my everything. My reason to breathe. And she... she just left.” His voice cracked on the last word. A dry, bitter laugh followed. “Just like that.”

He sat up a little straighter, fingers rubbing nervously together. A small, pained smile pulled at his lips as he turned to face Siddharth. “Was I not enough?” he asked, the words falling from his mouth like a silent plea. “Was my love not enough? Did I smother her? Was I too much?”

Siddharth’s hand tightened on his shoulder. His voice was calm, but not dismissive. “I know you loved her. I saw it. But Rudraksh, love is not a one-way path. It’s not devotion on one side and emptiness on the other. It only works when both people keep choosing each other."

Rudraksh strained to keep a straight face, his eyes staring in the depth of Siddharth's to find the answer.

Siddharth held his gaze, quiet but resolute. “Love’s a beautiful thing, yes. But it’s also a choice. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, people walk away, and we have to accept that. And that's not your fault, Rudraksh.” He let his words breathe. “People come and go, Rudraksh. And as brutal as it is, we can’t force anyone to stay if they’ve made up their mind to walk away.”

Rudraksh dropped his gaze again, the weight of Siddharth’s words sinking deep. His mind was fogged with memories — six years of laughter, fights, kisses, long silences that used to feel like comfort. And now… all gone.

Siddharth's expression remained empathetic, but words took a practical approach. "I'm not asking you to pretend it never happened, or that it doesn't matter. But you deserve to heal and move forward, not be held back by someone who chose to leave."

“It’s not that easy, Sid,” Rudraksh said after a long silence. “It was six-year long. Yes, we were not always physically present by each other's side, but I was loyal to her. She knew everything about me." His throat ached as he forced the next words out, voice trembling. "Maybe she lied. Maybe she cheated. Maybe she manipulated me, but I never did. I was all in. And she...she just walked away?”

A lumps formed in his throat, making it hard to speak further. "Why wait so long to leave?” he whispered. “Did she enjoy watching me fall apart? Was it fun for her to see me break down like this?” He rubbed at his chest as though trying to ease the strange pain that had settled there. “What did I do wrong? Love her too much?”

Siddharth watched him in silence, his own jaw tight, heart aching for his friend. But he knew Rudraksh needed this breakdown. Needed to face the wreckage to begin crawling out of it.

Rudraksh’s voice rose, a mixture of pain, anger, and desperation, "I thought our love was real. Why did she wait till now to show me it was all a lie!" His fingers dug deeper into his scalp, gripping his hair, eyes squeezed shut as if that might hold the emotion in. His body trembled under the weight of grief, rage, and disbelief.

Unable to find the right words, Siddharth felt a growing frustration watching his friend unravel. He placed a steady hand on Rudraksh’s shoulder, his voice calm but full of weight. “Rudraksh,” he said softly, “you can’t blame a flower for blooming, even if the garden it grew in was neglected. The flower’s beauty isn’t defined by the gardener’s absence. You bloomed. You loved. That’s something to be proud of, not something to regret.”

But Rudraksh didn’t respond. His body remained rigid, eyes hollow, jaw locked. It was like speaking to a statue carved from grief.

Siddharth gently turned him by the shoulders, forcing him to face him. With a gentle smile, without saying a word, he ran his hand slowly through Rudraksh’s tangled hair, smoothing it back from his face. His touch was brotherly, full of affection of an older brother. “She was a mirage,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “She promised an oasis, but gave you nothing but dust.”

Just as the moment deepened, the sudden shrill ring of the doorbell sliced through the stillness, jarring them both. Rudraksh flinched, and Siddharth sighed, briefly squeezing his friend’s shoulder before rising to answer it.

A few minutes later, Siddharth returned, Karan following closely behind.

Karan’s eyes swept the room, quickly finding Rudraksh slumped on the couch, a shadow of the man he used to be. His expression softened. “Rudraksh… buddy, you okay?” he asked, his voice careful, touched with concern.

Rudraksh didn’t even blink.

Without a word, he stood up, eyes dark and unreadable. His face was a storm—rage, heartbreak, and something dangerously close to hopelessness. Then, before either of them could react, he turned and stormed out of the room.

“Rudraksh!” Siddharth called out, alarm surging through him. The sound of the front door slamming echoed down the hallway.

Siddharth’s face paled. “Karan—go after him! Now! We can’t leave him alone like this.”

“I’m on it!” Karan replied, already sprinting down the hall.

But they were seconds too late.

Outside, the roar of the car engine ignited like a warning. The tires screeched as Rudraksh peeled out of the driveway, the car vanishing into the street before they even reached the gate.

Siddharth and Karan stood frozen in the doorway, wind brushing past them like an aftershock.

The silence that followed was heavy—full of fear.

“He’s not okay,” Siddharth whispered, more to himself than to Karan. “He’s not okay at all.”

A/N: Dear Readers,

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