Meher adjusted her bag on her shoulder as she entered the college gates.

The campus was loud. Lively. Normal.

Unlike her mind.

She spotted Ishita near the stairs, waving dramatically.

“Finally madam decided to show up,” Ishita teased — but the moment she came closer, her expression changed.

Behind Meher’s smile… something was tired.

Ishita didn’t say anything for a second. She just stepped forward and hugged her tightly.

“Phirse kuch kaha chacha–chachi ne tere?”

Meher let out a small laugh. Too quick. Too light.

“Nahii… kuch toh nahi. Kuch nahi kaha.”

She tried to pull back, but Ishita held her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes.

“Merese bhi jhooth bolegi ab?”

Meher’s smile stayed… but her gaze dropped.

For a few seconds, she didn’t answer.

The noise of students passing by filled the silence between them.

Ishita’s voice softened.

“Meher… tera ‘kuch nahi’ sabse loud hota hai.”

Meher inhaled slowly.

“Bas… wahi. Same baatein.”

She shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“I’m used to it.”

But her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her bag.

Ishita’s jaw clenched.

“Tu used to ho sakti hai. Main nahi hoon.”

Meher smiled again — this time softer.

“Chhod na. Class late ho rahi hai.”

She started walking ahead.

Ishita followed… but her eyes stayed on Meher.

Because she knew.

Meher laughs the loudest when she’s hurting the most.

The lecture had already started.

The professor’s voice echoed in the classroom, explaining something about project submissions and internal marks.

Meher sat still.

Too still.

Her notebook was open. Pen in her hand. But she hadn’t written a single word.

Her face had no expression. Just blank.

Ishita kept glancing at her from the side.

Finally she leaned closer and whispered,
“Kuch hua hai toh bata na yaar… tu mujhse toh mat chhupa. Mujhe pata hai kuch hua hai.”

Meher didn’t look at her.

She gave that same small laugh again.

“Kuch nahi huaa. Tu chinta mat kar.”

Ishita didn’t look convinced… but the professor turned toward their row, so she sat back.

A few minutes passed.

The classroom grew quieter.

Ishita turned again to check on her.

Meher’s head had tilted slightly toward the window.

Her eyes were closed.

At first, Ishita thought she was just tired.

Then she noticed it.

A thin line of tears resting at the corners of her eyes… not falling… just waiting.

She wasn’t just sleeping.

She had cried herself into exhaustion.

Ishita’s heart dropped.

She gently nudged her under the desk.

Meher stirred slightly, quickly wiping the side of her face before opening her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she whispered immediately — even before Ishita could say anything.

But her voice was heavier than usual.

Ishita didn’t argue this time.

She just placed her hand over Meher’s on the desk.

A silent promise.

You don’t have to say it. I’m still here.
Three back-to-back lectures ended.

Four hours felt like four years.

Students rushed out of the classroom, laughing, stretching, complaining about assignments.

Meher slowly closed her notebook.

Ishita was still watching her.

Meher forced a small smile.

“Ishitaa sun… mujhe jaana padega ab. Part-time job ka time hone wala hai. I’ll talk to you later… okay?”

Ishita frowned. “Aaj bhi jaa rahi hai? Tu rest kar leti—”

Meher cut her off gently.

“Arey, haaa meri maa… meri chinta mat kar. Main sahi hoon.”

That same practiced smile.

The one that hides more than it shows.

Ishita stood up too.

“Meher.”

Meher paused.

“Job zaroori hai, mujhe pata hai. Par tu bhi zaroori hai. Samjhi?”

For a second… just a second… Meher’s eyes softened.

“Haan,” she whispered.

Then she adjusted her bag, turned around, and walked toward the corridor.

The crowd swallowed her.

Ishita stayed where she was… watching her go.

Because she knew.

She was going because she had no other choice.
Meher reached the café a little before 4.

It was tucked between two bigger stores — small, warm, and inviting. Soft yellow lights. Wooden tables. The faint smell of coffee and vanilla hanging in the air.

A tiny bell chimed as she pushed the door open.

“Meher! You’re on time,” the manager called from behind the counter.

She nodded with a polite smile.

Within seconds, she tied her hair properly, washed her hands, and wore the beige apron with the café’s name stitched on it.

Her shift.
4 PM to 8 PM.

Four hours where she didn’t have to think.

Or at least pretend not to.

The café was already buzzing. College students typing on laptops. A couple sharing one pastry. A man reading a newspaper in the corner.

“Table three — one cold coffee, one cappuccino!” someone called.

“I’ll take it,” Meher replied automatically.

Her movements were smooth. Practiced. Calm.

No one here knew about chacha–chachi.
No one here saw her tears.

Here, she was just Meher.

“Ma’am, your order,” she said softly, placing the tray down with care.

“Thank you,” the woman smiled warmly.

Smile back on.

Professional.

Strong.

Outside, the city moved fast.

Inside the café, time felt slower.

And for those four hours… Meher tried to breathe.
Around 6:30 PM, when the café rush had slightly reduced, the manager called her from the counter.

“Meher, zara idhar aana.”

She wiped her hands on the apron and walked over.

The manager opened the drawer and took out a small brown envelope.

“Yeh tumhari weekly payment.”

Meher’s fingers paused for a second before she took it.

“Thank you, sir.”

But once she stepped aside near the storage shelf, she quietly opened the envelope.

Notes. Carefully folded.

Not a huge amount.

But for her… it meant something.

Bus fare.
College supplies.
A little contribution at home so no one could say she was a burden.

She neatly arranged the money inside her bag.

“Table five ready,” someone called.

She picked up the tray again.

Smile back in place.

Shift still had time left.

And so did her responsibilities.

The café door opened again.

Meher looked up automatically.

A well-dressed man entered — formal suit, sharp posture, composed face.

He didn’t look around like regular customers did.

He walked straight to the manager.

Meher noticed.

Their conversation was low. Almost secretive. The manager nodding repeatedly. Slightly tense. Slightly eager.

Viraj said something firm.

The manager’s expression changed instantly — respectful. Alert.

Within two minutes, Viraj stepped out of the café again.

Meher’s eyes followed him unconsciously.

Something about the interaction felt… different.

The manager hurried toward her.

“Meher,” he said in a lowered voice, “jaldi se sab customers ko politely bol do ki unhe 20 minutes mein leave karna hoga.”

She blinked. “Sir?”

“A very important person is coming. Yahan meeting hogi.”

Very important.

The words hit strangely.

Very important.

As if the people already sitting here weren’t.

As if importance had levels.

As if money decided who could stay and who had to leave.

For a second, something flickered in her eyes.

But she smiled.

Professional. Controlled.

“Okay, sir.”

She went table to table.

“Sorry ma’am… actually café ko thodi der ke liye close karna hoga. Aapka bill ready hai.”
“Sir, inconvenience ke liye sorry…”

Most people left without arguing.

Some looked annoyed.
Confused faces. Mild complaints.

“But we just ordered.”

“I understand, I’m really sorry.”

She kept apologizing. Table by table.

Each “sorry” tasted bitter.

Within fifteen minutes, the warm, cozy café felt empty.

Silent.

Prepared.

Meher stood near the counter, forcing calm into her posture.

Very important person.

She didn’t know why… but the phrase irritated her more than it should have.

She adjusted her apron.

The door handle moved. The door opened.

The same man from earlier stepped inside first.

Behind him… another man entered.

Tall.

Straight posture.

Black suit perfectly fitted.

Cold expression. Sharp jawline. Controlled eyes.

He didn’t look around in curiosity.

He scanned.

Calculated.

And in that second, Meher understood.

Maybe… he was the “very important person.”

The manager almost rushed forward.

“Sir, welcome. Everything is arranged.”

The tall man gave a slight nod. Nothing more.

No smile. No unnecessary acknowledgment.

Viraj pulled out a chair for him at the corner table — the most private one in the café.

Meher stood near the counter, holding the tray a little tighter than needed.

Something about him felt familiar.

Not personally.

But the aura.

Authority without noise.

The kind that doesn’t need to prove itself.

The manager looked at Meher and signaled.

“Water.”

She inhaled once.

Then walked toward their table.

Step. Calm.

Step. Professional.

She placed the glasses down carefully.

“Sir.”

Her voice was steady.

The tall man’s eyes lifted briefly to look at her.

Just one second.

Cold. Observant. Unreadable.

Then they shifted back to Viraj.

As if she was just… staff.

Invisible.

And for some reason…

That irritated her more than the word “very important.”

A few minutes later, the café door opened again.

This time, a man in his mid-40s walked in.

Expensive watch. Confident stride. Slight nervousness hidden behind a practiced smile.

Behind him followed his assistant, holding a leather folder tightly.

The manager almost bowed while greeting them.

“Welcome, sir.”

The man’s eyes immediately went to the corner table.

Where the tall, cold man was already seated.

For a fraction of a second… the mid-40s man adjusted his coat.

As if preparing himself.

He walked forward.

“Mr. Aaryavan,” he said, extending his hand politely.

The tall man stood up slowly.

Controlled.

Composed.

Their handshake wasn’t friendly.

It was measured.

Power meeting power.

Viraj pulled out chairs for the new arrivals.

They all sat.

The air felt different now.

Heavier.

Meher stood near the counter, pretending to arrange cups, but her attention drifted back to the table.

She didn’t know who he was.

But clearly… he was someone people prepared rooms for.

Someone for whom cafés emptied.

Someone whose arrival shifted behavior.

She turned away quickly when she felt his gaze briefly lift again.

Not lingering.

Just aware.

And then back to business.

The meeting had begun.

Meher walked quietly to the counter where the manager was pretending to arrange bills.

She leaned slightly closer and whispered,

“Sir… yeh log apne office mein meeting kyun nahi kar sakte?”

The manager stiffened instantly.

“Shhh,” he muttered under his breath. “Awaaz kam.”

She frowned slightly. “Par sir, pura café empty karwa diya…”

He glanced nervously toward the corner table.

“Meher, samjha karo. Aise log privacy chahte hain. Media se door. Logon ki nazron se door. Yahan discreet jagah hai.”

She folded her arms lightly.

“Discreet ya convenient?”

The manager gave her a sharp look.

“Tum bas apna kaam karo. Humein fayda hai isse. Ek ghante ka rent unhone pura din ke profit ke barabar diya hai.”

That made her pause.

Pura din ka profit.

So that’s what “very important” meant.

Money.

Influence.

Silence bought easily.

She looked toward the table again.

The tall man was speaking now — calm, firm, no unnecessary gestures.

The older client was listening carefully.

For some reason, irritation simmered inside her chest.

Not because they were rich.

But because the world bent differently for them.

She straightened.

“Okay, sir,” she said softly.

Professional again.

But her eyes weren’t soft anymore.
Meher was standing near the counter when she felt it.

A stare.

She looked up.

The same mid-40s man — Mr. Rana — was looking at her in a way that made her shoulders stiffen.

Uncomfortable.

Deliberate.

He leaned back slightly in his chair and called out loudly,

“waitress, please come and serve us. I and they must be hungry.”

The words felt wrong.

Not a request.

A display.

The manager glanced nervously at Meher.

She forced a smile.

Professional.

Controlled.

She nodded once and went inside to bring their order.

Her hands were steady — because they had to be.

She returned with the tray and placed the dishes one by one on the table.

While she served Mr. Rana’s plate, his fingers brushed against her hand.

Not accidental.

Lingering.

She froze for half a second.

Then immediately pulled her hand back.

Her jaw tightened.

But she said nothing.

Just stepped back.

Mr. Rana smirked faintly, as if amused.

Meher turned and walked back to the counter without looking back.

Her heartbeat was louder than the café.

Her face stayed calm.

But her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the counter.

Ishita wasn’t here.

Mr Aaryavan excused himself from the meeting ongoing and went to washroom asking the directions from the manager....while outside the washroom without his presence...
Mr. Rana called again.

“Waitress!”

Meher’s stomach tightened, but she picked up the tray with the drinks and walked toward the table.

Only Mr. Rana and the assistants remained.

She placed the tray down.

Before she could lift the glass, Mr. Rana leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his face.

“Pour it properly,” he said lazily.

She picked up the jug.

He looked at her — slow, deliberate.

“Kneel,” he added casually. “Then pour. Respect dikhana chahiye.”

For a second, the world went silent.

Meher didn’t move.

She looked toward her manager.

He avoided her eyes.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t stop it.

Something inside her snapped.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just… firmly.

She took a slow breath.

Then instead of kneeling—

She straightened.

Her voice rang across the café.

“Excuse me?”

Every person at the table froze.

“You want respect?” she said, her tone no longer soft. “Respect earn kiya jaata hai. Maanga nahi jaata.”

And before he could react—

She tilted the glass.

The cold drink spilled straight onto his expensive shirt.

Gasps.

Mr. Rana shot up from his chair.

“What the hell—!”

She didn’t step back.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t tremble.

“You can drink it standing,” she said calmly.

The café was dead silent.

The manager looked horrified.

The assistants were stunned.

And at that exact moment—

The washroom door clicked shut.

Veeransh walked back toward the table.

His eyes took in the scene in one sweep.

Mr. Rana standing. Shirt soaked. Face red with anger.
Meher standing a few steps away. Chin lifted. Glass still in her hand.

“What is this?” Veeransh’s voice cut through the silence.

Cold. Sharp.

Mr. Rana spoke first.

“I have never been insulted like this in my life, Mr. Aaryavan! The staff here in this cafe u booked has no manners. I simply asked her to serve properly and she threw the drink on me!”

Veeransh’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t ask Meher anything.

He didn’t look at her long enough.

He looked at the spilled drink. The chaos. The client.

Then at her.

“Apologize,” he said.

One word.

Not loud.

But commanding.

Meher stared at him.

For a second she couldn’t believe it.

“You didn’t even ask what happened,” she said quietly.

Veeransh’s gaze hardened.

“This is not your place to create drama. You are a staff. He is our client.”

The word hit.

Staff.

Client.

Hierarchy.

Mr. Rana adjusted his wet coat dramatically.

“Exactly. This kind of behavior is unacceptable.”

The manager rushed forward. “Sir, I’m extremely sorry, sir— she’s just a young girl —”

“Enough,” Veeransh said.

His eyes returned to Meher.

“Last chance. Apologize.”

The café felt suffocating.

Meher’s fingers curled slightly.

She could see it now.

Power protecting power.

He hadn’t seen what happened.

But he chose a side anyway.

Her voice was steady.

“I won’t.”

Silence fell again.

Mr. Rana scoffed. “See? Arrogant too.”

Veeransh’s expression didn’t change.

But something flickered in his eyes.

Not anger.

Not fully.

Something… assessing.

He turned to the manager.

“Handle this.”

Cold. Detached.

Then he sat down again as if nothing had happened.

But the air between him and Meher had shifted.

Completely.
For a moment, the café was frozen.

The manager whispering apologies.
Mr. Rana acting outraged.
Veeransh seated again — cold, controlled.

Meher looked at him.

Really looked at him.

At the man who didn’t ask a single question before judging.

At the man who said “You are staff. He is our client.”

Something inside her hardened.

She walked forward.

Picked up a fresh glass of water from the tray.

Everyone thought she was finally going to calm down.

Apologize.

Instead—

She stepped right in front of him.

And before anyone could react—

She poured the water straight onto his suit.

A sharp gasp filled the café.

His Assistant - Viraj stood up instantly.

The manager almost fainted.

The water dripped slowly from Veeransh’s shoulder.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even wipe it off.

Meher’s voice didn’t shake.

“Mirror it back,” she said firmly.
“Because I don’t give a damn whether you are a ‘very important person’…”

Her eyes burned.

“…or even the freaking Prime Minister.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

No one breathed.

Mr. Rana looked shocked.

The assistants were speechless.

The manager whispered, “Meher! Are you insane—?”

But Veeransh slowly stood up.

Water dripping from his sleeve.

His face unreadable.

Not shouting.

Not furious.

Just… dangerously calm.

He stepped closer.

Close enough that only she could hear his next words.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “what you just did.”

But his eyes weren’t angry.

They were sharp.

Studying her.

Because for the first time in a long time—

Someone didn’t bow.
Then He said - "Cheap people like You always show there worth which is not worth of a single penny, who runs behind people for there money and nothing else....who have no sense of civic. This suit is worth your whole life's income"
Meher scoffed and replied back with smirk- Funny how people who talk the most about money are usually the poorest in class and dignity. Expensive suit, cheap mindset.
The silence hadn’t even settled when the manager exploded.

“Meher!! Have you lost your mind?!”

His face was red — from fear, not authority.

“You are fired! Right now! Get out!”

The word echoed louder than it should have.

Fired.

Just like that.

Fours hours a day. Weekly pay. Bus fare. Grocery money.

Gone.

The café felt smaller suddenly.

Mr. Rana scoffed in satisfaction, adjusting his wet shirt.
“I hope you understand the cost of attitude now.”

Meher didn’t look at him.

She didn’t look at the manager either.

Her eyes were still on Veeransh.

Waiting.

For something.

An acknowledgment.

A question.

Anything.

But he stood there — silent. Composed. Calculating.

The manager pointed toward the back.

“Apron nikalo. Abhi. Or Niklo yaha se”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she untied the apron.

She folded it neatly.

Placed it on the counter.

Dignity was the only thing she had left — and she wasn’t dropping that.

She picked up her bag.

Before leaving, she looked at Veeransh one last time.

“You chose the wrong side,” she said quietly.

Not dramatic.

Just factual.

Then she turned and walked out of the café.

The door bell rang once.

And the sound lingered.

Inside, the café felt heavier than before.

And for the first time—

Veeransh wasn’t looking at the client.

He was looking at the door she just walked out of.
Mr. Rana slammed his folder shut.

“This deal is off, Mr. Aaryavan. I don’t tolerate humiliation.”

Without waiting for a response, he stormed out with his assistant.

The café door shut hard behind him.

The manager looked pale.

Viraj glanced at Veeransh, waiting for instructions.

But Veeransh didn’t react immediately.

His gaze was still on the door.

Outside—

Meher stepped onto the pavement.

Her heart was racing, but her face remained composed.

Fired.

No job.

Weekly payment in her bag — but how long would that last?

She walked faster.

Not wanting to cry.

Not wanting to think.

And then—

Thunder cracked across the sky.

Within seconds, rain began pouring.

Not light drizzle.

Heavy.

Relentless.

She stopped under a small shop shade — but it barely covered her.

She had no umbrella.

No dupatta over her head.

Nothing.

The rain soaked her hair, her kurti, her bag.

People rushed past her, covering themselves.

Cars splashed water onto the road.

She stood there.

Breathing hard.

Angry.

Embarrassed.

Hurt.

But not regretful.

Her hands clenched.

“I won’t beg,” she whispered to herself.

Rain mixed with the tears she refused to let fall properly.
The rain grew heavier.

Within seconds, Meher gave up trying to find proper shelter.

She ran.

Through splashing water. Through honking cars. Through blurred lights.

Her sandals slipped slightly on the wet pavement.

And then she saw it—

A small temple at the corner of the lane.

Not grand.

Not crowded.

Just peaceful.

The bells near the entrance chimed faintly as wind brushed past them.

She stepped inside.

The sound of rain became distant.

Inside, it was quiet.

Incense lingering in the air. A diya flickering gently in front of the murti.

She walked slowly toward the side corner of the temple hall and sat down on the cold marble floor.

For the first time that day—

She wasn’t being watched.

Wasn’t being judged.

Wasn’t being told what her place was.

She looked at the murti.

Calm. Serene. Unmoved by storms.

Her lips trembled slightly.

She pulled her knees close to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

As if holding herself together.

“I didn’t do anything wrong…” she whispered.

Her voice broke halfway.

She tried to blink the tears away.

Tried to stay strong.

But the weight of the day crashed down all at once.

Home pressure.

College exhaustion.

The café humiliation.

The firing.

The rain.

Her breath started shaking.

And this time—

She couldn’t stop it.

Tears spilled freely as she buried her face against her knees.

Not loud sobbing.

Just quiet.

Deep.

Hurting.

The kind of crying you do when you’re tired of being strong.

The diya flame flickered gently.

Outside, thunder echoed.

Inside, she finally let herself break.
The temple was quiet.

Only the soft crackle of the diya.

Meher’s voice trembled as she looked at the murti.

“Kyaa paap kiye hain maine, Kanha.. kyaa…?”

Her tears wouldn’t stop now.

“Ki aapne mujhse mere maa–baap bhi cheen liye… aur yeh sab de diya…? Kyuuun…?”

Her breathing broke between words.

“Aap sabko dekhte ho na…? Lagta hai mere par abhi tak nazar nahi dali…”

She wiped her cheeks angrily.

“Koi baat nahi… I am fine…”

Her voice cracked.

“But… I am tired, Kanha… I am tired…”

She pressed her forehead against her folded knees.

“Aapko pata hai chacha–chachi mujhe kaise treat karte hain…? Aaj subah chachi ne kya bola… phir abhi sabke ke saamne… mujhe kitna chhota feel karwaya…like i am not a human”

Her hands trembled.

“Phir woh aadmi… jis tarah se dekh raha tha mujhe… jaise main insaan nahi hoon…like i am his doll to play”

Her jaw tightened.

“Maine jo sahi laga woh kiya. Agar main chup rehti… toh kya woh sahi hota? Kya aap chahte the main chup rehti…?”

Her voice rose slightly — not in anger at God, but in hurt.

“Aur phir… woh insaan…”
She swallowed.

“Jisne bina kuch jaane mujhe blame kar diya… ek baar bhi nahi poocha… bas decide kar liya ki galti meri hi hogi…”

Her shoulders shook.

“Main galat thi kya…?”

Silence answered her.

But the silence didn’t feel empty.

The rain outside softened slightly.

The diya flame steadied.

And somewhere between her sobs, something quiet settled in her chest.

Not relief.

Not happiness.

Just… truth.

She didn’t kneel.

She didn’t stay silent.

She didn’t let someone disrespect her.

That wasn’t weakness.

That was strength.

Even if the world punished it.

Her tears slowed gradually.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“I’m tired,” she whispered again.

“But I won’t bow nor i will beg for anyone's sympathy or empathy .”

The temple remained still.

And for the first time that day—

She felt heard.

Even if no one had spoken back.
The marble floor felt cold beneath her.

She looked up again, eyes swollen.

“Mera ghar jaane ka mann nahi hai… ghar toh kya hi… mera koi ghar nahi hai…”

Her voice trembled.

“But jana padega”

Her chest tightened.

“Bas Kanhaji… aap meri ungli mat chhodna…”

Tears rolled down again.

“Main pehle se hi tooti hui hoon… aapke bina chur-chur ho jaungi…”

Her hands folded tightly.

“Help me… I am tired…”

For a few seconds, she just breathed.

Then softly—

“Krishna ji aaye bachaye mujhe… mayavi maya dikhaye mujhe…”

The temple stayed silent.

But something shifted inside her.

Not magic.

Not a miracle.

Just… steadiness.

As if the storm outside had entered her… and then slowly started settling.

The diya flame flickered brighter for a moment.

And in that quiet—

A simple thought came to her.

Maybe Krishna won’t come in a form she expects.

Maybe strength itself is the protection.

Her breathing slowed.

She wiped her tears properly this time.

“I’ll go,” she whispered.

“Par aap saath rehna.”

She stood up slowly.

Still hurt.

Still exhausted.

But not broken.

Outside, the rain had reduced to a softer drizzle.
Meher slowly picked up her bag.

She adjusted her wet dupatta over her head, even though it was already soaked. It wasn’t about staying dry anymore — it was about feeling covered.

She wiped her tears quickly with the edge of it.

No one should see her like this.

Not broken.

Not crying.

She took one last look at the murti.

“Saath rehna,” she whispered again.

And then she walked toward the exit.

At the same time—

Outside the temple entrance, a black car stopped.

Veeransh stepped out.

His jaw was tight.

His suit still slightly damp.

His mind replaying the scene again and again.

The drink.

The words.

“I don’t give a damn whether you’re a very important person…”

And the deal.

Called off.

Because of chaos in a small café.

He wasn’t used to losing control.

He wasn’t used to public humiliation.

And he certainly wasn’t used to being challenged like that.

He stepped inside the temple.

Not for peace.

Not for prayer.

Just… instinct.

The air was calm.

Incense. Bells. Silence.

But it didn’t calm him.

He stood there for barely a minute.

Eyes fixed on nothing.

Anger simmering beneath his still face.

“That girl…” he muttered under his breath.

He didn’t know her story.

Didn’t know what happened before he walked in.

All he saw was defiance.

Disruption.

Loss.

He turned and walked out of the temple.

Missing her by seconds.

Outside, Meher had already stepped into the light drizzle, walking in the opposite direction.

Two storms.

Walking away from the same place.

Both thinking the other was the reason.

word count - 3694
Author- Hello Readers, hope u enjoyed this chapter.....the next chapter will be published either on 10th or 11th of march...and i hope u all enjoyed this chapter....the prince side of veeransh will be shown in upcoming chapters after 1 or 2 chapters more...you all will love that side of his and meher and veeransh's past will be disclosed in the upcoming chapters maybe not so soon...but yea..it will be disclosed.

so support me and vote and follow me for new updates


subscribe me on youtube - @midnightvellum