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Enjoy reading ✨️

The clock in the principal’s office ticked away mercilessly, slicing the silence like a razor against skin. Outside, the school playground echoed with laughter, the chaos of a normal day continuing—oblivious. But within the four walls of this dim room, time had halted.

Akshita stood. Her fingers curled inwards, nails pressing into her palm. Her throat burned, but no words came. Avyansh stood a few feet away, his eyes not meeting hers anymore. And yet, she couldn’t look away from him.

He had always been her calm… her storm. Her anchor. And now, he was the wave that had crushed her shore.

Across from them, Kavya sat on a cushioned chair, a bandage wrapped around her arm and a bruised cheek. She looked the part of the victim—helpless, quiet, trembling. But her eyes told a different story.

Beneath those lashes, she was watching. Smirking silently. Thriving in the spectacle she had orchestrated.

The principal had stepped out briefly, leaving the three of them in the suffocating silence of a room that smelled of antiseptic and betrayal.

Akshita finally stepped forward. Her knees trembled, but she forced herself toward him. Her face was now inches from his—searching. Pleading. Desperate to find a flicker of the Avyansh who used to smile at her stupid jokes, who used to pull her braid and whisper things only her heart could understand.

But the warmth was gone. The spark extinguished.

His eyes were colder than she had ever known them to be.

Her breath hitched.

And in a voice so broken it sounded like a sob caught in the wind, she whispered,

“Shayad tumse pyaar kar baithna meri sabse badi galti thi…”
(“Maybe falling in love with you was my biggest mistake…”)

Avyansh didn’t move. Not even a blink.

But his jaw clenched.

His eyes flicked toward her—just once.

And then he leaned forward, just enough that only she could hear, his voice not angry… not cruel. But so shattered that it felt like glass being crushed underfoot.

“Aur shayad tum par bharosa karna meri saza thi…”
(“And maybe trusting you was my punishment…”)

Her breath caught.

The air between them trembled with all the things they could no longer say. All the nights spent laughing in whispers, all the shared secrets, all the glances that once meant a world… now meant nothing.

From the side, Kavya bit her lip, pretending to wince in pain—masking the wicked delight dancing in her heart.

Akshita’s lips quivered. “I… I didn’t—”

“Stop,” Avyansh muttered, stepping back. “Bas… aur mat kehna.”
(“Just… don’t say anything more.”)

He turned his face away, blinking rapidly as if pushing something back… tears maybe, or memories that refused to stay buried.

“Main jaanti hoon tum mujh par vishwas nahi karoge,” she said, barely audible.
(“I know you won’t believe me now…”)

“But it was never what it looked like, Avyansh. That video—”

He turned sharply. “Video?” he repeated, a laugh that sounded more like a cough escaping his throat. “Woh video jisme tum keh rahi thi ‘Toh woh rahega bhi uske saath’? Tumhare chehre par woh… possessiveness?”
(“That video where you said, ‘So he’ll stay with her?’ That look on your face… the possessiveness?”)

His voice was rising now, jagged and uneven.

“Tumhari aankhon mein main pyaar nahi dekha… bas haq. Jaise main koi cheez hoon… koi prize!”
(“I didn’t see love in your eyes… only a sense of claim. Like I’m a thing… a prize!”)

Her tears spilled freely now.

“No… it wasn’t like that,” she pleaded. “I was just—hurt. I never meant—”

“You never meant?” His voice cracked. “Phir kya matlab tha tumhare aansuon ka? Un lamhon ka jab tum keh rahi thi tum mujhe samajhti ho? Tum toh sabse alag thi na? Toh phir yeh sab kya tha?”
(“Then what did your tears mean? Those moments when you said you understood me? Weren’t you supposed to be different? Then what is all this?”)

She stumbled backward, her body trembling like a leaf caught in the cruelest wind.

And Kavya sat quietly, pressing her lips together to hide the rising joy.

Akshita took a shaky breath. “Main sirf ek baar kuch keh sakti hoon… aur uske baad chali jaungi…”
(“Let me say just one thing… and then I’ll leave…”)

He didn’t answer.

She stepped forward, her voice quivering, soft like a lullaby that no longer had a child to comfort.

“Main tumse mohabbat karti thi, Avyansh. Waisi, jisme haq nahi hota… bas dua hoti hai.”
(“I loved you, Avyansh. The kind of love that doesn’t demand… only prays.”)

“I never wanted to own you. Just… stay by your side.”

Silence.

She exhaled. “Tumhe chhodne ka soch bhi nahi sakti thi… aur ab… mujhe tumse door jaana padega.”
(“I could never even imagine leaving you… and now… I have to walk away from you.”)

Still silence.

And then, from the other side, Kavya let out a low gasp. “Sir…” she called out as the principal reentered. “I’m feeling dizzy…”

The principal rushed to her side, his voice concerned, “Are you okay, beta? Should I call your parents?”

Kavya nodded weakly, pressing a hand to her forehead like a master performer.

Akshita stepped away, her heart in pieces, her soul stripped.

Avyansh watched as the principal knelt by Kavya’s side. And for a second… just a second, his eyes flicked back to Akshita.

She looked… defeated.

No—worse. She looked empty.

Her hands hung uselessly by her side, her eyes no longer searching. No longer fighting.

And that was when it hit him.

This wasn’t the Akshita who argued with him over book covers or laughed at his straight face.

This… was someone who had lost her home in a fire she never lit.

He felt something rise in his chest. A flicker of something old. Maybe doubt. Maybe regret.

But the pain was louder.

He turned his face away.

Akshita wiped her tears. And then, she smiled. A soft, shivering smile.

“Main tumse ab bhi pyaar karti hoon, Avyansh.”
(“I still love you, Avyansh.”)

“And maybe… that’s my second mistake.”

The door clicked shut behind the principal with a soft creak.

And somehow… that quiet sound was louder than every scream in my head.

I stood still.

Motionless.

Frozen in the wreckage of a moment that felt like it had ended something I never even had the courage to name.

Her voice… it echoed in the room like smoke trailing after a fire.

“Main tumse ab bhi pyaar karti hoon…”

No scream. No drama. Just… surrender.

But even surrender felt like a blade now—because love, when wrapped in betrayal, doesn’t soothe. It sears.

I didn’t move.

Because I knew…

The second I took a step, I’d fall apart.

I’d shatter.

And right now, I didn’t have the luxury to break.

I was Avyansh—heir to a throne, son of a king, top of the class, the one who never cried, never failed, never felt beyond the limit.

But standing there, with the girl I once trusted more than my own breath reduced to a trembling shell of sobs and silence—I felt more human than I ever wanted to be.

Akshita.

Her name alone a poem once.

Now… just pain.

She stood not far from me, curled in on herself. Crying.

Not the dramatic kind of crying people do for sympathy.

But the kind where your soul splits quietly.

Where you don’t even care who’s watching.

Where you're not crying to be heard—you’re crying because staying quiet would kill you.

And I?

I should’ve felt anger.

Rage.

Justified distance.

But all I felt… was burnt.

Charred from the inside.

Every moment with her played behind my closed eyelids like a cruel reel.

Her voice in that video.

“Toh woh rahega bhi uske saath?”

That wasn’t the girl who’d once written notes for me when I missed classes.

Not the one who used to drag me to the canteen and say, “Ek bite toh kha lo warna paper mein tumhare brain ki strike ho jaayegi.”

Not the Akshita who used to cry when dogs were hit in movies.

No.

That voice in the video… was cold. Possessive. Calculated.

It made me feel like an object. Like something that had to belong.

And that hurt.

Because for once in my life, I wanted to belong to someone.

I wanted it to be her.

I wanted her to see me not as a prince, not as a prize—but as a person.

But after what I saw…

I couldn’t breathe around her anymore.

Still… why was my throat tight?

Why did her sobs feel like they were echoing through my own ribs?

I leaned forward, bracing against the desk.

It dug into my palm like it was trying to ground me.

But nothing could.

I had screamed at her. Grabbed her.

Accused her.

And when she didn’t defend herself, when she just stood there like a wilted flower…

Somewhere, something inside me cracked.

Because her silence wasn’t arrogance.

It was resignation.

A kind I’d never seen before.

The kind you show only to people who meant everything.

And maybe I had meant that much to her.

Or maybe I was just desperate to believe that, so I wouldn’t feel like the villain in this story.

I remember her once saying:

“Main tumpar kabhi shak nahi kar sakti, Avyansh.”

God… I remember it so clearly.

She said it with those laughing eyes, half-eating my lunch because she forgot her own.

And I had smiled. Just slightly. Because deep down, I believed her.

I trusted her more than I trusted my own instincts.

But now that trust lay in pieces at my feet, like a glass rose—beautiful, delicate, destroyed.

And who shattered it?

Me?

Or her?

Or maybe… both.

Then the phone rang.

The sharp vibration jolted me like a slap.

Caller ID: Karthik

My little brother.

I picked up, my voice barely a whisper. “Haan…”
(Yes)

“Bhai!” his voice was frantic. “Dadi ki tabiyat bahut kharab ho gayi hai. Baba ne ambulance bulayi hai. Oxygen kam ho gaya hai… unhe hoosh bhi nahi aa raha—”
(Dadi’s health is very bad, dad called the ambulance. Her oxygen is down, she is unconscious)

“Ruko,” I whispered, my throat tightening. “Main aa raha hoon.”
(Wait)
(

I'm coming)

“Jaldi aao, please…”
(Please come fast)

The line went dead.

Just like my heart.

I stared at the phone. Then slowly looked up.

Reality crashing into my chaos like a second storm.

Dadi.

My constant. My calm.

She couldn’t fall ill now.

Not now when everything else was already falling apart.

The principal returned with a cold compress in his hand—moving toward Kavya.

I stepped forward, voice hoarse. “Sir… ghar pe emergency hai. Mujhe abhi jana padega.”
(Sir, there is a emergency in home. I need to go now)

His face tensed. “Beta… jao. I hope everything turns out fine.”
(Son...Go.)

I nodded.

But I couldn’t leave… not yet.

Not without saying something that had been clawing at my throat.

“Sir,” I said, turning halfway toward him, halfway toward her. “Jo bhi sach hai… usse samne aana chahiye. Justice honi chahiye.”
(Sir, whatever the truth is, it should come out. Justice should be served)

The principal’s face tightened. “I promise.”

But as I turned…

My eyes involuntarily went to her.

Akshita.

Still standing.

Still crying.

But what broke me… was her stillness.

The girl who never stayed still, who was always humming, laughing, making faces… she now looked like a statue of heartbreak.

Tears kept falling.

But her hands didn’t move to wipe them.

Hair fell over her face, but she didn’t brush it back.

She wasn’t hiding her pain.

Because there was no one left to hide it from.

And her eyes?

God.

Her eyes were what did it.

They didn’t cry.

They bled.

They looked like a battlefield after war—no soldiers, no flags—just silence. Smoke. Rubble.

And that?

That destroyed something in me.

Because I knew that emptiness.

I’d just never seen it on her face.

I looked at her like a stranger. And yet…

I saw the girl who used to toss chalks at me in class and laugh like a child when I pouted.

I saw the girl who’d once said,"Love is beautiful, isn’t it? I hope that when it finds me, it sings like the flute of Krishna and beats like Radha’s heart."

I saw the girl who believed in love like it was a prayer.

And I?

I had just crushed her faith like it was a lie.

I turned and walked out.

Each step felt like a betrayal.

Her sobs followed me like a ghost, clinging to the back of my neck.

Outside, the sun was shining.

Birds were chirping.

Students were laughing somewhere on the grounds.

But to me… the world felt cold.

Muted.

Like even the light had turned grey.

My feet carried me forward—to Dadi, to responsibility, to reality.

But my heart?

It lingered.

Back there.

With her.

In that dim office that smelled of antiseptic and broken trust.

Her last words still rang like broken glass in my ears.

“Main tumse mohabbat karti thi… jisme haq nahi hota… bas dua hoti hai…”

It wasn’t just a confession.

It was a goodbye.

A silent burial of everything she ever felt for me.

And maybe she never wanted me to hear it again.

But I would.

Forever.

And with every step away, one thought stabbed deeper:

Did I just destroy the only truth that ever loved me?

Maybe she lied.

Maybe she didn’t.

Maybe the video was real.

Maybe it was manipulated.

But the pain?

That was real.

Her tears?

Real.

The way her body crumbled like a house with no foundation?

Real.

And the guilt that flickered in my chest, like a dying candle begging not to fade?

That too, was real.

Because for all my anger…

All my logic…

All my doubts…

One cruel truth remained:

I hurt her.

Not just in accusation.

But in the way I looked away when she needed me the most.

Not as a lover.

Not even as a friend.

But as human.

And today, I failed her in every form.

I walked faster.

Not to run from her.

But to run from myself.

Because sometimes the worst kind of heartbreak isn't when someone else breaks you.

It's when you look into the mirror…

And realise you were the one holding the hammer.

People say love heals, but here, it carved wounds that may never close.

Akshita sat curled in the corner of the principal’s cabin, her arms wrapped around her knees, body trembling like a leaf in stormy winds. Her red dupatta was crushed in her fingers, soaked by tears that seemed to pour endlessly. She had been begging for someone to believe her, pleading that she wasn’t the girl in that video — that the voice wasn’t hers, that it was manipulated — but no one listened. Not even him.

Not even Avyansh.

He had left. Left with rage in his eyes and betrayal in his heart, whispering, “Tum par bharosa karna meri saza thi.”
(Trusting you was my punishment.)

Those words felt like a knife across her soul.

For seventeen years, Akshita had been protected like a fragile glass doll. Her father’s beloved daughter, her brothers' princess. A girl who believed in love, in friendship, in the purity of intentions. Today, that world shattered.

She wasn’t crying over just a boy or a broken heart.

She was mourning the death of something deeper—
Her faith. Her trust. Her innocence.

The door burst open with a crash.

“Ladoo!” her father’s voice thundered, laced with worry.

Ekansh and Ruhaan rushed in behind him, and the sight of their little sister crumpled in a corner, her face streaked with tears, stopped them cold.

Her baba dropped to his knees, breath caught in his chest. “Bacha..” His voice trembled.

She looked up, her tear-smeared face barely registering the silhouettes in front of her. “Baba…” she whispered, almost inaudibly, like the wind before a hurricane.

He reached out, enveloping her in his arms. Her hands clutched his kurta tightly, burying her face in his chest as fresh sobs tore through her body.

“I did nothing, Baba… they’re lying…” Her voice cracked, each word like a bleeding wound.

“I know, my princess. I know,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.

Ruhaan and Ekansh stood stiff, fists clenched so tightly that their knuckles turned white. Ruhaan’s eyes searched her face, noticing the deep pain, the hopelessness, the bruised dignity. Ekansh turned his back, unable to watch his sister broken like this.

They were Rai Singhanias.

Kings in their own right.

But today, they had failed to protect their queen.

Her father gently gestured for them to lift her into the chair, and they did so with trembling hands, their hearts screaming.

“How did all this happen?” Ruhaan murmured.

As her brothers held her close, her father turned to face the principal and Mr. and Mrs. Malhotra. He adjusted his coat, trying to mask the rage bubbling inside him.

The principal cleared his throat awkwardly, looking at Akshita with a mix of pity and guilt. “We are deeply concerned… but as this involves a sensitive matter, we need to follow protocol.”

Mr. Malhotra stood up, his tone aggressive. “We demand justice! This girl has—”

“How dare you!” her father growled, slamming his hand on the desk, causing everyone to flinch.

He inhaled, steadying his voice. “You accuse my daughter without evidence? You want to drag her through mud based on an edited video and a few tears? My daughter?”

“Please, Mr. Rai Singhania,” the principal said, “Let’s discuss this rationally.”

Mrs. Malhotra clutched Kavya, who sniffled theatrically in her mother’s arms.

“We just want what’s right,” she said softly.

Behind her crocodile tears, Kavya’s eyes sparkled with concealed satisfaction. This is what you get, Akshita, she thought. For stealing what was mine.

But the word police was uttered, and it changed everything.

“The school will be involving the police,” the principal said.

A moment of silence.

Then—

“No!”

Akshita’s scream pierced the room.

She jolted up from the chair, breaking free from her brothers’ grasp.

“No! Please, no police! I didn’t do anything!” Her voice was raw, her breath ragged.

“Akshu, listen to Baba, it’s okay—” her father tried to hold her.

“No, you don’t understand!” she cried. “They’ll arrest me! I didn’t do it, Baba! You believe me, right? Please…”

“I believe you, beta, I do,” he whispered, moving toward her.

But she took a step back, shaking her head violently. Her eyes searched the room for someone—anyone—to help her breathe again.

Her legs moved on instinct, and before anyone could stop her—

She ran.

Out of the office.

Down the corridor.

Tears flying behind her like pieces of her broken soul.

“Princess!” Ruhaan and Ekansh shouted, bolting after her.

But she was gone.

Gone towards the terrace.

Where another kind of darkness awaited.

Back in the cabin, silence hung like thick fog.

The principal adjusted his glasses. “We’ll delay the police until we understand further.”

Kavya fidgeted with her shawl. Her fingers trembled.

She had won… hadn’t she?

But a tightness gripped her chest.

She pulled out her phone and messaged quickly: “The game’s over. She ran away.”

Then she smirked.

Yet… when the word police echoed again in her head, unease replaced her arrogance.

“Mama…” she whispered, “I… I don’t want the police involved…”

“But why, beta? Weren’t you the victim?” her mother asked.

The principal’s gaze sharpened.

Kavya hesitated. “It’ll… ruin her future, na? I mean, maybe she didn’t mean it. I just don’t want her near me. Please…”

Her mother caressed her head, nodding. “You’re too kind.”

Akshita’s father glared at them. “Kindness and deception wear the same mask in your family.”

Mr. Malhotra puffed up. “Your daughter committed a sin, and we want justice. But if my daughter withdraws the complaint—”

“Dare finish that sentence,” Akshita’s father growled, stepping forward. “And remember—SHE. DID. NOTHING.”

His voice thundered across the room like divine judgment.

Without another word, he stormed out.

Vedika stood outside, eyes filled with concern and tears.

“Uncle?! Where’s Akshu? I can’t find her anywhere!”

“She ran… terrace,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

Vedika froze. “What?! No! Why would she—?”

“Because the world stopped listening to her.”

Her father’s voice broke.

Ruhaan and Ekansh were still running, hearts in their mouths, hoping their sister wouldn’t do something irreversible. The corridor blurred past them as guilt, rage, and fear tangled in their veins.

|ᴛ ᴏ   ʙ ᴇ   ᴄ ᴏ ɴ ᴛ ɪ ɴ ᴜ ᴇ ᴅ|

This whole chapter was trauma for me, literally I couldn't bring myself to write those words. Yet I did. For you all obvious.

So here is your chapter.
Was it boring.

Your author.
Rusxverse.