Page 65 of Cherish my Heart

She nods. “Let’s draw something. Mamma keeps my crayons in that drawer.”

I wipe my face, already feeling the tears dry uncomfortably on my skin. “Okay.”

We sit together, sprawled on the floor. She draws a house, and then a sun, and then stick figures—“This is me, and this is you,” she says, labeling them. “And this is us throwing tomatoes at the bad people.”

I smile, grabbing a crayon to help her color the sky purple.

And in that moment—silly, tender, healing—I feel like I can breathe again. I’m still broken. Still bruised. But not alone. Not here. And for now, that’s enough.

CHAPTER 35

ADITI

It’s close to midnight, and I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan lazily rotating above me. My phone rests on my chest like it weighs a hundred kilos. I’ve been watching his contact flash on the screen for the past half an hour now—Abhimaan. Just his name. Mocking me in silence.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. I mean, I do. And that’s the worst part. I should be over it by now. I should be angry. Done. I should have deleted his number the moment I walked out of that office, but no. Here I am, fingers hovering over the call button like some teenager with a crush. How humiliating.

But it’s not about him. Not entirely.

I need to return the office laptop. It’s the practical thing to do. Resignation letter—check. Device—check. Loose ends to tie up—check. My brain keeps listing things like a damn checklist, trying to make this logical when everything about it is emotional.

My thumb grazes the screen. My heart races.

What if he doesn’t pick up?

But what if he does?

What if I hear his voice and fall apart all over again?

And yet, the stillness in this room is unbearable. Everyone else is asleep, and I’m here spiraling. My eyes sting from the lack of sleep and unshed tears. I could wait till morning. Be professional. Be strong. But I know I won’t sleep a second if I don’t make this call.

I sit up, swipe across the screen before I can stop myself, and press the green button. One ring.

That’s all it takes.

“Hello?” His voice is quiet. Breathless. Like he wasn’t asleep. Like he’d been waiting.

I don’t speak. My throat is dry.

Silence stretches between us.

“I’ll come tomorrow to give you the laptop,” I finally say, forcing my voice to stay neutral.

“Okay.” He coughs immediately after. Harsh. Dry.

I sit up straighter. “Are you—are you sick?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and panic begins to bubble in my chest.

“Abhimaan?” I try again. “Are you okay? Why are you coughing like that? Did you catch a cold? Did you go to a doctor? Oh, you might not know a doctor here—”

“I’m fine.” His voice cuts me off gently. But there’s something broken in the way he says it.

“I just… had your ice cream.”

“What?” I frown. Why did he eat ice cream when he clearly can’t handle it? Is he mad? Sometimes he’s so infuriating. I huff.

“Got a slight fever. It’ll pass.” He says.