Page 43 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

My emergency therapy session left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Ruth was... well, ruthless. In her calm, kind, maddeningly perceptive way.

I had told her what Advik and I talked about. About how I might be chasing something that isn’t sex, or even closure—just the reassurance that Lucian still wants me.

She turned it around on me. And also made me realize that Advik should never attempt to be a therapist.

??????

“External validation,” Ruth said, “is like using a band-aid for a gash that needs stitches. It might make you think you’re helping the wound close. But it won’t. Not really .”

I frowned. “So... keeping with the metaphor, who’s supposed to give me the stitches?”

She smiled gently. Didn’t answer right away.

I groaned. “Oh my god—it’s me , isn’t it? I’m the patient and the doctor? It’d be easier if you just told me to ignore everything and grow a thicker skin. Literally and figuratively.”

Ruth tilted her head, voice even. “Ignoring the wound doesn’t make it heal. And thicker skin only dulls the pain—it doesn’t teach you how to live without fear of being cut again. Keeping up with the metaphor, of course.”

She waited a beat. “So. Let’s revisit some of the exercises we talked about. And this time, I want you to really sit with what your body is, not what you think it should be.”

I nodded, quietly.

She pulled out a notebook. “We’re going to do three things,” she said.

“First, I want you to write a letter to your body. Not your appearance. Your body . The muscles that carry you. The legs that hold you upright. The lungs that pull air in when you’re sobbing.

The arms that hug your friends and family. ”

My chest tightened.

“Second,” she continued, “I want you to note every time in the next week you compare yourself to someone else. Write it down. And more importantly, write what triggered it. A comment. A photo. A look. Doesn’t matter. You’re at a wedding. I’m guessing it’ll be a bit overwhelming.”

I swallowed hard. “And third?”

“Third,” she said softly, “I want you to take one photo of yourself. Not posed. Not edited. Just you. And I want you to describe yourself in it like you would describe a stranger—with kindness . With neutrality, if you can’t get to kindness. But not with cruelty.”

“I can’t do that,” I muttered. “Not without... comparing. I’m not curvy but I’m also not a freaking Victoria’s Secret model. I don’t think I know how to be neutral.”

“That’s why we start small,” Ruth said. “You’re allowed to be in process. You’ve had ten-plus years of internalizing shame. We’re not undoing it in the next week.”

She looked at me, steady and grounded. “This isn’t about intimacy, Rohi. This is about identity . You’ve survived by attaching worth to being wanted. But that’s exhausting. What if you could want yourself —without performing for someone else’s gaze?”

I didn’t have an answer.

But my silence was louder than any yes .

??????

So here I am—curled up in bed at 1 am—pouring my heart out to a kind stranger across the world—practicing being kind.

Her name is Glynn Anderson, one of the four directors of Kind Mirror, and she listens like she’s absorbing every word.

She hums thoughtfully at moments, gasps softly at others.

Unlike Ruth, Glynn wears every reaction on her face, and the warmth of her well-lit room makes it feel.

.. safe , somehow. It’s daytime for her.

For me, it’s pitch dark, both outside and in my chest.

She asks gentle questions now and then—never pushy, always careful. Twenty minutes in, I realize I’ve slid almost horizontally on the bed, my head resting on the pillow like I’m being tucked in.

It’s strangely easier, talking to a stranger. Easier than it would be with Kashvi or Mom. Maybe because Glynn doesn’t know the before-me.

I also notice—pointedly—that she never brings up Lucian. Not after the initial introduction where she simply acknowledged him for connecting us. Not even a passing comment.

So when we’re about to wrap up, I can’t help myself.

“Is... is Lucian Vale—” I stumble. “I mean, does he volunteer with you often? I just... was curious how, uh, someone like me could get involved too. As a volunteer.”

Wow. That was embarrassing. I sound like I’m twelve and have a crush on a camp counselor.

But Glynn just lights up. Beams. “Oh, Lucian’s amazing !

His style of volunteering is definitely something.

Did you know he helped develop a peer-based group session program?

A therapist-free space where members just..

. talk. Share their stories. Listen. It’s been incredibly healing for some of our participants. ”

I blink, stunned. Barely able to wrap my head around this.

She keeps going. “He even coordinated two of those himself! Oh—would you like to join one? We host them every Saturday.”

I’m still trying to absorb the fact that Lucian’s been doing all this, and doing it quietly.

Tears burn at the corners of my eyes. I blink rapidly, praying she can’t see them. It’s dark in my room. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

“Yes,” I say, voice cracking. “I’d love to. But maybe... after my cousin’s wedding? I don’t think I’ll be able to commit for a few weeks.”

“Oh absolutely, no rush!” she says brightly. “I’ll send over all the details. And oh, if you know anyone else who’d be a good fit—we’re only interviewing eleven people right now. We’d love more stories.”

She’s so genuinely excited, so hopeful about the program. Meanwhile, I’m barely holding it together under the weight of everything Lucian’s been doing behind the scenes.

God . I need to get a grip.

“Yeah. Definitely,” I manage. “I can think of a few people. I’ll send them your way. One hundred percent.”

We spend a few more minutes exchanging polite goodbyes. And the whole time, my heart doesn’t stop pounding.

Lucian Vale.

What the hell are you doing to me?

After mustering what little courage I had left to drag myself out of bed—because, let’s be real, that mattress was now my emotional support system—I shuffled downstairs in my sweats.

Kashvi hadn’t returned yet. Which meant she was either with Liam or sharpening a knife. Possibly both.

She hadn’t said much to me about him. But I’d seen them around the house, mid-argument more than once. Sometimes the “argument” looked suspiciously like foreplay, and I’d bolt the hell out of there before I accidentally became a witness.

As I near the bottom of the stairs, I hear a dull thud of music. At this hour?

Curious, I walk toward the main entrance and peek outside.

The center hall is glowing—and bustling . Not with the cousins or younger crowd... but with uncles, aunties, and possibly my parents. Everyone looks like they’re in the middle of an impromptu rave minus the rave part.

I spot my mom hurrying toward the mansion, dupatta slightly askew, smile plastered on her face. She sees me, slows for a moment.

“Oh beta ! Go get Lucian. And that other boy,” she says in Hindi, not even pausing to clarify. “Everyone’s dancing again— sangeet part two!”

And just like that, she’s off again. No follow-up, no wait for acknowledgment.

“I’m in my sweats, Maa!” I yell after her, more exasperated than embarrassed.

She just waves me off without turning around.

Of course . Why bother with logic?

Now I’ve apparently been volunteered to go find the Lamebrains . Or, more accurately—one Lamebrain and Lucian.

Shit.

I think my brain has officially forgiven him.

I shake off the thought and stomp upstairs like a grumpy toddler in need of a nap.

By the time I reach his door, I’m too aware of my reflection in the hallway mirror. Sleepy hair. Sweats. No makeup. Why am I suddenly self-conscious? He’s seen me like this before. Many times.

I knock anyway. Three short taps.

One second. Two.

Then—click.

The door swings open... and I am greeted by the bare, gleaming chest of Liam fucking Winters.

Correction: shirtless Liam in black shorts, his messy curls still damp, his smile smug.

“Oh,” I say, blinking. “Hi.”

“Hey Aarohi,” he drawls. “Did you come to admire the view?”

Oh dear god.

I should look away.

I don’t.

I mean—I do ! Eventually.

“Good job, Kash,” I mutter to myself.

“Liam, man. You need to stop showering like a maniac. There was a mini-flood in the bathroom,” comes Lucian’s voice from inside.

And then Lucian appears.

Freshly showered.

Dripping wet.

In a towel. Only a towel.

That’s all that’s covering his very tall, very toned, very naked body. Water glistens across his chest, shoulders, and neck. His hair is damp and unruly.

I, meanwhile, am experiencing a temporary lapse in brain function.

Lucian spots me and freezes. “Rohi?! What the hell—”

“I—mom sent me— sangeet —dancing—something— I don’t know!” I blurt.

He takes in the situation and immediately panics, grabs the edge of his towel and swings it over Liam like he’s the problem. Covering his chest.

Liam’s chest has disappeared.

Lucian’s dick has appeared.

Did he just use his only piece of clothing—well towel —so I couldn’t see Liam?

“Get out of the doorway, you absolute fucking moron!” Lucian snaps, trying to pull Liam inside.

“Ahem,” Liam points at Lucian’s nether regions.

The regions my gaze hasn’t slipped from for even a second.

And then it happens.

Lucian realizes what he just did. His hand snaps to his dick, covering it—barely.

Just enough for me to still see the edge of things no mortal ex should be reminded of during a family wedding.

Lucian curses—”Oh fuck!”

I’m frozen. Liam’s wheezing. And I’m very much reeling because—I didn’t even get a proper look—

Lucian growls, face red. “OUT!”

He yanks a random T-shirt from the bed, chucks it at Liam’s face while grabbing his towel back, and shoves him out the door.

Still laughing, Liam salutes me dramatically, and vanishes down the hallway.

And I?

I’m now somehow inside his room, trying not to laugh. And failing.

Lucian leans against the now-shut door, towel clutched to his waist, breathing hard like he just ran a marathon. His eyes flick to me, utterly defeated.

“Fucking hell” he mutters, then his eyes squeeze shut.

Then he groans and bangs his head softly against the door.

“Please tell me you didn’t see anything.”

I smirk. “ His anything or your anything.”

“Fuck.”

I can’t help it—I start laughing. Loudly. The kind that bubbles out uncontrollably and leaves my cheeks aching.

Lucian groans and stomps over to the bed, muttering curses as he rifles through a pile of clothes. He starts to dress.

But not before I get a great— stellar —view of his ass.

God bless the universe. And my mother, apparently, for sending me here.

He pulls on his boxers, then jeans, then grabs a T-shirt and shoves his head through it like it personally offended him.

I plop onto the edge of the bed, biting my lip to stop grinning. He’s still fumbling with his T-shirt when the words just slip out of me, unfiltered and stupid:

“So... did you two shower together?”

He freezes. “What— no! What the fu— no! Why— NO!”

His voice keeps climbing octaves with each no .

I lose it again. Cackling like an idiot.

It takes him a few beats, but he finally catches on and starts laughing too. It’s that breathless kind, the one that shakes your chest. Real. Unfiltered.

And just like that—mine stops.

Because I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like this.

Not a chuckle. Not a polite smile. But an actual laugh.

Has he laughed in months?

I glance up at him. He’s already staring. His expression softens as he takes me in—eyes dragging across my face like he’s trying to memorize something before it disappears.

And suddenly, I feel it too. That shift. That unspoken hum between us. The kind of silence that isn’t heavy—but intimate . Waiting.

“So...” I start, and promptly trail off.

“So,” he echoes softly.

“There’s a Sangeet part two happening downstairs. Dancing. Drinks. You can dance... but no alcohol for you.”

He chuckles. “No alcohol for me, Rohi.”

The way he says my name now. Like it’s something sacred. Like it belongs to him, but only if I let it.

Then he sits beside me on the bed. And just like that, my heart starts pounding so loudly I’m sure it echoes in the room.

“I, uh... talked to Glynn,” I say, my voice light.

“She’s pretty cool,” he nods, but then his expression shifts—serious now, thoughtful. “Are you... okay? That must’ve been hard.”

I swallow hard. He’s being so gentle. So... attuned . He always was—but I’d chalked it all up to manipulation. To charm with an agenda.

Fuck .

“I’m okay,” I say with a small smile. “But it was... weird hearing that you’ve been coordinating some type of group sessions.”

His brows lift. “Oh... yeah. I have. It’s been kind of enlightening to listen. To just... witness other people’s stories. I’d like to hear yours too. Someday. If you’d want to share it.”

I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from blurting, Yes. Of course.

But I say nothing.

“It’s okay if you never want to,” he adds, quickly. “I just want you to know that I’m here. To listen.”

“And?” I ask before I can stop myself. “What else are you here for?”

His eyes flit between mine, like he’s searching for the deeper meaning buried under the question. Because he knows. Knows I don’t mean the surface-level ’why are you here at the wedding?’

“You,” he says, his voice firm but tender. “I’m here for you , Rohi.”

My breath catches. I know what he’s saying. But still—clarity matters.

“And if I asked you to leave?” I whisper.

The light in his eyes dims slightly, like someone’s turned down a dial. “Then... I’ll leave.”

“You wouldn’t fight?” I ask, voice barely audible.

A flicker of something returns to his expression. Not just relief. But hope. Love .

“I’d find another way to fight for you,” he says. “But I won’t ever make you uncomfortable again.”

And just like that—it hits me. All at once. Like air finally rushing back into my lungs after being underwater.

My whole body softens. “You want me back.”

It’s not a revelation. Not a question. Not even a declaration.

It feels like permission . Like something I’ve finally allowed myself to see. For him to see.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. “How could I not?” His voice cracks. “I don’t just want you back. I want you . I want us . Without lies. Without fear. Without barriers. Without... pain. I want you, Rohi.”

And that’s when the tears come. Fast. Unforgiving.

My eyes shut as the first sob breaks through. Then the second.

But before the third can come, Lucian pulls me into him.

I collapse into his chest, fists tangled in his T-shirt so tightly my knuckles ache. His arms lock around me like he’s scared I’ll vanish if he lets go.

Then I feel it.

A wet warmth against my temple.

His tears.

And somehow... that undoes me more than anything else. So I cry harder.