Page 117 of Wasted Grace

My temples still throb withanger. My throat pulses with an echo offear. My chest is still caving in with anxiety of never summoning theresilience. And there’s a weight that feels likelove—or maybe worse. Maybe it’shope. A new emotion. And I don’t want to give that to him.

But I’ve come to accept something tonight. Icanlove him. Even if I never let himhaveme again.

And maybe that’s okay.

I think back to those three months of mandatory therapy after Afghanistan. I treated it like a roadblock. Something to just get through so I could sayyes, I’m fine now.So I could return to the resilience I wore so proudly.

But I don’t want that anymore.

I want to feel itall. Every jagged emotion. Every messy, contradictory, human thing. I want to be a woman who doesn’t hide behind names or aliases or defense mechanisms.

A woman who doesn’t filter people out before letting them in.

A woman who can give herwholeself—to be loved. Not just the curated, calculable,manageablepieces.

And that realization brings dread.

Because maybe I never really let Advik love me. And maybe... I couldn’t either. Notcompletely. Not while I kept parts of me locked away. Not when those parts neversurfaced.

Not while I let my fear of him seeing the ugly, broken, betrayed version of me—dictate everything.

And that’s why I ran, isn’t it?

Notjustbecause he thought of another woman. But because I couldn’t bear to let him see a version of me that was destroyed by him.

I couldn’t show him how deep that pain went.

So I did what I knew best. I put on the strongest mask I owned. The mask of the untouchable operative. The mask ofresilience. And I wore it like afuck-youcrown.

But I fucked it all up, didn’t I?

Because when I saw him again, all those masks started disintegrating.One by one.

Not by force. Not by manipulation. But just... byhisexistence. By the man he is. The man who apparently never stopped loving me. The man hebecame.

And now I’m here. In his kitchen. Hiding behind the fuckinglaukibecause all my masks have spectacularly malfunctioned.

He doesn’t say anything. And I know why. He doesn’t want to disturb this little bubble of the past being reflected in my actions.

I want to tell him it’s not the past. It’s probably myfuture. Maybe not withhim. But still mine.

So I let it happen. Which creates the rhythm for the upcoming weeks. Because I’m not capable of disturbing this either.

I need this time to fully understand how I function as anactiveoperative, while still having the masks withdrawn.

So for the next three weeks, we create a routine of polite conversations. No rehashing the past.

Simplyus, existing between theMehul missionand the fragile sanctity of truce. That’s what I think he believes this is. A truce.

Icall it hibernation. A cleansing of sorts. Where I’m letting the emotions come as is.

Mehul and his people have been awfully silent. They’ve tried accessing the GenVault client accounts—but failed miserably.

In terms of actual operational timeline—it’s not alarming. But the problems are closing in. We’ve captured two more undocumented boats in the past weeks after the Sunrise Home kids rescue.

AndGodknows how many we’ve missed. The adoption rates are still high. And so far his operation is contained to the orphanages. Notideal. But at least he hasn’t spread further.Infectedfurther.

The silent, watchful game is getting tiring for Advik and Dev. They’re on tenterhooks—agitated to get the ball rolling. I once heard Dev suggesting they let Mehul’s team hack into one ofthe client systems. The ones with theloweststakes andhighestphysical security.