The car pulled up to the mansion in silence.
As soon as it stopped, Meera opened the door and stepped out — no word, no glance back. Her limp was sharper now, but she didn't wait for help. She didn't ask for permission.
She walked straight to her room.
Fifteen minutes. That's all it took.
She pulled out her suitcase, packed what mattered — a few clothes, her passport, a photo tucked in between a book. Her elbows throbbed, her shin ached, but she didn't stop.
Then she dialed Rizwan.
"I need the earliest flight to Finland," she said.
Rizwan was silent for a second. "Meera… what happened?"
"Just do it, please," she said softly. "I'm leaving tonight."
He didn't argue. "I'll book it."
Twenty minutes later, she was dragging her bag down the hallway. Abhimanyu hadn't said a word since the car. Hadn't even tried to stop her.
As she passed the main hall, Rizwan was already at the door, waiting, still confused. "You're really—?"
She nodded, eyes blank. "Thank you, Rizwan."
And with that… she walked out.
Leaving behind a mansion. A man. And a hundred unspoken wounds.
The cold air of Helsinki kissed her cheeks as she stepped out of the airport. It was grey. Dull. Unforgiving. Like her heart.
She hadn't said much on the flight. She hadn't cried. Not once.
But when the cab finally pulled up to her apartment and she stepped inside — the silence hit her like a scream.
Phone in her coat buzzed.
Incoming Call: Dhriti, Isha, Zara
She stared at the screen. Fingers trembling.
She picked up.
Three familiar voices chimed in instantly, laughing, teasing — "Girl, where have you been?" "Why the hell didn't you text back?" "We've been stalking your Insta, and it looks like—"
But Meera didn't say a word.
The sob caught in her throat so violently it tore through her.
One second.
Then another.
And then she broke.
The phone fell from her hand as she dropped to her knees on the cold apartment floor, tears finally spilling over — loud, breathless, ugly sobs.
Because it was too much.
The pain.
The words.
Being "a mistake."
Her friends went silent on the line — calling out her name, panic rising. But she couldn't answer.
All she could do was cry.
Finally. Fully.
Alone.
The girls didn't know what to say—just that their best friend was breaking, and they weren't there to catch her.
Zara (gently):
"Okay. That's it. We're booking flights. We'll be with you before morning—"
Meera (interrupting softly but firmly):
"No."
They all froze.
Meera:
"Please… I know you love me. And I love you for it. But I need to be alone right now. I need time to breathe… to process. Please don't come."
Dhrithi:
"Are you sure?"
Meera (nodding, voice still trembling):
"Yes. Just stay with me on this call for now. Just don't say anything. Just… be here."
And they did. No advice. No pep talk. Just silence, and the quiet presence of love across continents.
Helsinki, One Month Later
Snow blanketed the streets of Finland like a whisper. Soft, white, unrelenting — much like the silence that now filled Mira's apartment. The warmth was gone. The hum of her playlist, the aroma of fresh chai, the echo of her laughter — all gone. It was a house still standing, but no longer lived in.
Mira sat curled on the edge of her living room couch, wearing the same oversized hoodie she'd arrived in a month ago. Her face was pale, her lips dry, her eyes swollen and heavy from sleepless nights. A lukewarm cup of black coffee sat untouched beside her — the only thing she could manage to keep down anymore. The fifth one today. Her body didn't crave food. Just silence.
The curtains had remained drawn since the day she returned. The apartment stayed dim, her once-colorful home now drained of life and light. Empty plates, half-filled cups, stale toast. Her fridge remained shut like her heart — untouched and locked tight.
Her phone buzzed again. She didn't even flinch.
Thirty-three missed calls from Zara. Twenty from Dhrithi. Ten from Isha. Rizwan had stopped trying to talk and had just begun sending texts:
"Please, just send one voice note."
"We're worried sick."
"Mira… don't do this to yourself."
She read them, every single one. But she replied to none.
Some nights, she sat at her desk and opened her laptop, trying to lose herself in work. But the screen stared back blankly, the blinking cursor mocking her emptiness. Other nights, she stayed on the couch, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the snow fall — and not a single thought in her mind except him.
And when she did sleep, it was rarely in bed. She lay in strange corners of the house. Her body didn't care where it collapsed anymore.
There were moments she picked up her phone to call him.
But she never dialed.
Because what was the point?
He said he couldn't love her.
And that truth was the sharpest wound.
Her fingers ran absentmindedly over the thin gold bracelet on her wrist — the one he had once clasped for her quietly, without a word, when they'd gotten drenched in the Mumbai rain. She hadn't taken it off since. Couldn't.
Once, she tried brushing her hair, staring at herself in the mirror. Her own reflection startled her — her cheeks hollow, her eyes lifeless, her body visibly thinner. Her heart had broken… and somehow, so had she. Physically.
She tried to cry it out.
But the tears never stayed long enough to give relief.
In one of the hardest moments, she walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on. Fully clothed. She stepped in and stood under the cold water as it drenched her, hoping maybe it would numb something inside. Maybe it would wash away the ache. The memories. The sound of his voice when he said "That's a fact."
But it didn't.
She stood there until the water turned ice cold.
Because even after a month of trying to erase him, she still belonged to the man who had never claimed her.
She still loved him.
And that love was now a quiet kind of grief — one that no one else could see.