The rain came heavier that night. Not the soft drizzle that lulled the city into sleep—but a relentless, pounding storm that shook the windowpanes and flooded the streets in silence.
Aarav stood in the kitchen, staring at the kettle on the stove like it might explode. He wasn't thinking about tea.
He was thinking about her.
Anaya had barely spoken since the phone call with her mother. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. But something had shifted. Like she'd folded back into herself—just when he thought she was beginning to breathe again.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned slightly.
She was wrapped in the old shawl he kept by the sofa. Hair damp. Eyes distant.
"Can't sleep?" he asked gently.
She shook her head, then sat on the floor instead of the chair. She always did that—chose the floor when space was available. Aarav had begun to suspect it wasn't about comfort. It was about not taking up space she didn't feel she deserved.
He poured the tea.
No sugar. Just the way she liked it now.
She sipped in silence.
And then, without looking at him, she said, "My ex called."
Aarav's hand tightened around the handle of the kettle. He didn't speak.
"He didn't say much," she added. "Just... that he knows I'm not far."
"Do you think he'll come?"
"I don't know. He usually does what he says."
Aarav sat across from her, trying to keep his voice steady. "Do you want to go to the police?"
She laughed—but there was no joy in it. "What would I tell them? That I ran from him and now I'm scared he'll find me? There's no case in fear."
"There should be."
"There isn't."
A long pause.
Aarav wanted to say, I'll protect you. But it felt... wrong. Too heavy. Too soon. Too fragile.
So instead he said, "You don't have to go through this alone."
She looked at him then—really looked. Her eyes were darker than usual. Not tired. Just... hollow.
"What if I don't know who I am without him?" she asked, almost whispering.
"You're finding out," Aarav replied. "Every day you stay away. Every time you choose yourself. You're not who you were when you met him. That's the point."
Her lip trembled.
And for the first time, she leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder.
He froze—only for a second—then let her stay there.
They didn't speak again that night.
But something passed between them.
Something more honest than words.
The next morning, Aarav found her gone.
The door wasn't broken. Nothing was missing. But her sketchbook lay on the table, open to a half-finished drawing of a girl curled up under a cracked sky.
He called her name. Checked the balcony. The bathroom.
Nothing.
A dull panic began rising in his throat. The kind of panic that doesn't shout. It whispers. It feeds.
What if she'd gone back?
What if she thought she was burdening him?
What if she'd disappeared the way people do in this city—without a trace?
Then he saw the note.
"I'll be back. I need to face something."
That was all.
No name. No time. No explanation.
He sat on the floor, her sketchbook in his lap.
And waited.
Four hours later.
She returned.
Wet, hair stuck to her face, eyes red—but not from tears.
From fury.
He opened the door before she could knock.
"You okay?"
She nodded. Then shook her head. "I saw him."
Aarav felt his chest tighten.
She stepped inside, dropped her bag. "He followed me for a block. Said he just wanted to talk."
Aarav's hands clenched. "Did he touch you?"
"No. But his voice did. The way he said my name—it was like a chain wrapping around my throat again."
He swallowed hard. "Anaya—"
"I walked away," she interrupted. "I walked away and didn't look back."
Then her voice cracked. "Why does that feel like a sin?"
"Because abusers make you believe disobedience is betrayal," Aarav said gently.
"And what is it really?"
"Survival."
She stared at him—long and hard. Then nodded once.
And collapsed into his arms.
He didn't say a word. Just held her.
Not like a lover. Not like a hero.
Just like someone who understood what it meant to be afraid and still keep walking.
They sat together that night by the window, watching the city swallow the rain.
"I want to start over," she said suddenly.
"How?"
"I don't know. Maybe... cut my hair."
He blinked. "That's the plan?"
She smiled. "You'd be surprised what a haircut can do."
He laughed. "Let's go tomorrow."
"Will you come with me?"
"Of course."
She leaned against him. "Maybe I'll dye it."
"Blue?"
"God, no. I'm not that dramatic."
"Red?"
She looked up at him. "What color says, 'I'm broken but still breathing?'"
He thought for a moment. "Ash brown."
She chuckled. "That's oddly specific."
"I wrote a character once with that hair. She reminded me of you."
"Oh yeah? What happened to her?"
"She left."
"Why?"
"She was scared of falling in love again."
Anaya grew quiet.
Then softly: "What if she hadn't left?"
He looked at her. "Then the story would've been about healing. Not escape."
She nodded.
"Then maybe I'll stay."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was full of possibilities.
The next day, she cut her hair.
Short, uneven, lightened at the tips.
She looked in the mirror and whispered, "Hi."
Aarav stood beside her.
"Who are you talking to?"
"Myself," she said. "It's been a while."
Later, at a secondhand bookstore near Shivaji Nagar, Anaya spotted a notebook with a cracked leather cover.
She picked it up, flipped through the pages. Blank.
"I want this," she said.
"For sketching?"
"No. For writing."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I used to write poetry," she said. "Before I convinced myself it was useless."
Aarav handed her the notebook. "Then start again."
She smiled.
He didn't say anything, but in that moment, he realized something strange—he didn't feel like a rescuer around her anymore.
He felt... rescued.
In some quiet, unexplainable way, she'd given him back the will to hope. To write. To believe he could matter to someone without pretending to be whole.
They returned home.
She wrote her first poem in the notebook that night.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't profound. But it was hers.
She read it aloud, her voice shaking:
"I walked away
with silence stuck to my soles,
and shame stitched to my chest.
But I kept walking.
Because somewhere,
someone built a room
where I didn't have to explain
why I was tired."
Aarav clapped softly.
She blushed.
And in that moment, their scars stopped being stories of damage.
They became stories of survival.