The night swallowed her whole . One push - and everything went silent.
Nitya's body hit the ground like a whisper between life and death.
She wasn't dead, but she wasn't alive either.
Somewhere near the cliffside, Ayansh Rathore was driving home - not by chance, but by fate. A man who spoke little felt too much. He wasn't a savior by profession, but something in him told him to stop when he saw her - bloodied, unconscious, fragile.
He carried her like she was made of glass.
The hospital lights were too bright for the pain she carried.
The doctors shook their heads - " she's in coma, might never wake up. "
But Ayansh didn't walk away. He watched over her every single day. Talked to her like she could hear every word, told her about the world outside, about the news, about the sunsets, about how she looked peaceful in sleep.
And slowly... painfully...
He began to care. More than he should.
Meanwhile, her home was filled with silence and ash.
Her mother stopped cooking. Her father refused to speak. And Ritik...
He cried the loudest - the actor in him at his peak.
He manipulated the story, twisted the blame, pretended to mourn. Inside, he felt free.
But destiny doesn't forget.
Ayansh sat by her bed one night, gently fixing a strand of her hair.
" If you can hear me... I hope you know, " he whispered,
"Someone's waiting for you "
And that night -
her fingers twitched.