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"All this was your fucking plan? You blackmailed her to run away from the wedding?"
Her voice, sharp and accusing, echoed through the room, cutting through the suffocating silence like a blade. My sisterâmy own sisterâstood there smirking, a cruel, twisted satisfaction lighting up her face.
And him... my husband, my best friend of 25 years, was standing by her side, glaring at me with betrayal etched in every line of his face. The same man who had once known me better than anyone else now believed her over me.
"Leave me. You're hurting me," I whispered, wincing as his grip on my arm tightened.
His eyes, usually so kind and warm, burned with anger. "It's hurting me too, to know that my own best friend would blackmail her own sister just to marry me. Why? Why would you do this when you knew I loved her?"
I shook my head, my voice trembling. "I didnât. Believe me. Why would Iâ"
"Really?" he spat, cutting me off. "Then what about these?" He threw a stack of my diaries onto the floor, their pages scattering across the room. "Whatâs written in these, huh? Are they fake? Your so-called loveâis it all fake?"
My breath hitched as I stared at the familiar, battered pages. "It's true," I admitted softly, my voice cracking. "It's true that I love you, but I was happy for you. Sheâs lyingâ"
"Why should I believe you?" he interrupted, his voice a venomous growl. "Have you ever told me about your feelings? No, of course not. You just acted happy so that we believe you happy with my relationship with your sister, didnât you? And on the wedding day, it was all drama, right? God, youâve been lying for six months. Six fucking months! I never knew you were such an opportunistic woman who could do anything to get what she wants."
His words stabbed me in the chest, each one sharper than the last. My voice trembled as I tried to defend myself. "How could I have confessed when you told me you loved my sister? And after our marriage, you mourned her every single day. Finally, when you started to move on, I didnât want to burden you with my feelingsâ"
"Oh, donât play innocent!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls. "I canât believe I almost fell for you. You almost succeeded. If Mahira hadnât come back and revealed everything, I wouldâve been completely fooled!"
His words crushed whatever small hope I had left. My voice barely rose above a whisper. "You donât trust me, do you?"
He turned away, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought it might crack. His silence said more than any words ever could.
My lips curled into a sad, bitter smile as tears slipped down my cheeks. "Do you want to know the biggest regret of my life?" I asked, my voice laced with pain.
He didnât respond, but I could see his shoulders tense.
"Falling in love with someone like you," I whispered, the words cutting me as deeply as they would him. "You donât deserve love or friendship. Both require trust and respect, and you lack both."
The silence between us was deafening until he finally spoke, his voice cold and unrecognizable. "Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. House."
His words rang in my ears, sealing the end of everything weâd shared. I flinched but didnât let myself break in front of him.
Without another word, I turned and walked out, letting a single tear fall as I closed the door on what we once wereâand what we could have been.
~~~
Vritika Khanna and Atharv Khurana
I add the aesthetics later.
" ð»ð ð€ðð ððŠ ðð£ðððŠð¡âððð, ðð£ðð ð€âðð ðŒ ð€ðð ððð¡âððð ð¡ð âðð. ðµð¢ð¡ ððð£ððð âðð ðððð ð¡âð ð âðððð€ð ððððŠ ð¡ðð¢ðâð¡ ðð ððð ð¡ðð¢ð¡ââð ðððð¡ðððð , ððð£ð ðð ðâð¡ ðððð¢ðâ ð¡ð ðððð ð ðððððð ð ðð ðŠðð¢. " - Vritika
" ðŒ ððð£ðð âðð, ðð¢ð¡ ðŒ âðð ð¡ð ððð¡ âðð ððâð¡ð ðððððð ððŠð ððð ð¡âðð¡ ðŒ ððð ððð£ðð ð¡ð ðð ðâðð ðð, ððð¡ ðð£ðððððððð." - Vritika
" ðŒ ð€ðð âðð ðð¢ððð¡ ðððð ð¡ððð¡, ð¡âð ððð ð€âð ð ð¡ðð¡ðâðð âðð ðððððð ðððððð ð¡ðððð¡âðð. ðµð¢ð¡ ð ðððð¡ðððð , ðð£ðð ðððð ð¡ððð¡ð ðððð ð€âðð ð¡âððŠâðð ð¡ðððð ððð ððððð¡ðð." Vritika
" ð»ðð ððð¢ðâð¡ðð ð€ðð ððŠ ððððððŠ, âðð ðððð ðððð ððŠ ððððð. ðµð¢ð¡ ððð€, ðŒ ð ð¡ððð ððððð, âðð¢ðð¡ðð ððŠ ð¡âð ððâððð ðð ð€âðð¡ ðŒ ðððððð ð¡ð ðâðððð â. " - Atharv
" ð»ðð£ððð âðð ððð€ððŠð ððŠ ððŠ ð ððð, ðŒ ððð£ðð ð ð¡ððððð ð¡ð ð€ððððð ð€âðŠ ð¡âð ð€ðððð ðððð¡ ððððâð¡ðð ð€ðð¡â âðð ðððð¢ðð. ðâð ð€ðð ð¡âð ððð ðŒ ððð£ðð ððððððŠ, ðð¢ð¡ ðŒ ðððððð§ðð ðð¡ ððððŠ ððð¡ðð ðŒ ððð ð¡ âðð. " - Atharv
" ðŒ ð€ðð ð¡ðð ððððð ð¡ð ð ðð ð¡âð ððð£ð ðð âðð ððŠðð , ð¡ðð ðððð¢ð ð¡ð ððððð¡ ðŒ ðððððð âðð. ððð€, ðŒâð ððð£ð ðððŠð¡âððð ð¡ð ðð ðððð ððð âððð ðð ð¡ð âðð ðððððð ð âð ð ðððððð ðð€ððŠ. "
âââââðââðââðâââââ
