i don't love me.
and that's how i understand why you don't either.

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Riddhiya
(5 year old)

The sound of laughter and chuckles echoed through the Rajput mansion.
Everyone in the family was laughing, talking animatedly with each other in the dinner hall.

Everyone except my mother and father.

In the small bedroom tucked away at the corner of the grand house, my mother sat crying. My father sat beside her, his arms around her trembling shoulders, whispering words of comfort.

I didn't know why Mumma was crying, but I didn't like it. Not one bit.

"Mumma," I whispered, walking towards her. I reached out with my small hands, wiping her tear-stricken face gently. "Don't cry..."

My voice cracked.

Mumma looked up at me, her eyes red and swollen, and the moment she saw me, she broke down again, clutching my hands tightly as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Vidya," my father said softly, his voice calm yet firm as he sat beside Mumma, trying to soothe her. "I told you... it's no use trying to win their hearts. They'll always let their prejudice come in the way. This family doesn't deserve your kindness."

His voice was steady, but I could hear the anger underneath. Papa was angry about what had happened at the dinner table.

Mumma wasn't allowed to eat with them, because she wasn't of royal blood, like Papa was.

"Vikram..." Mumma sobbed, trying to form words through her tears. "I thought... after all these years... they would start accepting me-"

But she couldn't finish. Her words crumbled into broken sobs, and Papa pulled her closer, letting her cry against his chest.

Earlier today, Mumma had made dinner for the entire family for the very first time. I had stayed by her side, watching her eagerly, handing her spoons, stealing bites when she wasn't looking. We thought everyone would be happy.

They weren't.

When they found out Mumma had cooked the meal, everyone had scrunched their noses in distaste, as if it were something dirty. And then came the taunts, the thinly veiled insults, the cold glares.

Papa was right. His family didn't deserve my Mumma's kindness.

"Mumma... don't crayy," I said again, my own nose starting to sniffle. Tears blurred my vision. I always cried when I saw others cry.

"Mera baccha," Mumma whispered, pulling me into a tight embrace. She clung to me as if anchoring herself to something real, something pure.
Papa wrapped his arms around us both, holding our small, fractured family together.

It had always been like this.

Just the three of us, against the world.

I had heard the arguments too many times before. My Papa's family didn't hate us, not with their words, but their actions were sharp, slicing deep in ways that words could never fully capture. Their smiles were polite, but their eyes were cruel.

But Mumma always said, Papa loves us, and that's enough.

And I believed her.

I smiled and believed it with all my heart.
Because love was enough. Wasn't it?

Even if you lost everything else, love was enough.

At least... that's what I thought.

People often mistake the definition of love. They think love is just the romantic kind, two lovers passionately fighting the world for each other.

But that's not all love is.

Love is two old souls sitting side by side, waiting for each other, holding onto each other even after years of broken promises.
Love is not conditional. It's unconditional.
It doesn't even have to be mutual. It can be painfully one-sided too.

Love doesn't just belong between two people.

It can be shared among friends, siblings, parents, strangers.

There are different shades of love, romantic, familial, unconditional, selfless, selfish, cruel, toxic, unhealthy, pure.

Love wears many faces.

And so, I don't think love is enough anymore.

There has to be something more.

I stared at myself in the mirror, no longer the child, but still carrying her heart, and all I could see was my childhood self, surrounded by the purest kind of love.
Love that had tested time and tragedy.
Love that had braved countless storms.

I saw my mother. I saw my father.
I saw how they loved. How they stayed.

But now... now, as I stared beyond that shining, blinding light called love,
All I saw was darkness.

A darkness made of doubts.
A darkness so thick, so heavy, it swallowed me whole.

And I was lost in it.

No one came to save me.
No hands reached out.
No promises were made.

It was just me.
Me and the silence.

Alone.

Waiting.

Yearning for love.

Pathetic, really.

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Beep. Beep.

"She's awake, call the doctor, fast!" a voice cried out, urgent and panicked, as I heard the commotion around me.

I tried to open my eyes, squinting against the harsh light. Immediately, I flinched and shut them again. The brightness was too much, too soon.

"Riddhiya, baccha, you're awake," I heard my mother's voice first, broken, relieved.

"Riddhiya, princess, Papa is with you. We both are," my father's voice followed, steady and warm.

It was enough.
Enough to make me feel safe.

"Riddhiya, I need you to slowly open your eyes and follow my instructions, okay?" the doctor said, his tone calm but firm.

I gave a slight nod in response.

A series of instructions followed, light checks, reflex tests, questions I struggled to answer through the haze. They were checking my condition, my consciousness, my mental state.

Half an hour later, the doctor left, reassuring my parents with a small smile.

I was okay. Conscious. Stable.

I shifted to sit back, wincing slightly as the bandages on my shoulder pulled. I huffed under my breath, annoyed by the stiffness, but before I could even adjust properly, my mother was already by my side, tucking a pillow behind my back, while Papa helped me sit up straighter.

I looked at their faces, so concentrated, so careful, and saw the deep, tired lines etched into their features. Stress. Fear. Love.

I couldn't even begin to comprehend what they must have gone through while I was unconscious.

"I'm okay, really," I said softly, my voice raspy and too weak to sound convincing. "You both don't have to look so solemn. I'm alive... see?" I joked feebly, lifting my bandaged arm like a trophy.

For a moment, neither of them laughed.

A thick silence fell over the room.

How long had I been out?
What day was it even?

"Riddhiya," Mumma whispered, her voice cracking. She was sitting right next to me, so close I could feel her trembling hands on the blanket.

I knew what was coming next.
The air around us dropped, heavy with the weight of a grim, inevitable conversation.

"It's okay, Mumma. I'm alive. I got luck—" I started, but the words died in my throat.

Wrong words.
Very wrong.

"Lucky?!" Papa's voice rose, breaking through the fragile calm. His hands tightened into fists on the bed. "You think you're lucky?! That the bullet didn't pierce just a little closer to your heart and kill you? You think you're lucky that someone found you in time, or else we would've lost you forever?!"

His voice shook with anger, no, with fear. The kind of fear only a parent could know.

"Or maybe you think you're lucky because you believe you have some magic shield around you that makes it okay to risk your life, to throw yourself into danger like you mean nothing?! Like you don't have a mother and father waiting at home, praying for you to come back alive?!"

Tears stung my eyes.

"Or," Papa continued, voice colder now, "are you lucky because you love someone so much, someone who couldn't even bother waiting a single day after you were admitted in the hospital? Someone who walked away?"

His words pierced sharper than any bullet.

"If that's your definition of lucky," Papa said bitterly, "then congratulations, princess. You are very, very lucky."

Mumma reached out, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder. Silent support.

And me?

I sat there, staring blankly ahead, feeling nothing.

No surprise.
No shock.

If anything, I would have been shocked if Arhaan had stayed.

He didn't love me.

He never had.

All this time, I had been the only one reaching out, chasing the moon across a starless night, knowing I could never touch it.

And now, when I needed him the most...
He wasn't even here.

"You see, Riddhiya," Mumma said softly, her voice slicing through the silence, "Arhaan is a good man. But for you?"

She paused.

"I don't think so."

She had said it before. Many times. But never this directly.

Never this devastatingly.

Everyone had tried to warn me.
Everyone.

"Riddhiya," Papa said gently, pulling me back from the haze, holding my cold hand between his palms. "We'll cancel the wedding. If loving him is hurting you... stop loving him. Please, princess."

He squeezed my hand, grounding me.

"This marriage... it's not necessary. No one is forcing you. I'll handle my mother, my family. I won't let my daughter be bound in a loveless marriage."

Tears blurred my vision.

"I have fought against them before," he whispered fiercely, "and I will do it again. For you. You deserve better. One day, you'll find your prince charming. One day, you'll have your happily ever after."

I stared at him.

I heard every word.
And yet I heard nothing at all.

My breath caught in my throat. My hands trembled.
A life without Arhaan?
The thought alone made everything inside me collapse.

Even now, even after everything, I only wanted to know,
Where was he?
Was he okay?
Was he hurt?
Was he... thinking of me?

"Riddhiya!" Papa called urgently, sensing my detachment, "Stay with me, beta. Please. Stay with your Papa."

But everything was fading.

Blurring.

Dark grey swallowed the edges of the world.

I was falling again, back into that familiar darkness.
The loneliness creeping back into my veins, into my soul.

Love was enough.
It had to be enough.

A little more time... maybe he would finally see me.
He had to.

Just a little more.

But as the darkness closed in, I heard it,
A whisper.
A voice I had buried deep inside for years.

The voice where it had all started.

"Pathetic, really," it laughed.

"Love is never enough, my dear, dear Riddhiya."

"Now do as I say. Arhaan can never be yours."

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Day Two.

Two days had passed since I woke up.

With a heavily plastered shoulder and arm, I slowly stepped out of my hospital room.
Being a patient was exhausting, the endless medications, the constant surveillance, the heavy blanket of caution everyone wrapped me in.

The hallway outside felt calm, almost serene.

I tucked my AirPods into my ears, locking the world out.
I wore my old woolen jacket, the one Mumma had gifted me two winters ago. It was worn, a little rugged at the sleeves, but there was a strange comfort in its faded warmth, especially in the cold, sterile hospital air.

I walked alone toward the hospital cafeteria.

I liked it that way.
I had always liked it that way.

Until...
No.
I shook my head, clearing the unwelcome thought, and thumbed through my playlist.
I tapped on my latest liked song, the one I'd been obsessively listening to.

Softly, I began to hum along as I wandered through the quiet corridors.

I think I've seen this film before
And I didn't like the ending.

I smiled bitterly at how the lyrics matched the script of my life.

At the cafeteria, I ordered a cup of hot chocolate, sweet, warm, familiar.
Something I had been doing every day since I woke up.

The dull blue walls of the hospital blended into the grey sky beyond the large cafeteria windows.

The world outside looked cloudy today, as if someone had erased the daylight entirely.

Perfect.
It matched my mood.

I slid into the corner window seat, my new little sanctuary, the same spot I had quietly claimed for myself.

You're not my homeland anymore
So what am I defending now?

The song played on, drowning out every whisper of the outside world.

I took a small, careful sip of my hot chocolate, feeling the warmth spread through my chilled fingers.
Then, I pulled out my diary, battered, worn, almost bursting at the seams.
Its pages had carried so many pieces of me, the ones I couldn't share with anyone else.

Was it a sign?
Maybe it was time for a new one.

I opened to a fresh page, ignoring how the spine cracked wearily, and began to write, pouring my thoughts onto paper, like I had done so many times before.

Dear Diary,

We lost today. Again. The voice? It won. Again.
Pathetic, isn't it?
He left. Again.
I love him. And I can't stop.
But.
I want to.
God, I just. Wish. One day. I'll stop loving him.
How long?
Just how long?!
Sometimes, I feel like I'm becoming him.
They say you become what you love.
I'm becoming him.
Slowly.
Cold.
Unfeeling.
Heartless.

I paused, my pen trembling slightly between my fingers.
My heart ached with every word etched onto the page.

And then-

"Ouch!" I gasped as something warm splattered across my diary, smearing the ink.

"Shit- uhmm, sorry! Really sorry!" a voice said, hurried and flustered.

I froze, watching helplessly as the words on my diary blurred and bled under the spilled coffee.

I sniffed quietly, not even realizing when the tears had started falling.

Without thinking, I sprang to my feet, pulling my diary away from the spreading liquid, frantically trying to wipe it clean.

But the more I tried, the more the ink splurred into illegible shapes, mocking my desperation.

Shit. Not my diary.

I kept wiping, again and again, as if sheer willpower could make the words magically reappear.

I didn't even register the sting of the hot coffee on my hands.

All I could think about was saving my diary, my only constant.

"Hey... are you, are you okay?" a voice broke through the fog in my head.

I snapped my gaze upward, finally noticing him.

I didn't know where he had come from.
I didn't know when the song in my AirPods had shuffled and Daylight had started playing.
But in that moment, my breath hitched, just a little.

Sharp jawline, slightly tousled hairs, a few strands falling into his forehead, and he wore a worn-out hoodie that looked as if he had slept in it. His sneakers were scuffed, and his glasses slipped slightly down his nose

But it wasn't just that.
It was the proximity, he was close, way too close, and the concern written so plainly in his eyes that my heart stumbled.

Before I could react, he gently pried the diary from my trembling hands, his touch careful, almost reverent.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice steady but soft, his gaze shifting to my hand.

It was red, angry with heat, but I didn't care.

I was stunned, not by the pain, but by something else.

Something deeper.

Something my mind was trying to tell me,

as if it was whispering, Remember.

"I'm really sorry. Really, really sorry. It's all my fault. Let me help you," he said again, guilt dripping from his every word.

But I just kept staring at him.
Because somehow, somewhere, a part of me felt like...

I knew him.

I didn't resist as he guided me out of the cafeteria and toward the general ward.
The nurses fussed gently over my hand, applying ointment and bandages, but my eyes kept finding their way back to him, I have seen him before.

After the nurse finished treating me, he offered his hand, steadying me as I slid off the examination bed. 

He stayed beside me the entire way back to my room, holding my damaged diary with such careful hands, "Here," he said, passing the diary back to me.

Before I could thank him, he looked down, sighed and bent down abruptly, tying my loosened shoelaces without hesitation.

I stumbled back instinctively.
"You don't, you don't have to-" I began, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I do," he said simply.

He tied the laces slowly, patiently.

And I let him.
I stood there, watching him, observing.

"There," he said, straightening up with a small, satisfied smile. "You won't fall now."

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. What does that mean?

I lifted my eyes to his, and before I could stop myself, I spoke "Who are you?"

He chuckled lightly, rubbing the back of his head, making his messy hair messier.

"Right. You must be wondering who this charming man is, huh?" he teased, expecting a laugh.

I said nothing.
Just stared, blank, expressionless.

"Right," he said again, this time sounding a little deflated, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward again almost immediately.

He smiled , and it was the kind of smile that could light up even the darkest, coldest rooms.

"I'm Aarav," he said, extending his hand for a handshake.

Aarav.

I hesitated.

It felt strange, unnatural, placing my hand in someone else's.

But I did.

His hand was warm.
Firm.
Grounding.

"And you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, as if trying to peer into my soul.

"Huh?" I blinked at him, a little dazed.

"Your name?" he prompted, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"You'll have to tell me. Otherwise, I'll be forced to stalk you just to find out your name."

I frowned slightly.

Joking about stalking wasn't exactly the most comforting thing.

Still... his voice held no malice. 

"Riddhiya," I whispered, my voice barely carrying across the small space between us.

He smiled again, brighter if possible.

"Pretty," he said, before quickly adding, "the name. The name is pretty."

I didn't respond. I couldn't.
There was a lump lodged in my throat.

"This Aarav is honored to have met Riddhiya," he said dramatically, giving an exaggerated, theatrical bow that earned a small, unwilling tug at the corner of my lips.

He was...
different, weird.

Aarav.

I rolled his name silently on my tongue.

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Heyaaa

How was Riddhiya's POV?

Your opinions on everything so far!!

This ends the intro phase, starting next chapter the plot is going to start getting thicker.

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I'd: cinnamonrollwritess

Next update: Next Saturday
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