“DIYA POV”

"Why the hell are you not focusing, Miss Arohi?"
The professor shouted, his voice slicing through the silence of the class.

"I—I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t distracted. Please continue with the lecture," Arohi quickly apologized, guilt washing over her for the disturbance she’d just caused.

The professor squinted at her, clearly not convinced.
"Then, can you enlighten me as to what exactly was more interesting than this lecture? I don’t find myself funny, Miss Arohi. Am I right or not?"

"Y-Yes, sir… it was completely my fault. I am… also sorry," she replied again, her voice low and ashamed.

"No ‘sorry’ accepted from you. In the next lecture, I want you to teach the class on the deep mechanism of arteries and veins, and how they function in the heart. Am I clear, Miss Arohi?" the professor said sternly.

"Yes, sir…" Arohi replied, feeling like the worst student in the world at that moment.

"What the hell did you do, bewakoof ladki!" she muttered to herself silently until the class finally ended.

"I told you not to talk to Sachin in class, Arohi. See? Now you’ve landed yourself into trouble!" I scolded her.

"Arey meri pyaari, cute si, sabse khoobsurat, ati sundar dost… meri phoolgobhi! You know na Sachin and I like each other. Now you tell me, if we don't pull these little stunts, how will we ever succeed in love?"

I gave her a deadpan look.
"Bro, study hard and prepare for your lecture. This love isn’t going to get you an MBBS degree, meri pyaari sakhi."

It was almost evening. Just one more lecture, and I could rush back to my room. I needed sleep. From next week, our vacation will start, and I have to pack things for everyone. Ugh, so much work.

"Listen, my phoolgobhi…" Arohi leaned in.
"Can you please help me prepare the lecture? I haven’t studied a word! Please, baby, please, my love," she begged, faking a cute pout and fluttering her lashes dramatically.

I controlled my giggle, swallowed my laughter, and said,
"No, baby, we can’t do this. Don’t ask why—it’s just not possible. I have tons of assignments and lectures to catch up on. So don’t try these emotional blackmail tricks. Go ask your Sachin!"

I began pulling out my notes, organizing them for the next lecture. But before I could even open a page, Arohi snatched my notebook, ran behind a bench, and shouted:

"Help me! Or I’ll start crying in front of the entire class!"

I sighed. This was going to be one hell of a long evening.

I stared at Arohi, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, giving her the classic “Don’t test me” look.

"Arohi, tu sach mein zindagi ka comedy piece hai. You got scolded in front of the entire class, and now you’re blackmailing me emotionally?"

She peeked from behind the bench, holding my notes like they were a hostage in a Bollywood drama.
"Main toh teri jaan hoon na? Tera pyaar, tera phoolgobhi! Itna toh banta hai."

"You’re not my jaan," I muttered, walking over to her.
"You’re a disaster in curly hair. Give me my notes!"

But she held the notebook tighter.
"Bas 15 minutes. Please yaar, just help me with the arteries and veins part. Promise, uske baad I’ll leave you in peace with your notes and your oh-so-serious MBBS dreams."

I rolled my eyes, flopped down beside her, and snatched the notebook back—but then opened a blank page.
"Fine. Let’s start with the basics. If I mess up in my next lecture because of you, I’m sending a complaint directly to your Sachin." 

Her face lit up like Diwali. "Aww! I love you, meri Jaan! You’re the best!"

"Shut up and listen," I snapped playfully. "You can flirt with your Sachin later. Right now, let's discuss blood vessels."

She nodded eagerly, finally acting like a student.

"Okay. So... arteries carry blood away from the heart. They’re thick-walled and elastic to handle the pressure. Veins, on the other hand, carry blood towards the heart and have valves to prevent backflow."

Arohi squinted. "Like one-way traffic?"

I smiled. "Exactly. One-way traffic with cops standing at junctions—those are your valves."

"Damn, that makes sense!" she grinned.

We went on like that for the next half an hour—me explaining, her cracking jokes, sometimes actually taking notes. And for a moment, I forgot we were tired med students buried in stress and anatomy. It felt like old times—carefree and warm.

As the final bell rang, we both sighed in relief.

"Let’s go back to the hostel?" I asked, gathering our books.

"Let’s stop at the canteen first," she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder.
"My brain deserves samosa therapy after this artery-vein heartbreak."

I laughed, tucking my notes safely back in my bag.
"Only if you’re buying."

"Ugh! Tera love bhi interest-based nikal gaya."

"MBBS mein pyaar bhi logical hota hai," I winked.

And just like that, the day ended not with a storm, but with laughter, friendship, and a tiny win against medical school madness.

We walked toward the canteen, the college corridors now buzzing with the chatter of tired students, dragging their feet toward snacks, gossip, and some stolen moments of peace.

Arohi was practically skipping beside me. "Meri pyari pyaari doctor bestie, tu na genius hai! Agar tu mujhe MBBS kara degi na, I’ll get you lifetime supply of moong dal halwa."

I rolled my eyes. "Tu bas lecture clear kar le. Halwa baad mein de dena."

As we entered the canteen, the scent of freshly fried samosas, steaming chai, and soggy sandwiches made our stomachs growl in unison.

“Two samosas aur ek cutting chai,” Arohi ordered, pulling out her phone. “And don’t worry—I’m paying. I’m a woman of my word.”

“Miracle,” I said dramatically. “Remind me to write this in my gratitude journal tonight.” I remarked Sarcastically.

We grabbed a corner table, plates in hand, and flopped down like we’d run a marathon.

"So…" Arohi began, tapping her fingers on the table.
"You didn’t ask about him."

I paused mid-bite. "Sachin?"

"Who else, madam? Obviously, Sachin!" she grinned like a child with a secret.

"What now? Did he wink at you during the ECG class or sent you a meme saying 'my heart beats for you'?"

She giggled. "Close! He actually texted me: 'Arohi, focus in class. Tumhe professor se daant padi because you were smiling at me like a cartoon.'"

I choked on my chai. "You got scolded for him and he called you a cartoon?"

"Romantic na?" she sighed dreamily.

"More like tragic," I spoke flatly, clearly not liking the thought one bit.

"Uff!" Arohi sighed dramatically. "Diya, tell me the truth—have you ever loved someone?"

Diya looked at her, blankly. Her silence hung in the air for a second too long.

"No." She finally replied.

Arohi's eyes widened. "Why?!" She Shouted

"Arohi, please be quiet, Bandar!" Diya hushed her quickly. "Everyone is staring at us."

But Arohi was not backing down. "Ya, yes, fine! But tell me—why?"

Diya took a deep breath, fidgeting with the corner of her dupatta.

"It’s true… I’ve never loved anyone," she said with a faint smile.
"Not because I didn’t get the chance… but because I was never interested."

It was a half-truth.

And Arohi, as usual, believed it. Smiling as if she'd just uncovered a mystery, she leaned back.

But Diya’s heart knew the truth.

I’m sorry, Arohi... I can’t tell you the truth.
I’ve never dared to fall for someone.
Because I know... he’ll kill that person in a single moment.
He doesn’t like anyone near me.
And I can’t… I just can’t see bloodshed again.

Not because I wanted something for myself.

She swallowed hard, hiding the storm behind her calm face, while Arohi moved on to her samosa like nothing had happened.

Only Diya knew...
What it cost her to keep loving someone in silence.
Someone whose love felt more like a cage than freedom.

As they were happily munching on their snacks, Sachin arrived—just after meeting his friend Suraj, who was in a different section.

Both the girls were too lost in their world—laughing, gossiping, and enjoying their food—to notice him approaching.

Suddenly, Sachin leaned forward and shouted, "Bhuuu!" right in front of Arohi.

Startled, Arohi panicked, accidentally splashing the glass of water all over Diya’s kurti.
Diya gasped, the cold water making her jolt as Arohi turned to Sachin, eyes wide and her breath caught.

"You idiot!" she screamed and gave him a firm punch on the arm.
Arohi “you buddhu! Gadha! How dare you scare me like that!"

Sachin laughed at her expression, but before she could hit him again, he placed a quick kiss on her cheek, making her freeze—and blush instantly.

"Uff… my sunshine," he said, holding his chest dramatically, "this anger of yours will kill me one day for sure."

Then he smirked mischievously.
"Tell me one thing—didn’t I ask you to stop smiling at me during the class?"

Arohi narrowed her eyes.
"And you expected me to obey that nonsense?"

He chuckled.
"Well, you didn’t. And now you’ve received your punishment. What can I do? You were looking so good… so handsome… so adorable… I just had to take a long look at my man to calm my racing heart."

As she said that, her voice dipped into softness, her eyes twinkling with love. Sachin’s smirk slowly faded into a bashful grin. His ears turned red with shyness.

Diya watched the two silently, her heart softening at the sight.

They were so effortlessly in love. Loud, silly, yet honest.

She smiled faintly and thought to herself:

Nazar lag jaaye toh bhi kam hai in dono par...
May bad eyes stay away from their love.

Deep inside, a quiet ache grew.

Will I ever deserve a love like this?
The kind that makes you blush, fight, laugh…
The kind that doesn’t leave bruises, only warmth?

She blinked back the thought, adjusting her dupatta as she softly looked away—hiding the longing in her heart, the kind no one ever noticed.

Sachin, still grinning from ear to ear, turned to her.

"So, Miss Topper," he teased.
"Any new discoveries today, or are we still stuck on the same boring topic—how you’re going to filter blood or how kidneys function, etcetera etcetera?"

His voice was laced with playful mockery, knowing full well that Diya was the class nerd.

And she was.

But deep down, Diya wished she could be like them—laughing, playing, chirping like a carefree soul.

But she couldn’t.

She knew he wouldn’t like it.
And after that... the consequences wouldn’t be in her favor.

She gave a short smile and replied, "Shut up, you dumbo. Take this other dumbo with you," she gestured toward Arohi,
"I’m going back to the room. I need to change my dress... and start packing."

She picked up her bag and stood up.

She knew just how much she wanted to sit with them a little longer, laugh at Sachin’s bad jokes, tease Arohi like before.

But she also knew—too much friendship was not allowed.

Not for her.

Not for someone already "promised" to someone else.

She sighed quietly, accepting it like a bitter truth stitched into her skin, and turned to leave.

"Bye, guys," she said softly, waving a little.

As she walked away, Arohi suddenly shouted behind her,
"Arey Phoolgobhi! Please pack my clothes too! It’s going to rain soon!"

Diya paused mid-step.

A soft, helpless smile curved on her lips. She shook her head and raised her hand, giving a thumbs-up without turning around.

Let them enjoy. They deserve this joy.

And with that thought, she walked away—alone—like she always did.
Wrapped in silence, weighed down by duty,
And dreaming of a freedom she could never really touch.

“Author POV”

Meherangarh Fort.
A kingdom carved in stone, standing tall on the rugged cliffs of Jodhpur for over 500 years—a silent witness to war, blood, pride, and power.
Once the beautiful residence of kings who fought with swords, today it belonged to a man who conquered with silence and great manipulation.
Yash Singh Chauhan.

The fort, a massive and intimidating structure, was a blend of royal architecture and modern luxury. Every sandstone wall whispered stories of betrayal and legacy. Every stone intimidated—holding a beautiful history, or a dark one.
It wasn’t just a monument of history—it was a throne. And Yash was born to rule it.

But he wasn’t born into power.
He earned it.
Built it.
Feared it.

Long before Yash’s name echoed in boardrooms and media headlines, there were two men—Raja Advay Singh Chauhan and Mr Sarthak Rana.
Advay Singh Chauhan, the current king of Meherangarh, wasn’t just royalty by blood—he was a visionary. Charismatic yet ruthless, regal yet grounded. He inherited the legacy of Meherangarh, but it was his friendship with Sarthak Rana, a brilliant business mind, that turned old stone into gold.

They were an unlikely duo—royalty and a commoner.
But together, they built something stronger than bloodlines: trust.
They merged their strengths—Advay’s heritage and Sarthak’s intellect—and turned Meherangarh into more than just a fort.
It became the nucleus of an empire. No one ever dared to touch or even dream about it.

Advay had three children:

1. Yash Singh Chauhan – The eldest. The heir. The shadow.
   
   

2. Shivansh Singh Chauhan – The second son. Warm, witty, and wildly different from Yash.
   
   

3. Ruchika Chauhan – The youngest. A spirited soul with dreams far beyond royal etiquette. She wanted to be an artist.
   
   

Shivansh was the kind of guy who laughed too loudly, flirted too freely, and loved too easily. He adored his elder brother, though Yash often looked at him like a child clinging to a gun.
Ruchika, on the other hand, was the pride of the family—a perfect blend of their late mother’s elegance and Advay’s strength. She studied art, painted life in vibrant strokes, and was the only one who could soften Yash’s tone without saying a word.
But no doubt—he wasn’t so soft in front of his sister, either. He loved her, but never allowed anyone to lower her guard.

While Advay handled the roots, Yash built the wings.
At just 22, Yash launched his first luxury boutique hotel in Udaipur under the brand name The Regal Walks.
Today, at 27, he owned over 20 five-star hotels and resorts across continents—Dubai, Paris, Singapore, New York, and of course, every heritage spot in Rajasthan.

His properties weren’t just stays—they were experiences curated for the elite. Royal-themed rooms, palace-style service, security tighter than a fortress—Yash’s hotels became a status symbol.
And he ran them with rules no one dared to question.
No delays.
No excuses.
No failures.

Behind every soft carpet was a spine-chilling standard.
His employees didn’t just work—they served.
His partners didn’t just invest—they obeyed.

He was called The Silent King in the hotel industry.
Because he didn’t need PR. His name was his brand.
And his silence was often louder than threats.

To the world, he was perfection—flawlessly dressed, absurdly successful, emotionally untouchable.
To his family, he was both protector and predator.
To his rivals—a nightmare draped in royalty.
And to those who tried to understand him… he remained a locked vault.
But there was only one person—his sole obsession. The one who had been promised to be his when she was just a child. The only one who would ever see the side of Yash no one dared to imagine.
It would never be easy.
He was not the man who would promise her a fairytale—but the man who would show his obsession and possessiveness in the worst way possible.

He never partied, never smiled too long, and never lost his composure.
He built walls thicker than Meherangarh’s stone—letting only duty enter, never love.

What no one knew was—his journey wasn’t one of ambition.
It was one of control.
Because somewhere in his silence lived a past he buried so deep, even the walls of Meherangarh couldn’t echo it back.

And this fortress…
This empire…
Was not just his home.
It was his weapon.
The power and the legacy that were destined to be his.

“YASH POV”

Meherangarh Fort – 5:00 AM

The sky was still wearing a deep shade of blue as the first rays of sunlight kissed the ancient stones of Meherangarh Fort.

Inside the central temple courtyard, flames from dozens of diyas flickered in sync with the rising wind, casting golden glows across carved sandstone walls.
The sacred sound of conch shells echoed. The priest chanted powerful mantras, his voice resonating through every corridor of the fort.

And at the center of it all stood Yash Singh Chauhan—barefoot, calm, and devastatingly regal.
Draped in a traditional white dhoti-kurta with a red angavastram across his shoulder, his forehead bore a freshly drawn tripund—three lines of sacred ash with a red tilak in the middle.
He held the aarti thaal with steady hands, eyes closed in devotion, not performance.
Not a hair out of place.
Not a single emotion escaping.

He looked like a king—but prayed like a servant. The only thing he ever bowed to was his love for Mahadev.

As the final aarti bell rang, the priests and people surrounding the courtyard shouted in unison:

“HAR HAR MAHADEV!”
“HAR HAR MAHADEV!”

The sound thundered through the hills, and birds flew off from the fort walls like prayers being set free.
Yash opened his eyes—sharp, unwavering, still.

6:00 AM – Meherangarh Royal Quarters

By the time the rest of the fort was still yawning awake, Yash had already returned to his private quarters.
No servants were needed.
No one dared to disturb his routine.
No one even dared to be inside his chamber.

He removed the kurta, folded it neatly, and stepped into his private gym.
No music.
No distractions.
Just discipline.

He began with stretching, then an intense hour of cardio, weightlifting, and martial arts training.
Every movement was precise. Controlled.
Like him.

While Shivansh slept through alarms and Ruchika painted her dreams onto canvases, Yash had already finished training like a soldier preparing for war.

By 7:15 AM, he stood beneath the cold spray of the marble shower, water washing over his perfectly built frame—but doing nothing to cool the fire in his chest.
The kind of fire that never went out.

He finished, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit and tie, adjusted his cufflinks, and fastened a matte black watch onto his wrist.
He stepped out.
It was his daily routine—even Sundays were no exception.
And in fifteen years, no one had ever dared to change it.

7:45 AM – Breakfast in Silence

He walked into the grand dining hall alone, waiting for everyone to arrive as he unfolded the newspaper.

The clock struck 8.
Mr. Chauhan came in and greeted him, immediately launching into details about the merger happening in Jaipur. Yash needed to inspect the hotel branch there himself, as complaints had been coming in. He was already planning to leave soon.

Ruchika entered, her voice soft.
“Good morning, Bhaiya… How are you?”
Yash replied flatly, “Fine.”

She hesitated.
“Sorry—I overheard… Are you planning to go to Jaipur?”
“Yes,” he said, eyes dropping to his watch as it ticked past 8:01 AM.

“Can I… also come?” Ruchika asked again.

“Why?” he replied, his tone even colder.

Before she could answer, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! I got up on time, but don’t know how I fell asleep again on the sofa—please, Bhai-sa, maaf kar do!”

Shivansh came running in, breathless, wearing shorts and a T-shirt—clearly still in last night’s clothes.
He flopped onto a chair, deliberately sitting far from Advay and Yash to avoid their wrath.

Ruchika smirked.
“Bhai-sa, it’s nothing new. Every month you wake up on time… and somehow still end up like this.”
She shot him a mischievous look.

Shivansh stuck his tongue out at her and started to make another excuse, but Yash’s voice cut through the chatter—calm and deadly:

“Shut up and have breakfast.”

A bowl of fresh-cut fruits.
Green tea.
Almonds soaked overnight.
No sugar.
No bread.
No indulgence.
Just discipline.

He ate the way he lived—minimal, efficient, detached.

Meanwhile, Ruchika and Mr. Chauhan chose their favorites from the spread.
Shivansh, however, was gleefully reaching for the aloo paratha, when Yash’s voice echoed across the hall:

“Remove everything from the table. Serve Shivansh bitter gourd juice and green vegetable salad.”

The servants immediately obeyed.

Shivansh’s face fell.
“Bhai-sa… don’t do this… please…”

Yash ignored his pleas and continued eating.
Shivansh turned pale, realizing there would be no escape.

As the plates were being cleared, Yash spoke without looking up:

“If any outside delivery arrives today, My Assistant will block your payment cards. If you try to order again, your sports car will be seized.”

Ruchika giggled behind her hand.
Mr. Chauhan smirked, watching his children.

Without another word, Shivansh began to nibble his bitter gourd juice and salad, shoulders slumped in defeat.

A palace servant entered quietly with a tablet.
“Sir, the Singapore deal documents have been finalized. The New York hotel PR team has sent the campaign draft for review.”

Yash didn’t respond immediately.
He swallowed a bite, wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, and then said:

“Call Vikrant. Ask him to brief me in five minutes.”

The servant bowed and disappeared.

Yash leaned back, taking a sip of his tea, eyes fixed on nothing—and everything—all at once.

This wasn’t just a man having breakfast.
This was a man planning his next empire.

When he finished, he turned to Ruchika.
“Continue what you were saying.”

Ruchika blinked, having completely forgotten. Then she remembered.
“Actually… I wanted to go to Jaipur. It’s been so long since I met Diya Di… And I need some good paints you only find near Hawa Mahal. They’ll help with my next painting.”

Shivansh gritted his teeth.
“Bhai-sa—I also want to go.”

Yash slowly raised an eyebrow.

Before he could ask why, Shivansh blurted:
“She’s my best friend. And it’s been forever since I met that chipkali. In fact, yesterday when we talked, she told me she’d be coming home for vacation. So why not pick her up? Sarthak Kaka-sa will agree… right, Bapu-sa?”

He tried to look innocent—and somehow, it worked.

Yash studied him for a long moment.
Finally, he said:
“Be ready. Tomorrow. 4 AM. No delay. Otherwise, I will leave without anyone.”

“Aye aye, Captain!” Ruchika and Shivansh chorused, jumping from the table.

Advay looked over at Yash, voice thoughtful.
“You know about everything… the promise and the marriage, right?”

Yash’s jaw tightened.
“Hmm.”

“I want you to treat her well,” Advay said quietly.

Yash didn’t look up.
“Hmm,” he replied again—flat and unreadable.

And with that, he rose from the table, his polished shoes echoing across the marble floor, already heading out to inspect the Head Office.

YASH POV

9:00 AM – The Regal Walks Head Office, Jodhpur

The black Range Rover pulled up to the towering glass façade of The Regal Walks headquarters, gleaming under the morning sun.
This was not merely an office—it was an empire carved into steel and ambition.

As Yash stepped out, every guard stood straighter. Every employee lowered their eyes.
He never needed to announce his arrival.
His presence alone was enough.

Vikrant, his Chief Operations Officer, the most trusted Person, was already waiting at the entrance, tablet in hand and face composed, though a bead of sweat glistened on his temple.

“Good morning, sir,” Vikrant greeted.

Yash nodded once, walking ahead without slowing down.
“Report.”

They moved briskly past a row of receptionists who held their breath as he passed.
Vikrant began reciting the morning brief:

“Singapore deal is ready for final signature. The Jaipur branch has reported irregularities in staff allocation and procurement—possible internal leakage of funds. I’ve scheduled a full audit.”

Yash’s jaw flexed imperceptibly.
“How much?”

“Approximately 22 lakhs siphoned over the last quarter.”

He stopped walking.
His gaze moved to Vikrant—calm, lethal.

“Find out who,” he said softly, “and make sure they never step foot in Rajasthan again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yash resumed walking, his black suit moving like a shadow across polished marble floors.
They reached the private elevator. He stepped in alone—no one shared this lift.

As the doors slid shut, his reflection stared back at him: composed, powerful, hollow-eyed.
He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and took a deep breath.

The elevator rose silently to the top floor.

9:10 AM – The Chairman’s Floor

When he stepped out, the corridor fell silent. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind his office glowed with Jodhpur’s blue skyline.

The personal assistant, Naina, rose instantly.

“Good morning, Kunwar sa. Fresh documents are on your desk. Your 10 AM with Mr. Rathore is confirmed. Also—”

He held up a hand.
“Coffee.”

She stopped mid-sentence, bowed her head, and disappeared into the adjacent pantry.

Yash walked into his office—a vast, minimalist space of dark wood, chrome, and glass.
One wall was dominated by a map of the world marked with golden pins—each a city he had conquered with his hotels.

He set the tablet down, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat behind the massive mahogany desk.
A folder lay in the center—marked Jaipur Operations.

He flipped it open, scanning the numbers.
He didn’t trust screens for everything. Paper never lied.

When Naina returned with black coffee, he didn’t look up.
“Any word from Meherangarh?”

“No, sir. But… Miss Ruchika sent a message—she asked me to remind you about her art exhibition next month.”

For a moment—just a flicker—his expression softened.
“Reply to her. Tell her I’ll be there.”

“Yes, sir.”

He picked up the cup, took a sip, and closed his eyes—only for a moment.
In that sliver of quiet, an image flashed in his mind:
A girl in a white kurti, her hair a cascade of softness, her eyes wide with fear and something she never dared to name.

Diya.

His jaw tightened again.
This wasn’t the time for distractions.

He opened his laptop, his fingers already moving over the keys.

10:00 AM – Conference Room

“Sir, Mr. Rathore is here.”

“Send him in.”

The door opened, revealing a tall man in his fifties, his face flushed with nervousness.
“Kunwar sa… good morning.”

Yash didn’t waste time.

“Sit,” he ordered quietly.

Rathore obeyed, clutching the folder as if it were a shield.

“You have five minutes,” Yash said, his tone smooth but deadly.
“Convince me why I shouldn’t terminate the Jaipur operations team and file a legal case.”

Rathore swallowed hard.
“Sir… with due respect… if we do that, there will be media backlash. Headlines. The other investors—”

“You’re worried about headlines,” Yash interrupted, his voice soft as silk.
“I’m worried about integrity.”

Rathore fumbled for words.

Yash leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“You have four minutes left.”

The clock on the wall ticked in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat—steady, merciless.

Because in this empire, no failure was forgiven.
And no one ever forgot that.

*************************************************************************************************************

Dear Readers,

What do you think—is Diya truly strong for hiding her emotions, or is she slowly breaking from within?

Have you ever wanted to be part of the laughter but felt like an outsider in your own story?

If this chapter touched your heart, made you smile, or made you feel something real—
don’t forget to like ❤️ and drop a comment!

Your thoughts mean the world and help this story grow.
See you in the next chapter! ✨

— AuthorSrivastava7434