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~ Rivaanth’s POV ~

The drive back home was silent. The kind of silence that presses against your chest, making it harder to breathe. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel as I crossed the same streets I had driven through a hundred times before — yet somehow, everything felt foreign. Like I had just returned from a war, not the battlefield kind, but the kind where you fight your own mind and heart.

Today wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

It was supposed to feel like victory — redemption.

My name was cleared. My uniform, my honour, returned. And yet… it felt like I had lost something greater along the way.

The house gate creaked open, and as the car rolled in, I caught a glimpse of the garden lights flickering. My chest tightened. Every corner of this place carried a memory — of laughter that doesn’t echo anymore, of promises that dissolved before they could bloom.

When I stepped out of the car, the air felt oddly cold. The sky was clouded, and I could almost hear the echo of my boots against the tiles. Each step inside the house felt like walking through chapters of a book I wasn’t ready to read again.

I placed my keys on the counter and sat on the couch, rubbing my face with both hands. I should’ve been happy. After all, not everyone gets their uniform back after being accused of betrayal. But happiness? It felt like a stranger to me now.

My gaze fell on the wooden box sitting neatly on the table — my uniform inside, pressed, folded with care, waiting to be worn again. My throat burned as I reached for it. My fingers brushed over the fabric, rough yet familiar. The badges of honour glinted faintly under the yellow light.

That uniform was more than clothing. It was everything I had lived for — my identity, my pride, my father’s dream. But after five years of suspension, of accusations, of being called a traitor, it also became a symbol of everything I had lost.

I ran a thumb over the metallic badge that had my name engraved on it.

Major Rivaanth Rathoreya.

The title was back, but the man who once wore it proudly? I wasn’t sure he still existed.

And then, my thoughts, like they always do, drifted back to her.

Shravani.

Even her name carries weight. It rolls off my tongue like a prayer I’ve whispered too often and never been answered for.

That day, when I visited Prayan’s grave.. I remember the wind that day — harsh, angry, as if even nature knew the guilt that was clawing inside me. I stood in front of his gravestone for hours, unable to speak, unable to move.

That was the day I lost my wallet.

I didn’t even care about it at first. What’s a wallet to a man who has lost everything? But later, when I realised what was inside — I swear, I felt my heart drop to my knees.

It wasn’t the money, not the IDs. It was that one small, creased photograph of Shravani.

Taken six years ago.

Her hair was tied back, eyes full of sunshine. I had kept that photo hidden for years, tucked behind my army card. She never knew. No one did. It was the only proof that, once upon a time, she had smiled for me.

I searched for it everywhere — the graveyard, the car, the roads. I even went back to the base asking if someone had found a wallet. But it was gone. Someone took it.

Since that day, every new wallet I bought felt incomplete. Empty. As if I’d misplaced a piece of myself along with that photo.

I’ve carried death, bullets, betrayal — but nothing haunts like a photograph you can’t replace.

So instead, I found something else to keep — a small stone.

It wasn’t just any stone. It had fallen from her jhumka the day I returned during Ganesh Chaturthi. She hadn’t noticed. I had. She was standing in the courtyard, the aarti thali in her hand, her eyes avoiding mine as if even glancing at me would hurt. The bells had rung, the chants echoed — and in that chaos, that one tiny golden stone dropped from her earring and rolled to my feet.

I picked it up, quietly, without thinking. Slipped it into my pocket.

And since that day, it’s been there — my little secret reminder that she once stood close enough for her shadow to touch mine.

Weird, right? A soldier carrying a stone as if it were armour. But I need something of hers to keep me sane. Something that reminds me that love, no matter how lost, was once real.

My phone buzzed on the table — some congratulatory message from an officer, probably. I didn’t even check.

I just sat there, looking at the box again.

My honour, folded neatly inside.

Her memory, tucked into a wallet.

And my heart, still somewhere between the two.

I opened the box, tracing the medals, my fingertips trembling. Goosebumps rose on my skin. I could smell the starch, the faint hint of gunpowder that no detergent could ever wash away.

The uniform was a second skin once — now it felt like a ghost of who I used to be.

I wanted to wear it again, to feel that pride, that weight on my shoulders. But what good is a uniform when your soul is tired? When you’re haunted by the past and the woman whose silence still feels louder than any accusation ever did?

The room felt smaller suddenly. My chest heavier.

Somewhere in this house, there are frames of medals, old letters, the sound of laughter that once belonged to us — Shravani and me. Before the divorce papers, before the silence, before the years that made strangers out of lovers.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll put the uniform on again. Walk back into the base. Pretend everything’s fine. Pretend I’m fine.

But tonight…

Tonight, I’ll sit here with the uniform box open, the stone in my palm, and her memory in my mind.

Because sometimes, even warriors need to admit it —

that the battlefield isn’t always outside.

Sometimes, it’s inside your own heart.

The silence of the room pressed against me, thick and familiar. The uniform lay on the bed, folded with the precision I was taught to have, the reverence I’d almost forgotten to feel.

I changed into it, not because I had to—but because my heart needed reassurance. That I truly got what I deserved. That I was finally free of the blame.

The weight of the medals on my chest didn’t crush me this time. They reminded me of who I was before everything turned into smoke and accusations.

My eyes drifted to the photo on my phone. Shravani. It was old—six years back, maybe. She wasn’t smiling in it, but her eyes had that quiet warmth I never understood, never earned.

I placed my badges beside the photo, tracing the frame with my thumb.

“My honour was once yours too,” I murmured under my breath. “Please make me wear them again someday.”

It was ironic. I couldn’t even say it to her face. I had no right.

We were just ex-husband and ex-wife living under the same roof for the sake of a six-month-old boy who didn’t know that his parents couldn’t even share a conversation without thinking of everything that broke.

I changed back into my casuals, folded the uniform neatly, and kept it in the cupboard like something sacred.

When I stepped out, the house greeted me with the smell of filter coffee. Strong. Sharp. The kind she loved.

She’s here.

A faint smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.

“Enna kodumai idu, Swami?”

(What fresh hell is this, Lord?)

Her frustration echoed softly from the kitchen. My heart recognized her voice before my head could.

I sat on the couch with my laptop, pretending to check the files from the cantonment. Anything to keep my hands busy, my eyes down.

And then, the sound.

Her anklets.

A soft silver rhythm cutting through the quiet.

I told myself not to look. I even pressed my jaw tight, staring at the screen like I could drown in data. But my heart—traitor that it is—turned before my mind could stop it.

There she was.

Her hair was straight, longer now. A few strands brushed her cheek as she walked. The same face, the same calm, just… quieter. Softer. Like time had taught her how to smile without showing it.

She sat on the couch next to mine, setting down her coffee. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just took a sip, her lips parting slightly at the heat. I watched the way her lashes lowered, the way her shoulders relaxed after a long breath.

And then she said it.

“The court has finalized our divorce,” her voice was steady, businesslike. “But since it was a long-term marriage, the lawyer said we have to stay together for six more months.”

For a second, I stopped breathing.

Six months.

I don’t even know what I felt first—pain or relief. Maybe both.

“So,” I said quietly, my voice lower than I intended, “you mean I’ve got six months to be yours again?”

She blinked, caught off-guard, and then chuckled softly. “Major Rathoreya, that’s not how law works.”

Her tone was teasing, but I didn’t smile. I looked straight at her, every muscle in my face still.

“I might have signed them now,” I said, “but mark my words, Shravani… I will come back. I’ll make you my bride again. And this time, I’ll give you everything you deserved the first time.”

She stared at me, somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion. Then she scoffed. “Jo paanch saal mein nahi hua, vo six months mein kaise hoga?”

(What didn’t happen in five years—how will it happen in six months?)

“Sab hoga,” I said softly, a promise laced with something only I understood. “Aap dekhte jao bas.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to reply, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood up, her anklets chiming again, and walked toward the room at the end of the corridor. The door closed quietly behind her.

I leaned back on the couch, staring at the space she left behind. The faint scent of her coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the silence that filled the house again.

“six months,” I whispered to myself. “That’s enough.”

Because when I say I’ll win something—I do.

And this time, it wasn’t a battlefield.

It was her heart.

And Major Rivaanth Rathoreya has never lost a mission.

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~ Shravani’s POV ~

The morning started like any other—quiet, functional, unbothered. The kind of silence you get used to when emotions have been locked away too long. I sat on the couch, legs folded under me, the glow of my phone reflecting on my face as I scrolled through the news.

Politics. Economy. Another scandal. I was halfway through sipping my filter coffee when a familiar name made my hand freeze mid-air

Major Rivaanth Rathoreya.

For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. But no. There it was, bold and real, sitting on the headline like a punch to my chest.

“Lieutenant Shaurya Shekhawat issues a public apology to Major Rivaanth Rathoreya.”

My brows knitted together. Shaurya? Apologizing? To him?

I clicked on the article instantly, scanning every word like a detective. But the story didn’t say much—just vague mentions of “a false accusation,” “clean chit,” “honour restored,” “uniform reinstated.”

That was it.

No context. No backstory. No why.

I frowned.

“Enna kodumai idu, Swami?”

[What fresh hell is this, Lord?]

He’d been cleared. The article said he’d got his uniform back with honour. That one phrase—it kept echoing in my mind. With honour.

The thing about that man is, he never talks about himself. Not when he’s angry. Not when he’s hurting. Not even when his world is burning down around him. He just shuts the door, salutes the chaos, and goes silent.

I wanted to call his mother. Ask what really happened. But something stopped me. A small voice whispered, If he wanted you to know, he would’ve told you himself.

So I didn’t call.

I just sat there staring at my phone screen long after it had dimmed. My reflection stared back—tired eyes, disheveled hair, the hint of confusion that refused to leave my face.

I told myself to forget it. To let it go.

But my heart didn’t listen.

Somewhere deep inside, something tugged. A familiar heaviness, the kind that says—this means more than you think.

So I tried to distract myself. Folded the laundry. Wiped the table twice.

Rearranged the vase for no reason. The kind of meaningless chores you do when your thoughts are running in circles.

But the silence in the house was deafening.

Then I heard the faint creak of a door. My eyes instinctively lifted toward the hallway.

Rivaanth was there.

Dressed in a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled, jaw clean-shaven. In one hand, he carried a small wooden box; in the other, a steel tiffin. His steps were steady, controlled, almost rehearsed.

He didn’t see me. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t say a word.

He just walked past.

There was something about that box—it looked too carefully held, too personal. And that tiffin…

I wanted to ask, Where are you going?

But the words got stuck somewhere between my heart and throat.

So I just watched him leave.

The sound of the door closing felt louder than it should have. Like a final note to a song I didn’t know was ending.

The room suddenly felt emptier.

Like he’d taken the air with him.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my hands still trembling slightly. Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the silence. Or maybe it was the realization that I’d spent half the morning wondering about a man I was technically divorced from.

I laughed at myself. A dry, humorless laugh.

“This is ridiculous, Shravani,” I whispered under my breath.

Still, my chest ached.

I lay down on the bed, the pillow still smelling faintly of him. That musky cologne he wears—stubborn, just like him. The kind that lingers long after he’s gone.

Sleep wouldn’t come, so I plugged in my earphones and opened YouTube.

There it was. The same old playlist I always came back to when my thoughts were too loud. My favorite singer—the one who disappeared years ago. No new songs, no interviews, nothing.

Just a handful of tracks that somehow understood everything I couldn’t say.

I played the first one. The familiar notes filled the room, soft and haunting. The lyrics brushed against my soul like a whisper:

“Some people leave, but their silence stays behind.”

I closed my eyes.

The song took me back—to the time before everything went wrong. To the quiet mornings when I used to wait for him to call. He never did, of course. But back then, even the hope felt like company.

Now, even the silence felt heavy.

As the music played, I imagined him again—standing somewhere in his uniform, medals shining against his chest, saluting the sky. Maybe he was smiling. Maybe he wasn’t.

But for the first time in years, I realized I didn’t even know what he smiled like anymore.

And that thought hurt more than anything.

I turned to the side, staring at the curtains swaying gently with the evening breeze. The sun was setting, painting faint orange lines across the floor.

Five months.

That’s how long we’d have to share this house, breathe the same air, exist as two strangers with a shared surname.

But tonight, I didn’t want to think about the months ahead. I just wanted to close my eyes and stop the world from spinning for a while.

The song shifted to the next one—another forgotten track from the same artist.

“We were never lovers, only lessons that lasted too long.”

My chest tightened. I pulled the blanket closer.

Outside, the world kept moving.

Somewhere, he was out there—maybe driving, maybe thinking, maybe not thinking at all. But I couldn’t shake the image of that wooden box from my mind.

It wasn’t just a box. It looked like memory itself.

A part of me wanted to run after him and ask, “What’s in it?”

Another part whispered, It’s not your right anymore.

So I stayed still.

Letting the music fill the spaces where my words couldn’t reach.

Letting the ache remind me that I still cared, no matter how much I pretended not to

.

As the last note faded, my eyelids grew heavy.

And before I knew it, sleep came—soft, slow, and uninvited.

The phone slipped from my hand. The song ended. The room fell into silence again.

And somewhere between that silence and my dreams, I could swear I heard the faint sound of a salute.

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~ Ishira’s POV ~

One last pin — and the scarf sat perfectly on my head.

Secure. Still. Controlled.

Just like me.

I’ve been told I look beautiful with my hair open, but that’s the exact reason I keep it tied and tucked away. I don’t like it.

I don’t like the person I see when it falls over my shoulders.

Too soft. Too visible. Too… vulnerable.

So, I hide it. Just like everything else I don’t want the world to see.

People think I wear the scarf because of faith. They don’t know it’s because I hate the sight of myself when I look too much like the mother who left us.

Or the father who never looked back.

I’m not their daughter anymore. I stopped being that the day the door closed and didn’t open again.

Now, I’m just me.

Ishira Qureshi. Rider. Racer. The girl who outran her past on two wheels.

Today, the Cantonment had called again.

A bike show.

Apparently, the “biker girl from Chennai” was an unmissable name on their guest list. I didn’t ask for it. But when the call came, I said yes. Maybe because it gave me a reason to breathe outside the same four walls again.

As I fastened my gloves, the faint shuffle of feet pulled my attention.

Kavransh walked into the living room, hair sticking out like he’d fought a war with his pillow. His eyes were half open, his hands rubbing them as he yawned.

My baby brother. My headache. My whole world.

Seventeen, and already carrying too much weight on his shoulders — school, boards, NEET prep, and the ghost of our parents’ absence that he still didn’t talk about.

I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms.

“Did you even sleep?”

He squinted at me, his voice groggy. “For like… forty minutes? Maybe an hour. Physics killed me again.”

I sighed, opening the fridge. “I told you to take breaks.”

“Breaks don’t get you ranks,” he murmured, eyes half on his notes.

That line made me pause. Because that’s exactly what I used to tell myself when I was his age — before I realized some things aren’t worth burning your peace for.

I switched on the gas, heating up the leftover idlis.

“I’m making you breakfast,” I said.

He frowned. “You’re leaving soon, right? You’ll get late.”

“I’d rather be late than have you faint from hunger.”

He smiled at that — a sleepy, boyish grin that reminded me why I kept fighting the world so hard.

“Thanks, Didi,” he said softly, voice still rough with sleep.

That word — Didi — has a strange way of grounding me. Every time he says it, I remember that the world can abandon us all it wants; we still have each other.

As the aroma of hot chutney filled the kitchen, I glanced over at him — hunched over his books again, pencil tapping, foot shaking restlessly.

He was trying so hard to be fine.

I served him breakfast, setting it right next to his pile of notes. “Eat. Now.”

He looked up. “Bossy much?”

“Always,” I replied, smirking. “Comes with being the elder one.”

He laughed lightly, shaking his head. “You know, for someone who races bikes, you act like a grandma sometimes.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A grandma who can outrun every man on the track.”

That shut him up pretty quick.

He took a bite, chewing quietly. “So… the Cantonment thing. Is it like a race or an exhibition?”

“More like a show,” I said, sipping water. “They’re showcasing the best custom builds from South India. I’m representing the Qureshi Garage team.”

He blinked. “But it’s a military base.”

I shrugged. “Apparently, bikers are patriotic now. Or maybe they just like the free publicity.”

He chuckled, then said softly, “You’ll win again, I know.”

That word — again — caught me.

It sounded so sure, so full of belief that I didn’t even have in myself anymore.

“Maybe,” I said, grabbing my helmet from the stand. “But I don’t race for trophies, Kav. I race because I like the sound of my own freedom.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s poetic.”

“Everything sounds poetic until you crash.”

He groaned. “Dark humor at seven in the morning. You’re impossible.”

“And you talk too much for a half-asleep human.”

He threw a pillow at me. I caught it midair, laughing.

This — these small, stupid moments — were what kept me sane.

I checked the clock. 07:15 a.m.

Time to go.

As I tightened my boots, he said quietly, “Be safe, okay?”

His voice had that edge of worry I hated. I hated that he had to worry for me when I was supposed to be the protector.

I nodded, softer this time. “Always.”

When I stepped outside, the morning breeze welcomed me — cool, crisp, carrying the faint smell of temple flowers and wet tar. The city was alive in its own chaotic rhythm — milk vendors shouting, bikes zooming past, auto drivers arguing over fares.

And there, at the corner of our narrow street, stood my black Ducati — the one thing I owned that truly felt mine.

I ran my hand over its tank, the metal warm from the early sun.

“Let’s go, baby,” I whispered.

The helmet slid on, muffling the world. The engine roared beneath me — a familiar growl that felt like home.

I revved once, twice, before the tires kissed the road.

As I took the turn toward the Cantonment gate, the world blurred around me. Wind in my face, heart steady, scarf fluttering behind — it was just me and the road.

For those few minutes, I wasn’t the girl who’d been left behind.

I wasn’t the sister who had to raise a brother before she was even ready.

I was just Ishira.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

What I didn’t know was that today — this ordinary morning — would throw me straight into someone else’s story.

Someone I’d only met twice.

Someone whose eyes carried the same kind of chaos I’d spent years running from.

But that’s the thing about fate —

it never asks if you’re ready.

It just arrives, roaring louder than your bike engine.

To be continued...

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