PAIN🤕

Ishika pov :

The world came back in fragments-sharp, cold, and blindingly white.

As my eyes flickered open, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital ceiling stabbed at my brain. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of antiseptic and bleach. My lungs felt heavy, as if a ghost of the pool water was still settled deep inside my chest.

I turned my head slowly, and that's when I saw her.

A full-length mirror stood directly across from my bed. I didn't know why it was there, but I hated it instantly. The girl staring back at me looked like a stranger-a broken, fragile creature. My hair was a matted nest of dark tangles, my skin was the color of ash, and my lips were blue and trembling.

Then, the memories hit me like a physical blow. The laughter. The cold water closing over my head. The sight of Prem and Avantika walking away while I clawed at the surface.

"I... I didn't deserve this..." I whispered. My voice was a jagged rasp.

The humiliation, the betrayal, and the sheer terror of that moment boiled over into a sudden, uncontrollable rage. My hand flew to the side table, grabbing the heavy glass of water sitting there.

CRASH!

I hurled the glass at the mirror with every ounce of strength I had left. The mirror didn't just break; it exploded. Shards of silvered glass flew across the room, and the reflection of my broken face was now split into a thousand jagged pieces.

A sharp sting bloomed in my palm. I looked down to see a shard had sliced deep into my hand.

Blood-bright, hot, and real-began to trickle down my wrist, staining the white hospital sheets.

I didn't care. I let out a sob that tore through my throat, followed by another. Soon, I was wailing, my body shaking with a grief so deep it felt like it was coming from my very soul. I curled into a ball, clutching my bleeding hand, and cried until I couldn't breathe.

Prem pov :

The dining table at the Agnihotri mansion was filled with the sound of my mother's chatter and the clink of silverware. My father was discussing a new merger, and my siblings were bickering like usual. Everything was "perfect."

But the food tasted like dust in my mouth. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ishika's face under the water.

​My phone vibrated in my pocket.

Unknown Number.

I stepped away from the table, my heart doing a strange, heavy thud against my ribs. "Hello?"

​"Is this Mr. Prem Agnihotri? This is City Care Hospital. Miss Ishika has regained consciousness. She's... she's in a state of extreme emotional distress. She's destroyed property in her room and is crying uncontrollably. The doctors thought you should be informed, as you brought her in."

"I'll be there," I said, my voice sounding tight and unfamiliar to my own ears.

​I didn't offer an explanation to my family.

I grabbed my jacket and ran to the BMW. I drove like a madman, weaving through traffic, the sound of the hospital's description ringing in my head. Crying uncontrollably.

When I reached the hallway of the private wing, the silence was gone. I could hear her from three doors away. It wasn't just crying; it was a broken, desperate sound-the sound of someone who had lost everything.

I pushed the door open.

The room was a disaster zone. Shards of the mirror covered the floor, glinting like diamonds in the harsh light. Ishika was huddled on the bed, her face buried in her knees, her shoulders heaving.

Then I saw the red.

The white sheets were smeared with fresh blood. My eyes dropped to her hand, where a piece of glass was still embedded in her palm.

My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might break. I had spent my life breaking things, but seeing her like this-truly broken, bleeding, and alone-felt like a knife to my own chest.

I stood by the door, frozen. I wanted to walk away.

I wanted to be the "star" who didn't care. But as I looked at the blood on the sheets, I realized I couldn't leave.

"Ishika," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

She didn't even look up. She just kept crying, her body shaking with the weight of a past I was only beginning to understand.

I stood near the door, my fingers tightening around the handle before slowly letting go. My jaw clenched, muscles stiff, but my feet finally moved toward her.

"Ishika."

No response.

Her sobs grew louder, echoing against the hospital walls, bouncing back like accusations I didn't want to hear. She sat there, staring at the broken mirror, at the shattered reflection of herself, like she was trying to gather the pieces and failing.

"Ishika," I repeated, louder this time.

Still nothing.

She didn't even blink. Didn't even flinch. It was like my voice didn't exist in her world anymore.

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair in frustration. I hated scenes like this. Emotional chaos.

Tears. Weakness. I never knew what to do with them.

I stepped closer.

"Ishika."

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Ten times.

Each time her name left my mouth, it sounded stranger. Heavier. Like it didn't belong there.

But she didn't answer.

Her shoulders continued to shake, her breathing uneven, broken, like she was still drowning somewhere inside her head.

My eyes drifted back to her hand. The blood had spread further across the bedsheet now, forming an ugly stain against the clean white fabric. The glass shard was still embedded in her palm, glinting faintly under the harsh hospital light.

"Dammit..." I muttered under my breath.

Before I could say anything else, the door opened quietly.

A nurse stepped inside, her movements calm, practiced, like she had seen scenes like this a thousand times before. Her eyes immediately went to Ishika's bleeding hand, then briefly shifted to me.

That glance.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't accusing.

But it carried a silent question.

What did you do?

I looked away instantly, clenching my jaw harder.

The nurse walked toward Ishika slowly, crouching beside the bed. Her voice was soft, professional, almost motherly.

"Miss Ishika... can you hear me?"

Ishika didn't respond. She didn't even look at her.

The nurse gently tried to loosen Ishika's grip around the broken glass. Ishika's fingers resisted at first, trembling, tightening slightly like she was holding onto pain because letting go felt worse.

"It's okay," the nurse whispered softly.

"Let me help you."

Slowly... carefully... she pulled the shard out.

Fresh blood spilled instantly, sliding across Ishika's skin and dripping onto the sheet. I felt something twist inside my chest, sharp and sudden, but I forced my expression to stay blank.

The nurse pressed gauze against her palm, applying pressure. Ishika hissed slightly, her body jerking faintly at the sting, but she didn't pull away.

She didn't cry louder.

She didn't speak.

She just... existed.

The nurse worked silently after that, cleaning the wound, wrapping fresh bandages around her palm with slow, precise movements. The only sound in the room was Ishika's uneven breathing and the faint rustle of medical tape.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything without saying a word. I didn't trust my voice anymore. It felt useless here.

After finishing, the nurse adjusted the bedsheet, carefully covering the stained portion as much as possible, though the red still seeped through like a stubborn reminder.

Then she stood up.

For a brief second, her eyes met mine again.

That same look.

Disapproval mixed with something colder. Judgment, maybe. Or pity. I wasn't sure which one I hated more.

Without saying anything, she walked toward the door.

And left.

The soft click of the door closing sounded louder than it should have.

Now it was just the two of us again.

Silence returned immediately, heavy and suffocating.

Ishika's crying had reduced to soft, broken sniffles. Her face remained turned toward the shattered mirror, her expression hollow, like she wasn't seeing her reflection anymore-just memories replaying in front of her eyes.

"Ishika," I said again, quieter this time.

Nothing.

I moved closer to the bed, stopping just beside it. Close enough to see the tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. Close enough to notice how pale she still looked. Close enough to hear her shaky breaths between each silent sob.

"You're making this worse," I muttered.

No reaction.

"You should rest."

Still nothing.

Her silence started irritating me in a way I couldn't explain. I was used to reactions-fear, anger, hate, admiration. Anything. But this... this emptiness felt like talking to a wall that absorbed every word and gave nothing back.

"Ishika, say something."

Her fingers twitched slightly against the bedsheet, but her gaze didn't move.

For a moment, I wondered if she was ignoring me intentionally.

Or if she simply didn't have the strength to care anymore.

I looked at the broken mirror again. The cracks distorted her reflection into scattered fragments-eyes in one piece, lips in another, body split into uneven lines. It looked wrong. Disturbing.

Like her life had shattered and no one bothered to clean it up.

"You shouldn't have thrown that," I said flatly, gesturing toward the mirror.

No response.

Another long silence stretched between us. The beeping monitor filled the empty space, each sound slow and steady, almost mocking.

I rubbed my forehead, exhaling through clenched teeth. I didn't know why I was still standing there. I didn't know what I expected from her. Maybe anger. Maybe screaming. Maybe accusations.

At least that would have been easier to deal with.

But this quiet... this hollow silence... it felt heavier than any blame.

My eyes drifted back to her bandaged hand. The white cloth was already turning faint pink where the blood seeped through.

"You need to stop doing stupid things," I said finally, my tone colder than intended.

Still nothing.

Her chest rose and fell slowly, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the mirror, beyond the room, beyond me.

I felt something unfamiliar settle uncomfortably in my stomach. Not guilt. Definitely not that.

Just... unease.

I straightened, adjusting my jacket slightly, trying to shake the feeling away.

"You're alive," I added after a moment, voice lower. "That's enough."

The words sounded harsh, even to me. But I didn't take them back.

Because softness was dangerous. And I never allowed myself to be dangerous in that way.

She didn't react.

Not even a blink.

Just silence.

Minutes passed like that. Long. Dragging. Suffocating. The kind of silence that forces thoughts into places you don't want them to go.

Finally, I stepped back.

My hand hovered near the bed railing for a second, fingers tightening slightly before pulling away. I didn't know why I even paused.

"I'll call the nurse again if the bleeding doesn't stop," I said, my voice returning to its usual detached calm.

No reply.

Her tears had stopped now. But her face remained empty. Blank. Like someone had erased every emotion and forgotten to replace them.

I stared at her for a moment longer.

Waiting.

For anything.

A glance.

A word.

A reaction.

Nothing came.

The beeping machine continued its slow rhythm. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and dried tears. Outside, faint hospital noises echoed through the corridor trolleys moving, distant footsteps, muffled conversations.

Life moving forward.

Inside the room, time felt stuck.

I turned toward the door slowly, my chest feeling oddly tight though I ignored it completely.

Just before stepping out, I looked back once more.

She was still sitting there. Silent. Motionless. Broken mirror reflecting her in scattered pieces. Blood-stained sheet beneath her hand. Eyes staring at nothing.

Like I wasn't even there.

Something about that unsettled me more than her crying ever could.

I gripped the door handle and pulled it open.

Cold hospital air brushed against my face as I stepped outside.

Behind me, the room fell silent again.

And this time...

I didn't go back in.

__________________________________________________

So how's the chapter 😁.

Next chapter is going to be tragic stay with me.

I'll entertain you with my skills.

Byeeeee💗💓