JAAN ( Darr 2 )

The Flight

 She had acted on impulse, driven by feelings she hadn't fully understood until now. And for those brief, stolen moments, nothing else had mattered. 

Not Sunil. Not the life she was supposed to be living. Just him, broken and raw, holding onto her like she was his last tether to the world.

But now, in the quiet of the morning, clarity came crashing down. She was still married. Technically, at least. 

Her marriage to Sunil had become a hollow shell, fractured beyond repair by betrayal and loneliness, but it was still a bond she hadn't yet severed.

 And here she was, tangled in something she didn't fully understand, something that felt both reckless and undeniable.

"I don't know if I'm doing the right thing," she said softly, the words trembling as they left her lips. 

She couldn't look at him, her eyes fixed instead on her hands as they nervously twisted together in her lap. "I don't even know if this is fair to you..."

Her voice faltered, but the silence that followed was heavier still.

When Rahul spoke, his voice was gentle but laced with pain, as if each word cost him something. "You don't have to explain anything to me, Kiran."

She glanced up at him then, startled by the raw vulnerability in his tone. He wasn't looking at her. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight that seemed to press him down.

"I know..." He paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His hands, resting on his knees, curled into loose fists. 

"I know I don't deserve to expect anything from you."

His words were quiet, but they struck her like a blow.

"I'm not even worthy of being in your presence," he continued, his voice breaking slightly. "Not after everything I've done to you."

The anguish in his tone tore at her. She had known that he carried the weight of his actions etched into his soul, but hearing it now, spoken aloud, felt different. It wasn't just guilt, it was self-loathing, a deeply rooted belief that he didn't deserve happiness, or even forgiveness.

"Rahul..." she began, but her voice faltered.

He shook his head, as if to stop her. "You don't have to say anything," he said, his eyes still averted.

 "You've already given me more than I deserve just by being here. I have no right to ask for anything else."

Her heart twisted painfully at his words. For so long, she had seen him as the villain in her story, the source of her fear and anguish. But now, sitting here with him, seeing the raw honesty in his expression, she couldn't deny the complexity of her feelings.

Anger, sadness, compassion they all swirled together in her chest. 

She wanted to shout at him, to tell him he was wrong, to make him see that his life was worth more than he believed. 

Instead, she reached out, her hand hesitating for only a moment before resting lightly on his. "You're wrong," she said softly.

Finally, he looked at her, his brown eyes filled with confusion and an almost childlike vulnerability.

"You don't get to decide what you deserve," she said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her. "And you don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't feel."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet but firm challenge to the walls he had built around himself. For the first time, she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—hope, or perhaps fear.