The Return Of The Forgotten Prince

Dinner had wrapped up, and the soft clinking of plates had faded into a quiet murmur. Everyone had drifted back into the living room, except for Vikrant, Aaryan, and Rajveer, who remained tucked away in the study, knee-deep in pressing matters that couldn’t wait.

In one corner of the room, Keshav, Dev, and Ishaan were huddled together, whispering conspiratorially over something on Keshav’s phone. Viraat sat with them too, but only in body; his gaze kept straying to the far sofa every few minutes.

There sat Kanishk.

Poised. Composed. Almost unnaturally so.

His fingers moved across his phone, scrolling through emails with a surgeon’s precision—as though this room, these people, this history were nothing more than background static. The weight of countless glances pressed against him like arrows drawn taut—but he didn’t flinch. Not a twitch of discomfort. Not a flicker of irritation. He was the portrait of control—too still, too silent, too calm.

The others watched him quietly, their hearts clambering with unspoken hopes. Maybe he’d explode. Maybe he'd finally snap—hurl accusations, demand justice, say something. Even anger would have been welcome. A sign of life.

But there he was—serene.

As though the scars etched into him were myths.
As if the betrayal had never touched him at all.

But what they didn’t know—what they couldn’t see—was that Kanishk had long passed every stage they were hoping to witness. The grief, the anger, the chaos… he’d already walked through that fire. And now, he had become something else entirely.

Unbreakable.

He had taught himself calm in the face of madness. He had stopped complaining, stopped speaking unless necessary, stopped reacting to provocations. The flare of anger over small things, the flashes of visible hurt—those were ghosts now. He had buried them deep, under layers of silence and stillness.

Because he had learned, brutally and clearly, that the more you show emotion, the more cracks you reveal—and people always find a way to pry them open.

He no longer asked questions about the past. Especially the ones that never came with answers.

Sometimes, silence is safer than truth.
Sometimes, it's better not to talk at all.

And so, he had accepted it all.

The betrayals. The distance. The hollow spaces where love used to live.
He had mastered the art of acceptance—the kind that doesn’t need explanation or closure.

Maybe everything that happened was meant to shape him.
Maybe silence was his shield now.
Maybe this, too, was a kind of peace.

Viraat, had been watching him all this while.
Trying, failing, aching to find a way in.

Kanishk's silence wasn’t just a wall—it was a fortress. And every time someone tried to speak to him, they were met with that same polite detachment, that same distant civility.

Viraat's fists clenched and unclenched. He was trying to calm himself. Rehearsing in his mind. Bracing for the cold.

Then finally, with the kind of resolve that comes from heartbreak, he stood.

The movement caught everyone's attention. Heads turned. Even breaths seemed to still.

Everyone was watching now—except for Dev and Ishaan, still huddled in their own world, unaware of the shift in the air.

Viraat walked slowly toward him. Each step sounded louder in the hush that had settled over the room. He stopped in front of the sofa where Kanishk sat, unmoving, still lost in the glow of his screen.