Dareya: Pyar Confessed

The dried blood on his knuckles stung less than the storm swelling in his chest.

Daya sat alone in the dark corner of the CID bureau's terrace, the cold metal railing biting into his palms as he gripped it. The skin on his fist was raw—punched into a wall, not once but twice—yet the ache inside his ribs eclipsed it all.

She was slipping away. Shreya.

Not just from CID. Not just from the cases or their silent companionship. But from him.

The morning had started with a bitter chill, despite the sun, and it wasn't the weather. It was the coldness in Shreya's eyes. She hadn't looked at him once—not when she entered, not during the meeting, not when Sid walked in behind her carrying a box of sweets.

The white box. The cursed white box.

"Engagement preparations have started!" Sid's voice rang out, exaggerated, cheerful. "We wanted our CID family to be the first to know."

Daya had looked up from the file in his hand... and everything froze. Sid's smile. The gold-foil invitation card. The motichoor laddoo placed in front of him.

The air sucked out of the room.

He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just... stared.

She was really going to marry him.

Shreya stood beside Sid, her eyes downcast. Not glowing. Not smiling. Just... existing. Her face held a practiced stillness, but her fingers clutched the edge of her dupatta so tightly, her knuckles had turned white.

Abhijeet clapped Sid on the back. "Congratulations, man! Big step."

Freddy cracked a joke. Purvi smiled faintly. Everyone wore the mask expected of them. But Daya?

He picked up the laddoo Sid had handed him, held it mid-air, and forced himself to bite it.

It tasted like sand.

⸻

Later that evening, Daya found himself in the surveillance room, flipping through case logs—pretending. His thoughts weren't there.

They were on her.

The way her eyes didn't meet his. The way her body seemed stiff when Sid brushed past her. And the tiny tremor he saw in her hand when she tucked her hair behind her ear.

He had seen these signs before. Victims under quiet pressure. Women pushed into corners with no air to scream.

He confronted Abhijeet later in the locker room, unable to contain it.

"I've seen how Sid treats her," Daya said, fists clenched. "He's not... right. Something's off."

Abhijeet looked up from lacing his shoes. "Daya... are you sure you're seeing Sid for who he is? Or who you want him to be?"

"What are you trying to say?" Daya's voice lowered dangerously.

Abhijeet stood. "You've been in love with Shreya for years. And now she's getting engaged to someone else. Maybe your instincts are clouded."

The words felt like betrayal. Daya said nothing. He just walked out.

⸻

Shreya was standing by her car in the parking lot, wiping her misted windshield. Alone. Sid wasn't there.

He hesitated, then walked toward her.

"Shreya," he said gently.

She paused. "Yes, Daya Sir?"

That sting. That formality. As if she'd thrown a wall of glass between them.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

She looked at him—finally. Her eyes were tired, as if she hadn't slept in days.

"There's nothing left to talk about," she said, almost bitterly. "You didn't say anything when you had the chance. So don't try now, Sir."

He felt a lump rise in his throat. "I just want to know one thing."

She didn't reply.

"Are you happy?"

That stopped her.

For a second, she looked like she might cry. But instead, she scoffed. "Happiness isn't a luxury everyone can afford, Daya Sir. Some of us have responsibilities."

He stepped closer, something urgent in his voice. "If there's something—"

"There's nothing!" she shouted suddenly, backing away. "You want to know the truth? I waited. I waited for years. Every time I asked if you had something to say, you just looked at me like I was crazy. You never said anything. You were never mine."

Daya stood frozen. Gutted.

"I was ready to fight for us," she whispered, voice cracking. "But I needed a reason. You gave me none."

And with that, she got in her car and drove off. Leaving him there.

⸻

That night, Daya didn't sleep. He opened his drawer and pulled out a small note she had once written for him during a tough case: "Sometimes, we don't need words to know someone cares."

He used to believe that.

But now... maybe silence was the problem.

Maybe words were needed.

Maybe it wasn't too late.

He picked up his phone and called a contact from the financial crimes division. Then another from narcotics. Then a private investigator.

If something was wrong, he'd find out.

Because love wasn't just a feeling.

It was action.

And this time—he wouldn't be too late.