Chapter 2: The Heroines and the Side Roles

When I returned again, the door was open just a crack when I heard Aarav’s voice.

The familiar squeak of the old hinges reminded me of the countless nights I’d peeped in, hoping to see him sleeping peacefully. Now, the door felt like a barrier I was scared to push through.

“Maa’s... smell.”

His voice was so soft, almost as if he was talking to his teddy, not to anyone in particular. But I knew the longing in that word—it cut deeper than any insult.

Through the gap, I saw Aarav reaching out to the woman from earlier, asking to be held. Both she and Priya looked startled. She picked Aarav up in her arms.

Aarav’s hands clutched at her dupatta, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushed. Priya’s face twisted in a confusion I’d never seen before. Even the woman seemed unsure, but she responded instinctively, hugging Aarav to her chest.

“Maa?” Aarav tilted his head, puzzled.

That single syllable seemed to echo off the cream walls, bouncing through every memory I had of trying to win him over. For a moment, the entire world shrank to the sound of his voice—hopeful, questioning, searching.

In that moment, I froze in place. My heartbeat seemed to stop, leaving only a dull ache in my chest.

I gripped the doorknob so hard my knuckles turned white, afraid if I let go, my knees would buckle. The corridor light flickered as if in sympathy.

[Ah—Aarav called the heroine ‘Maa’!]

[Next, the heroine will keep visiting Aarav, and with her company, Aarav will become healthy.]

The lines floated in my mind like the relentless ticker tape at the bottom of a news channel, never letting me forget my place.

Suddenly, I understood. So she is the heroine.

It was as clear as the vermillion dot on a newly married bride’s forehead—Meera was the one written into Aarav’s story, not me.

“That’s not your maa, that’s Aunty Meera,” Priya told the child.

But Aarav stubbornly shook his head, “Maa.”

His eyes shone with the kind of hope he’d never shown for me. Priya’s lips thinned, her posture stiffening, but Aarav simply held on tighter.

I pushed open the door.

The air inside was thick with the smell of talcum powder and the sharp tang of antiseptic. My hand trembled as I stepped inside.

[Why is the supporting character coming in now, disturbing their family?]

[But they’re not a family yet—after all, the supporting character is still the legal wife.]

I ignored the comments. I wanted to take Aarav from the woman’s arms. He turned his head away, refusing to look at me. “No, you.”

The rejection stung, sharper than a mother-in-law’s taunt at a shaadi. My hand hovered in mid-air before I let it drop, as if the weight of my own insignificance was suddenly too heavy.

Suddenly, I felt embarrassed, a little lost. Priya coughed, breaking the awkward silence.

She cleared her throat, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her saree. The ceiling fan above hummed, filling the silence with its indifferent whir.

“This is Meera, my assistant. My wife, Ananya Gupta.”

I smiled and nodded, glancing at Aarav again.

It was a thin, tired smile. The sort you give to distant relatives at weddings when you can’t remember their names, but know you have to be polite. I met Aarav’s eyes, searching for a hint of the connection I’d worked so hard to build.

“Aarav, it’s time for your medicine.”

He turned away. “Want... maa to feed me.”

My heart twisted, but I held out the medicine bottle, my grip so tight the label crumpled. The faint scent of syrup mixed with the clean, milky smell of Aarav’s room, making my temples pulse.

My fingers trembled as I gripped the doorframe, the medicine bottle leaving a red mark in my palm. Meera’s perfume mingled with the milky scent of the children’s room, making my temples throb.

The sharp tang of sandalwood from her perfume lingered, unsettling the familiar air I’d grown used to over the years. I pressed the cool glass bottle harder against my palm, grounding myself.

“How about I try?” Meera smiled at me, her dimples showing. “My little brother didn’t like taking medicine when he was little, either.”

Her voice was gentle, yet confident—the kind that gets through to children and adults alike. Her smile was disarming, melting away Priya’s stiff posture for just a moment.

Aarav suddenly hugged her and giggled. I had never seen him smile so openly. Meera naturally took the medicine bottle, her fingertips brushing Priya’s hand by accident.

The brief touch sent a ripple of something unsaid through the room. Priya’s jaw tightened as she looked away, pretending to straighten Aarav’s bedsheet, but I could see the flush rising up her neck.

[Ahhh, their fingertips touched!]

[Bas karo, yaar 😢 Supporting character ki toh life hi khatam ho gayi.]

The comments burned, like the chappal bites you get after a long wedding night—sharp, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.

The brown medicine swirled in the steel spoon as Meera hummed a soft lullaby. The child opened his mouth and swallowed the medicine without a fuss.

Her voice was soft, the sort of old Hindi tune Dadi used to hum while massaging our scalps. Aarav’s lips parted, his eyes never leaving Meera’s face, and for a second, he seemed like any other child. My chest ached at the sight.

I felt something in my heart shatter. It was as if my heart was being torn apart. I’ve cared for Aarav for four years, but he’s never smiled at me like that.

The memory of all those evenings spent coaxing him, of all the times I’d wiped his tears, haunted me. My hands shook, and I pressed them together to stop myself from reaching out again.

I crouched down. “Aarav, why did you call Aunty Meera... ‘Maa’?”

My voice was barely above a whisper, shaky and uncertain. Aarav wouldn’t meet my gaze; he picked at the edge of his pillowcase instead.

Meera suddenly looked up, her voice gentle: “Mrs. Sharma, please don’t misunderstand. Maybe Aarav just feels closer to me.”

Her words were soft, but each syllable landed like a slap. Her eyes darted to Priya, seeking reassurance, but found only silent expectation.

“So, he’s closer to you than to the mother who’s cared for him for four years?”

The bitterness laced my voice before I could stop it. The words hung in the air, heavy as the summer monsoon clouds just before the rain.