Chapter 6: The Quietest Loss

When I pushed open the half-closed door, Aarav was curled up on the wool rug, colouring. The crayon tip dragged out three twisted shadows on the paper.

The afternoon sun slanted through the curtains, catching on the dust in the air. Aarav’s tiny hands moved with surprising focus, the waxy crayon trembling between his fingers. The room smelled faintly of coconut oil and chalk, the faded Chhota Bheem bedsheet rumpled on his bed, a plastic dabbawala lunchbox on the shelf, and the faint chalk marks from his learning charts still visible on the walls.

I knelt in front of him, my voice trembling. “Is this our Aarav?”

His eyelashes fluttered, and he nodded softly. He pointed to the tall figure on the left. “Pa...pa.” Then slowly moved to the outline in a saree on the right. A broken whisper squeezed from his throat. “Maa.”

My heart skipped a beat—he’d drawn us, a family, or maybe just what he wished for. I wanted to scoop him into my arms, promise him I’d never leave.

Big tears welled up in my eyes. I reached out, trembling, wanting to touch the top of his head. “You drew it so well.”

My hand hovered above his hair, desperate to connect, but afraid to frighten him.

“No.”

He suddenly hugged his head and shrank back. The crayons clattered into the corner. “Hair... hurts.”

He rocked back and forth, knees drawn to his chest, as if the memory of touch was too much. My fingers curled helplessly, longing to offer comfort he wouldn’t accept.

My hand hovered mid-air, scorched by sunlight. Just as I reached for the sensory brush, a scarlet barrage exploded:

[Aarav must be calling the heroine.]

[The supporting character shouldn’t delude herself, right?]

The brush clattered to the floor. So the only one who was wishfully thinking... was always me.

I bent to pick up the brush, but my fingers shook. Maybe I was the only one still holding onto hope.

At that moment, Meera’s sweet voice pierced my eardrums. “Does Aarav miss Maa?”

Her voice was so sugary it made my teeth ache. I clenched my fists, praying Aarav would turn away, but he didn’t.

As her pale yellow dupatta brushed over the threshold, Aarav’s eyes curved into a smile. “Maa.”

He ran to her, arms outstretched. My heart contracted painfully, then seemed to collapse in on itself.

I staggered back, bumping into the newly replaced photo frame on the wall. In the photo, Meera had her arm around Aarav’s neck, and Priya’s hand rested on both their shoulders. My nails dug into my palm, flesh and blood blurred, but I couldn’t suppress the metallic taste rising in my throat.

The photo wobbled on its hook, a silent witness to my defeat. I pressed my hand to my mouth, swallowing the urge to scream.

As I fled the room, Meera’s laughter trailed after me, and I realised: sometimes, losing is quieter than silence.

Finally, I collapsed on the carpet in my own room, biting my sobs into the wound on my palm.

The only sound was the faint hum of the AC and the distant laughter of a child who was never really mine. My pillow soaked up my tears, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.