Page 16 of Protect my Heart
Back then, Aarav had danced with me. He was not much of a dancer, but he wanted me to be happy. I remember teasing him endlessly after that because he danced like an awkward giraffe on roller skates. Maa scolded me later for getting soaked and falling sick, but I didn't care. I was too happy to care. That memory still clings to me, like petrichor.
And today? I danced in the rain again—but this time because of him. Because he’s the reason I’m trying to wash away the ache in my chest. And of course, there are consequences. My head is pounding like someone’s banging a drum inside my skull, and my throat feels like it’s been rubbed raw. Every breath is a struggle. I’m lying curled under the blanket, shivering. The fan’s still on, but I don’t have the energy to get up and turn it off. It’s too cold. My limbs feel like lead.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t even hear the door until it creaks open. Aarav steps in, briefcase in hand. I haven’t seen him all day. Or I should say I haven't seen him since our so-called wedding night. He looks exhausted. His hair’s a mess, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. He probably hasn’t slept either.
He places the briefcase on the table and walks over to the bed. His eyes land on me, and even though his face is mostly blank, I catch that flicker of concern in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I mumble, turning my face away. I don’t want his concern. I don’t need it. He doesn’t say anything, just stares for a moment. I glare at him. He glares right back. Then he lets out an annoyed sigh and shakes his head.
“You’re shivering, Anika.”
“So?” I lift an eyebrow at him, trying to sound unaffected.
He steps closer and reaches out, but I jerk my head back instinctively. I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to realize I’m burning up. But of course, he does. He always saw through me. His hand presses against my forehead. Warm against my cold skin, which makes me realize just how hot I’ve become.
“You have a fever,” he says, jaw tightening. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I look away, avoiding his gaze. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine.”
He scoffs. “You’re clearly not fine. You’re shaking like a leaf, and you’re on fire.”
I clench my jaw. I know he’s right, but that only makes me more annoyed. Why does it even concern him?
“You’re still so damn stubborn,” he mutters. “Why didn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have gone out if I knew you were in this bad condition.”
I scoff, and he rolls his eyes. We maintain the staring contest for a while, and then I lose it. I snap, “You don’t care. So what’s the point of all this now?”
His eyes darken, and his voice drops. “Shut up.” The coldness in his voice cuts deeper than I expect.
“You shouldn’t have gotten wet in the rain,” he says, frustration in every word. “It was reckless.” My eyes widen. How did he know? I tilt my head in confusion, but he doesn't say anything—just looks away.Oh. Of course. Of course, he remembered.
He always remembers my stupid habits, the ones I thought didn’t matter to him anymore. But if he remembers this, if he knows me that well… Then why couldn’t he remember to write back? To check in? To not leave me in the dark when I needed him the most?
“I can take care of myself. I don’t need your charity,” I shoot back, louder this time.
“You have a fever—” he starts, moving to help me sit up.
“Don’t touch me!” I yell, my voice coming out hoarse as I swat his hand away. He freezes, then takes a deep breath.
He doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, hand suspended in the space between us like he’s deciding whether to try again or back away.
Then, slowly, he exhales and straightens. “Fine,” he mutters. “Don’t touch you. Got it.” He sounds tired. But not the kind of tired that sleep can fix. The kind that sits heavy in your bones—emotional, frustrated, done.
He turns and disappears as he steps out of the room. Of course he leaves. That’s what he always does. Comes in like a storm and leaves just as quickly. What’s the point of all this? Of caring for five minutes and then going back to silence?
I know he’s right. I shouldn’t have danced in the rain. It was stupid and careless. But I needed that moment, needed to feel something other than this dull ache inside.
I curl tighter into the blanket, the shivers rattling my spine. My throat feels like it’s made of sandpaper. My eyes sting with exhaustion, but I can’t fall asleep. The pain’s too much. I’m cold, miserable, and alone. Great.
Just when I thought he’s gone for good, he’s back, setting a glass of warm water on the bedside table and dropping a strip of medicine beside it.
“Paracetamol,” he says simply.
“I don’t need it,” I reply, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
“You’re burning up. Take it.”
