The rain was merciless. Within minutes, I was drenched, standing on the roadside, my eyes scanning blindly for a cab that refused to appear. The downpour was so fierce that the world around me dissolved into a grey blur; I could barely see a few steps ahead. I ran aimlessly for nearly ten minutes—here, there, everywhere—water clinging to my clothes, guilt weighing heavier than the rain itself. Inside, something was breaking, silently crying.
When I finally found a taxi, relief lasted only a second. The driver shook his head firmly. He refused to go in such weather. Helpless, with nowhere else to turn, I stood there waiting, seeking refuge until the thunder softened and the rain surrendered. I don’t know what changed his mind, but suddenly the same driver pulled up beside me again.
“Okay,” he said, almost casually. “I’ll take you.”
The journey was long and exhausting. The driver talked endlessly—about roads, weather, life—but his words floated past me unheard. My heart was too heavy, my mind too crowded with guilt to hold on to anything else. After nearly two hours, we finally reached PC Bhurban.
Inside the room, I changed my soaked clothes. My body trembled uncontrollably from the cold. Without thinking, I collapsed onto the bed. I don’t remember falling asleep; I only know that sleep claimed me.
I woke up to a loud knock on the door.
Barely conscious, I dragged myself up and opened it. Talha stood there.
“Bro, why didn’t you come to class today? It’s already 12 p.m.”
I had no strength to explain anything. “I’m not feeling well,” I muttered. That was all. I picked up my phone, emailed the focal person, and watched Talha return to class. Then I went back to bed.
Knock. Knock.
This time it was softer. I opened one eye and glanced at the wall clock—4 p.m.
What is happening to me?
I forced myself up and opened the door. Housekeeping.
“Sir, the room hasn’t been cleaned for two days. If you don’t mind, may we take fifteen minutes?”
“No,” I said coldly. “I’m not well.” I shut the door and returned to the bed.
Knock. Knock.
Again, I woke up. The clock now showed 7 p.m. With no energy left in me, I leaned against the wall and opened the door. Talha stood there once more.
“Bro, what’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you coming out?”
“I’m not feeling well,” I replied flatly. “Go for dinner.”
He offered to take me out. I refused. I told him I was fed up with continental food. Before he could say anything more, I closed the door again.
It wasn’t sickness. It was guilt—pure, suffocating guilt. What I had done was wrong. I couldn’t face Sanvi. Worse, I couldn’t face myself. I threw myself back onto the bed.
Knock. Knock.
A soft, hesitant knock.
I opened my eyes. The clock read 1 a.m.
Not again, I thought. Talha, please stop this possessiveness.
I stayed still.
Knock. Knock.
Same rhythm.
This can’t be Talha, I told myself. He doesn’t have this much patience. It must be hotel staff.
Gathering what little courage I had left, I opened the door.
Sanvi.
The sight of her drowned me completely. I wasn’t expecting her. I didn’t want to face her. My mind froze, thoughts collapsing into silence.
She smiled and pulled me back into the moment.
“Don’t you offer guests coffee?”
Embarrassed, I stepped aside. “I’m sorry. Please, come in.”
She sat down. I made two cups of coffee and handed one to her, then sat on the chair across from her. She looked at me in a way she never had before—romantic, gentle, possessive. It was the look I had always longed for. And yet, it felt undeserved. What I had done made this moment feel impure, almost unfaithful to her innocence.
Lost in my own interrogation, I barely noticed when she spoke.
“Stupid,” she said softly, smiling. “Girls don’t take the initiative.”
I smiled weakly. She moved closer.
“Please stop,” I said suddenly. “I need to confess something.”
She stepped back and looked at me, waiting.
“I cheated on you yesterday,” I said, my voice trembling.
She smiled faintly. “This isn’t the time for jokes, love.”
“I’m not joking.” And then I told her everything—every detail of what happened at VivaPines.
Her eyes filled with tears. I had always believed that working women were emotionally strong, bold enough to absorb pain. But she wasn’t bold in that way. She was delicate—achingly so.
Without a word, she rushed out of the room.
I sank to the floor, clutching my head in my hands, alone with the weight of what I had destroyed.