CHAPTER XLVI
"The Stranger Who Wasn't"
Sleep felt like a luxury my heart wasn't ready to afford.
No matter how tightly I wrapped the blanket around myself, no matter how many times I closed my eyes and begged my mind to shut off, peace wouldn't come. The storm inside me was louder than the one outside now — thoughts crashing like waves, emotions twisting like a sea I couldn't swim through.
Eventually, I gave up.
Silently, I stepped out of the guest room and walked toward the hall. The air was warm, but still carried the gentle hum of rain hitting the windows — a rhythm that almost matched the ache in my chest.
That's when I saw her.
Hannah.
Already there. Sitting quietly on the couch, legs folded, a cup of something warm in her hands. The lamp beside her bathed her in soft yellow light, making her seem less like a stranger and more like… someone who had always been part of this chapter, somehow.
She looked up as I entered, her expression calm, open, unintrusive — like she had been waiting, but not expecting.
I sat down beside her without a word.
She didn't speak right away either, and I was thankful for that. Sometimes silence between two people is the kindest thing — the space to breathe without pressure.
After a few minutes, she turned to me gently.
> "How are you feeling now?" she asked, voice soft, not digging — just… caring.
I paused for a moment, then shrugged.
> "I don't know. Numb, maybe."
She nodded slowly, like she understood that kind of answer all too well.
But then I turned to her with a small, half-curious smile and asked,
> "Do you usually bring home complete strangers from bus stands in the middle of thunderstorms?"
Hannah chuckled — not offended, just amused — and then, without hesitation, reached out and gently took my hand in hers.
Her touch was light. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just… kind.
> "No," she said. "I don't. I don't usually bring anyone home."
I blinked, surprised by the honesty in her tone.
> "Then why me?" I asked quietly, a frown of confusion pulling at my brows.
She looked into my eyes for a moment — not with intensity, but with a quiet truth — and said something that left me speechless.
> "Because I've met you before."
My body tensed slightly.
> "What?" I asked, puzzled. "When?"
> "You might not remember," she said with a gentle smile, "but it was about two months ago. I came to watch a football match at your college."
My eyes widened.
> "You were there?" I asked, genuinely stunned. "You saw me?"
> "More than just saw you," she said, her voice dropping into something a little softer, a little more vulnerable.
"I came to meet you after the match. I wanted to introduce myself. But then I saw you — with two girls. Something was clearly off. You looked upset. They did too. It was tense… the kind of tension you don't interrupt. So I left."
I didn't know what to say.
My mind was trying to remember — trying to place her face in the crowd that day — but it all felt like a blur. That whole phase of my life was chaos… and apparently, she had been a quiet part of it, even then.
> "So you just… saw that and decided I wouldn't want to meet you?" I asked softly.
> "I didn't want to force myself into a space where I wasn't welcome," she replied simply.
"Sometimes, giving someone space is the only kindness you can offer."
There was something about the way she said that that touched me.
Like she understood more than I had told her.
And maybe she did.
She looked at me again, her expression now a little more hesitant.
> "Can I ask you something?"
> "Yeah," I replied, quietly.
> "Was it… one of those girls?"
"The ones from that day?"
"Is that why you were crying tonight?"
I paused.
That question — so gently asked, so obviously true — hit a nerve I didn't want touched.
So I smiled.
A small, practiced, unconvincing smile.
> "It's not like that," I said, brushing her question off with the kind of half-lie we use when the truth is just too heavy.
But we both knew it was.
And yet… Hannah didn't press further.
She didn't call me out on my lie. She didn't try to break through the wall I had spent hours rebuilding.
She just sat beside me, her hand still loosely around mine, and let me lie — because sometimes, that's the only truth a heart can afford to admit.
We didn't speak much after that.
But in that silence, something settled between us — not answers, not promises — but presence.
And for now, that was enough.
Because sometimes… it's not about being saved.
It's about not being left alone.
And for the first time in a long time…
I didn't feel alone anymore.
Even if I still felt lost.
"Two Strangers, One Wound"
The night had begun to quiet down.
The storm outside had softened to a steady rhythm — less of a rage, more of a lullaby. And inside the apartment, the air felt still, warm, almost sacred — as if it knew two broken hearts were beginning to unfold in its silence.
Hannah and I sat side by side on the couch, the lamplight casting soft shadows around us. Neither of us was in a hurry to leave that moment behind.
Then, after a thoughtful pause, Hannah turned to me with something vulnerable flickering in her eyes.
> "Sam… do you know?" she began, her voice low, almost like she was afraid of hearing it herself.
"My mom is Indian. My dad's American. They were married for almost two decades… until my dad cheated on her."
Her words weren't coated in bitterness — just quiet pain. The kind of ache that's been sitting too long inside a young heart.
> "After the divorce," she continued, "my mom brought me back here. To India. Said she couldn't stay in the same country where everything reminded her of betrayal."
She looked down, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on the fabric of the couch.
> "But my sister… she stayed. She lives in England now. Close to Dad."
I listened, heart tightening with every word.
> "She still believes," Hannah added with a faint, hollow laugh, "that one day, she'll somehow bring them back together again. That maybe if she just holds on tight enough, she can glue them back like pieces of a shattered plate."
She shook her head slowly, her voice dropping to a whisper.
> "But I know the truth. Some things, once broken… they don't go back to what they were. And they shouldn't."
I nodded, understanding too well.
> "Cheating is cheating," I said quietly, with the kind of firmness that only comes from experience.
"And no one — absolutely no one — deserves to be forgiven for making betrayal feel like love."
There was a moment of stillness after that. Heavy. Shared.
Then Hannah looked at me, eyes glistening under the dim light, and smiled — not because anything was funny, but because the honesty felt… healing.
> "You're right," she said softly. "You're absolutely right."
And somehow, in that moment, something shifted between us.
We weren't two strangers anymore.
We were two souls — stitched by pain, held together by invisible threads of understanding.
It was strange, how comforting it felt…
To sit beside someone whose scars didn't match yours exactly — but whose ache came from the same place.
Betrayal.
Family.
Love, twisted into something unrecognizable.
Our conversation that night wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
There were no declarations or promises.
But it was real.
Like two broken mirrors gently placed side by side — reflecting back not perfection, but truth.
And as Hannah leaned back into the couch, letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, I felt something inside me ease as well.
> Maybe sometimes, healing doesn't come from fixing what's broken.
Maybe it comes from sitting next to someone else…
And realizing you're not broken alone.
We looked at each other then — no words, just a shared silence.
And it felt like, for the first time in a long time, the past wasn't chasing me.
It was just sitting quietly beside me…
And maybe — just maybe — learning to let go.
To be continued….