Episode 3: The Hidden Corners

It had been almost six months since Aryan and Ananya began their relationship—quietly, intensely, and entirely in their own world. By now, it was a routine. He’d pick her up after tuition, they’d drive around for an hour or two, talk about anything and everything—or sometimes, just sit in silence. And every night, Ananya would tuck the silver ring he gave her under her shirt before going to bed, holding it as if it were a shield from everything that might go wrong.

To her, he was still a mystery. But a beautiful one.

Ananya’s parents noticed the changes in her. She was quieter, sometimes distracted, sometimes smiling at nothing. Her mother once asked, “Are you seeing someone?” And Ananya, caught off guard, replied with a quick shake of her head and a forced laugh.

Aryan never pushed her to tell anyone. He liked the secrecy. “It keeps us safe,” he once said. She didn’t ask what from—somehow, she wasn’t ready to know.

One weekend, he took her to a private estate far from the city—a place where the noise of the world couldn’t reach them. It had tall gates, thick trees, and silence so deep it echoed. They sat on the patio, sipping tea. He looked at her like she was the only soft thing in his otherwise violent life.

“Why me, Aryan?” she asked softly, resting her chin on her hand.

He looked into the distance before answering. “Because you don’t want anything from me.”

That answer stayed with her.

But small cracks had begun forming beneath the surface. He would disappear for days without explanation. Sometimes, he’d show up with bruises he brushed off as “just work.” And sometimes, he’d say her name in a voice that sounded more like a plea than a greeting.

One night, as they sat in his car beneath a streetlamp, Ananya noticed a text flash across his screen: a woman’s name, a message with a heart at the end.

She didn’t say anything. She pretended not to see it. But something inside her shifted.

Still, she trusted him. Because he had never lied to her—not directly. And because love, she told herself, meant giving people space.

Later that week, Aryan came to see her, his knuckles bruised, his jaw tight.

“Rough day?” she asked gently.

He nodded but didn’t elaborate. Instead, he rested his head on her lap and closed his eyes.

“You’re the only peace I have,” he whispered.

She stroked his hair, pretending she wasn’t aching inside.

But the questions kept growing. Who were these other women? What did “taking care of things” really mean? And how much of Aryan’s world was she allowed to know?

One afternoon, she saw him in the city from a distance—standing near a sleek black car, laughing with a girl who looked like a model. His hand was on the girl’s waist.

Ananya froze. She watched, heart pounding, until Aryan looked her way.

His smile faded.

Later that night, he called.

“You saw something,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied quietly.

“It’s not what it looked like.”

That was all he said.

And she believed him.

Because trust is sometimes not about facts. It’s about faith.

Even when everything inside you is beginning to tremble.

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