Alice (POV)
I try to wake up.
But there's a weight holding me down.
A hand—warm, firm—rests on my stomach, heavy enough to make me feel trapped, caged in a place I don't fully understand yet. For a moment, panic rises in my chest. My body stiffens. Memories rush in like broken glass—laughter, humiliation, eyes watching, judging.
Then reality settles.
Slowly, carefully, I turn my head.
The man lying beside me is asleep, his face relaxed, unaware of the storm inside me. I recognize him immediately. The handsome stranger from last night. The one who looked at me like I mattered. The one whose name I still don't know—and maybe never will.
And strangely, I want it to stay that way.
There is comfort in anonymity. Safety in not knowing. I'm not ready to attach names, expectations, meanings. I'm not in a place where love makes sense anymore. I lost my trust in it the day my feelings became a joke. The day my courage was used against me.
Yet… there is something about him.
Something that pulled me toward him when I was falling apart. Something gentle beneath his confidence. Something that made me feel protected without asking for it.
That scares me.
Because anything that feels good right now has the power to hurt me later.
Carefully, I lift his hand and slide out of bed. I move slowly, as if any sudden sound might wake him—or worse, make me hesitate. I gather my clothes quietly, my heart pounding louder than my footsteps. Before leaving the room, I stop.
I turn back.
Just once.
He's still asleep, hair slightly messy, breathing steady. For a fleeting second, I wonder what would happen if I stayed. If I asked his name. If I let myself believe that not everyone is cruel.
But belief is dangerous.
So I leave.
Outside, the morning feels different—colder, clearer. I book a cab on my phone as I walk out of the building, wrapping my arms around myself. When the cab arrives, I slide into the back seat and give my apartment address. The city passes by in a blur, but my mind is already far away.
Going back to my roots.
That's the only thing that makes sense right now.
At my apartment, I don't waste time. I open my suitcase and start packing with purpose. Clothes. Essentials. A few memories. I don't take much—I never need much. My hometown is small, simple, and warm in ways this city never was.
There, people know your name before they judge you.
There, kindness isn't an act.
There, I can breathe.
Once I'm done packing, I book the next available flight. It's not immediate—it never is when you live far from the world's conveniences—but that's okay. I don't mind the wait. Some journeys are meant to take time.
The next day, I begin my travel.
It's long. Exhausting. Almost twenty-four hours of movement—airports, buses, waiting rooms, unfamiliar faces. I barely sleep. I barely eat. But with every mile that passes, I feel lighter, like I'm shedding layers of pain I didn't realize I was carrying.
When I finally reach home, the sun is setting.
And suddenly, everything feels right again.
My father is the first to spot me. His face lights up the moment he sees me standing there with my bag. He's older now, lines etched deeper from years of hard work, but his eyes hold the same strength. A farmer by life, humble by nature. He doesn't say much—he never has—but his hug says everything.
My mother follows, wiping her hands on her saree, her smile wide and warm. She works beside my father in the fields, her hands rough from labor, her heart soft beyond measure. She cups my face like she used to when I was a child, asking if I've eaten, if I'm tired, if I'm okay.
I nod, even though the answer is complicated.
Then comes my brother—no longer little, but not quite grown either. He grins at me, teasing me for being away so long, for acting like a city girl now. I laugh genuinely for the first time in days.
That night, we sit together for dinner.
Simple food. Simple conversations. Stories about crops, neighbors, village gossip. Laughter fills the room—not forced, not loud, just real. I watch them all, my heart swelling with gratitude.
They are my world.
They always have been.
And for them, I can survive anything.
As I lie down that night in my childhood room, staring at the familiar ceiling, I feel safe. The kind of safety that doesn't demand anything from you. The kind that lets you rest without fear.
I don't know what the future holds.
I don't know what that night in the city will mean tomorrow.
All I know is that for now, I choose healing.
I choose distance.
I choose myself.
And maybe—just maybe—when I'm strong enough again, I'll decide what love is allowed to look like in my life.
But not today.
Today, I am home.