Chapter 8: Paper Cuts and Half-Told Truths

Ira Sen had always believed that if you listened closely enough, people revealed themselves �" in pauses, in changes of tone, in the way their eyes flickered when a name was mentioned.

But with Aarav Verma?

There was too much silence.
And it wasn’t the poetic kind anymore.

It was the kind that swallowed questions whole.

---

She stared at her notebook, flipping back through pages of scribbled quotes and character sketches. The deeper she dug into Aarav’s story, the more gaps she found.

Not lies. Not quite.

But things left out.
Moments half-explained.
Dates that didn’t align.

There were two versions of him now, side by side.

Aarav, the transcript.
Angry. Guarded. Spiralling quietly.

> “I disappear emotionally �" like it’s muscle memory.”
“Shimla wasn’t the beginning. It was the first time someone noticed.”
“I wanted her to run. She did.”

And Aarav, the man across the table.
Steady. Gentle. Frustratingly detached.

> “It wasn’t about me.”
“Sanya left because I couldn’t be what she needed.”
“It’s not worth telling.”

The contrast was too sharp.

Which one was real?
---

Ira met him again that week �" same café, same window table, different energy.

He looked the same. But something about him had shifted. A little tenser. A little careful.

“You look tired,” she said.

“Sleep’s a bit of a myth lately.”

She waited for more. He didn’t offer it.

“Did you ever talk to Sanya again?” she asked casually.

Aarav paused, mid-sip.

“No.”

His voice didn’t waver. His hand didn’t tremble.
But his eyes flicked away.

A reflex.

Too fast.
---

“Do you want to talk about her?” she tried.

“Not really.”

“But she’s part of your story.”

“She’s a footnote.”

“She walked out after a near-death experience.”

“She walked out because I let her.”

That stopped Ira.

“You let her?”

Aarav looked at her, expression unreadable.

“I make it easy to leave,” he said, like he was reciting from memory. “It’s one of my talents.”
---

Back home, Ira couldn’t shake it.

That one sentence kept echoing:

> “I let her.”

Not “She left.”

Let. As if it had been permission. Or punishment.

And then �" the oddest thing.

She pulled up the Shimla article again, but this time with a sharper eye.

> “Avalanche scare. No injuries. Search led by Aarav Verma.”

Search.

The report had been vague. Too vague.

No interviews. No quotes. No follow-up.

And most of all �" no Sanya.

It was as if she’d vanished into snow, and no one ever asked why.
---

Ira leaned back in her chair, goosebumps crawling up her arms.
Aarav hadn’t lied.

But he hadn’t told the truth either.

Not all of it.

She remembered what he said, quietly, almost to himself:

> “It wasn’t the avalanche that broke us. It was what happened after.”

After.

The most dangerous word in any story.
---

And suddenly, for the first time since this all began, Ira felt it:

Fear.

Not of him.
But of what she didn’t know.
Of what might be waiting just beyond the version of Aarav she thought she was writing.

Because writers are supposed to control the story.

But right now, it felt like the story had started writing her.