That night, Arin was preparing to sleep when a soft sound caught his attention. Faint at first, but unmistakable—someone was crying.
Frowning, he moved toward his balcony, his senses alert. The sound was coming from the adjacent balcony. Astha.
She stood there, illuminated by the dim glow of the streetlights, her arms wrapped around herself as she gazed up at the stars. He hesitated, staying in the shadows, unsure if he should make his presence known.
Then, in a whisper, she spoke.
“I’ve always adjusted my life according to what you gave me,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet frustration. “I never asked for more. I never asked for someone to take care of me. I never asked to be held or loved. All I wanted was for my daughter and my parents to be happy and healthy. Isn’t that enough?”
She let out a shuddering breath, her fingers tightening around her arms. “I have no one else. And I don’t need anyone else. As long as they’re safe, as long as they’re with me, I’ll be fine.”
Then, almost imperceptibly, her voice broke. “But… can’t I even get a hug? Just one?”
Arin felt something inside him twist at the raw vulnerability in her voice. She was strong, fierce, independent—yet, in this quiet moment, she was simply human. Simply longing.
A few seconds passed before she sniffled and let out a small, bitter chuckle. “I know why you never gave me anyone. Because it would just complicate my life, right? Because men are demanding, chauvinistic, exhausting. It’s better this way, isn’t it? I understand.”
She sighed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “But whatever you have given me, please… keep it safe.”
With that, she turned and quietly went back inside, shutting the door behind her.
Arin remained rooted in place, his heart hammering in his chest. She hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t known he was listening.
But he had.
And now, he couldn’t unhear what she had whispered to the stars.
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