Destined To Love You

CH 7

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 Sayra's POV

I locked the door behind me, quietly. Not because I was afraid someone would follow, but because I needed the silence.

The kind that presses on your chest.

I stood with my back against the door for a moment, breathing like I'd run a marathon. But all I'd done was walk away.

From him.

From us, if that was ever a thing.

From the echo of a memory I had no business still holding onto.

I walked to the mirror, slowly, my bangles clinking against each other — a sound I used to love. Today, it felt too loud. Too bright.

My reflection looked... composed.

Hair in place. Eyes lined. Lips painted soft rose.

No tears.

Of course not.

I hadn't cried for him in years.
And I wouldn't now.
I promised myself that.

The last time I cried was the day he shattered me — in front of a crowd, no less.

"I love you," I had said.
Bold. Brave. Stupid.

And he had laughed. Not with cruelty, but with disbelief.

"Are you joking?"
"Look at you... and look at me."
"Just leave. And next time, don't embarrass yourself like this."

I remember every single word like a scar I can't scrub clean.

I remember the way people stared. The silence that followed. The way my heart dropped like it had been tossed off a cliff.
I went home that day and cried until my body couldn't take it anymore.
And after that?

Never again.

Because I wasn't that girl anymore.

I was Sayra Dixit — interior designer, daughter of the most loving parents, sister to a man who would walk through fire for me.
I was strong. Capable. Respected.

So no, I wouldn't cry.

But God, did it ache.

It ached to see him sitting there today. All polished and perfect, acting like he hadn't once broken something inside me with just his words. Like he didn't remember me.

And maybe he didn't.

Maybe girls like me weren't worth remembering to boys like him.

Or maybe... he remembered and just didn't care.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, unclipping my earrings, one by one.

The silence didn't feel peaceful anymore.

It felt loud.

But not louder than my promise.

I won't cry.

Not for him.

Not this time.

I sat there, still in that pretty suit Ma gave me, the dupatta slipping from my shoulder, half-forgotten—just like the version of me I'd buried years ago.
The girl who once wore her heart on her sleeve.
The girl who smiled wide at the smallest kindness.
The girl who thought a crush could turn into something more if she just believed hard enough.