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17. A Balm for the Ache

The monsoon had arrived early this year. Rain tapped gently on the windowpanes as the afternoon light dimmed, turning the sky a deep, slate grey. Inside the Sharma house, the air was still—thick with humidity, and something else Ira couldn’t quite name.

A week had passed since their outing, and though nothing dramatic had occurred, everything somehow felt a little different now. Anirudh still slept on the floor, still woke up early. But there were more conversations now. Short ones. Soft ones. Less hesitant.

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Zivaah

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I write stories shaped by emotions, quiet moments, and imperfect love. If my words stay with you or make you feel something, your support helps me keep creating worlds like these. ❤️

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Zivaah

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