Chiara
Vedant’s shoulders are slumped when he opens the door. His eyes are shadowed and unfocused, like he’s been drinking. It’s strange to see him like this when he’s always been so controlled and steady.
But now he looks like something inside him has collapsed.
I straighten at the sight of him, wincing at the pain that flares along my ribs and arm. Bruises throb with every breath. But the ache in my body is nothing compared to the one in my chest when I see him like this.
I knew that I had to see him as soon as I was discharged from the hospital. After he left so abruptly without an explanation, I couldn’t just let his abrupt, concerning mood go.
“Vedant,” I say softly. “What happened?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “You should be resting. Recovering.”
“I needed to make su
