10 hours ago
(This post was last modified: 10 hours ago by heygiwriter. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 153 : Shadows Before Dawn
The night stretched into an endless void. While Jay conducted his search with quiet, methodical precision—checking old haunts, mutual contacts, and even driving past familiar streets in silence—Tharun’s world had fractured completely.
Tharun hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t drunk water. His eyes were bloodshot, clothes disheveled from hours of frantic running between locations. Every corner of the city felt hostile. He revisited the restaurant, interrogated staff with trembling hands, then drove to every place Nikitha had ever mentioned. The hostel. Her favorite café. Even the hotel where everything had begun unraveling.
“Nikitha… where are you?” he whispered hoarsely into the darkness, voice cracking. The absence clawed at him like a living wound. He remembered the warmth of her body against his, the way she had tentatively smiled during shopping, the soft scent of her hair when he held her. He had been willing to share her, to accept whatever version of love she offered, just to keep her near. Now that fragile hope was slipping away. Exhaustion weighed on him like lead, but he refused to stop. Tears blurred his vision as he sat in his car at 3 a.m., head against the steering wheel, whispering broken apologies to the empty passenger seat. I pushed too hard. I should have given her space. The obsession that had sustained him now tormented him. He missed her with every fiber of his being—her laugh, her touch, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him despite everything.
Jay, searching separately across town, felt a different kind of ache. He knew Nikitha’s patterns better than anyone. Yet even he came up empty. Both men moved like ghosts in the same night, never crossing paths, united only by the woman who had vanished.
The night before the wedding, Tharun’s phone rang. An unknown number. He answered instantly, heart slamming against his ribs.
The voice on the other end was unmistakable—soft, tired, but steady. Nikitha.
“Where are you? What happened? Where did you go?” His words tumbled out desperately, voice raw from shouting her name into the void all night.
“Tharun… don’t worry.”
“I’ll come to the temple directly in the morning,” she said calmly. “Be ready for the marriage. Everything will be fine.”
He demanded answers, voice rising with exhaustion and fear. “Tell me where you are right now!”
There was a pause. Then, gently: “If you trust me, I will be there in the morning.
I just… went to find some peace. To fix the storm inside me. I’ll come to you. I promise.”
The line went dead. Tharun clutched the phone to his chest, a fragile thread of hope cutting through his despair. He finally drank some water, collapsed onto the couch, and allowed himself a few hours of tortured sleep, dreaming of her return.
Morning light bathed the ancient temple in serene gold. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers, incense, and anticipation. Tharun’s family had arrived early, anxious but trying to maintain the auspicious mood. Tharun looked exhausted yet wired, eyes scanning the crowd relentlessly.
Then he saw her.
Nikitha stood near the mandap, already dressed in a beautiful silk saree that dbangd elegantly over her curves, accentuating the graceful lines of her waist and shoulders. She looked calm—almost radiant—in the morning light.
Tharun rushed forward and pulled her into a fierce hug, burying his face in her neck. The familiar scent of her skin nearly undid him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered repeatedly, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry if I did anything wrong. If I pressured you. If I—”
She held him tightly, rubbing his back. “No. I was the one who did everything wrong. You were right all along. You fought for me when no one else would.”
Relief flooded him. They moved toward the ceremonial space as the priest prepared the rituals. The family watched with cautious hope.
But as they were about to sit for the main rites, Nikitha hesitated. “Tharun, I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
“Later,” he urged, glancing at the priest and the rapidly approaching auspicious time. “We can talk after. The muhurat is almost here. Please, sit.”
Nikitha’s expression shifted. She took a deep breath, then suddenly called out, voice clear and strong across the temple courtyard:
“Mithra!”
From behind a flower-decorated pillar at the side of the mandap, a woman emerged. Mithra. She walked forward gracefully, holding a garland of fresh flowers in one hand and carrying the exact silk saree the family had chosen for Nikitha—beautifully folded, as if prepared for a bride.
Tharun froze, stunned into silence. His mind struggled to process the scene. Confusion, disbelief, and a rising wave of dread washed over his face as he stared at Mithra, then back at Nikitha, the weight of what was unfolding crashing down on him.
The night stretched into an endless void. While Jay conducted his search with quiet, methodical precision—checking old haunts, mutual contacts, and even driving past familiar streets in silence—Tharun’s world had fractured completely.
Tharun hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t drunk water. His eyes were bloodshot, clothes disheveled from hours of frantic running between locations. Every corner of the city felt hostile. He revisited the restaurant, interrogated staff with trembling hands, then drove to every place Nikitha had ever mentioned. The hostel. Her favorite café. Even the hotel where everything had begun unraveling.
“Nikitha… where are you?” he whispered hoarsely into the darkness, voice cracking. The absence clawed at him like a living wound. He remembered the warmth of her body against his, the way she had tentatively smiled during shopping, the soft scent of her hair when he held her. He had been willing to share her, to accept whatever version of love she offered, just to keep her near. Now that fragile hope was slipping away. Exhaustion weighed on him like lead, but he refused to stop. Tears blurred his vision as he sat in his car at 3 a.m., head against the steering wheel, whispering broken apologies to the empty passenger seat. I pushed too hard. I should have given her space. The obsession that had sustained him now tormented him. He missed her with every fiber of his being—her laugh, her touch, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him despite everything.
Jay, searching separately across town, felt a different kind of ache. He knew Nikitha’s patterns better than anyone. Yet even he came up empty. Both men moved like ghosts in the same night, never crossing paths, united only by the woman who had vanished.
The night before the wedding, Tharun’s phone rang. An unknown number. He answered instantly, heart slamming against his ribs.
The voice on the other end was unmistakable—soft, tired, but steady. Nikitha.
“Where are you? What happened? Where did you go?” His words tumbled out desperately, voice raw from shouting her name into the void all night.
“Tharun… don’t worry.”
“I’ll come to the temple directly in the morning,” she said calmly. “Be ready for the marriage. Everything will be fine.”
He demanded answers, voice rising with exhaustion and fear. “Tell me where you are right now!”
There was a pause. Then, gently: “If you trust me, I will be there in the morning.
I just… went to find some peace. To fix the storm inside me. I’ll come to you. I promise.”
The line went dead. Tharun clutched the phone to his chest, a fragile thread of hope cutting through his despair. He finally drank some water, collapsed onto the couch, and allowed himself a few hours of tortured sleep, dreaming of her return.
Morning light bathed the ancient temple in serene gold. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers, incense, and anticipation. Tharun’s family had arrived early, anxious but trying to maintain the auspicious mood. Tharun looked exhausted yet wired, eyes scanning the crowd relentlessly.
Then he saw her.
Nikitha stood near the mandap, already dressed in a beautiful silk saree that dbangd elegantly over her curves, accentuating the graceful lines of her waist and shoulders. She looked calm—almost radiant—in the morning light.
Tharun rushed forward and pulled her into a fierce hug, burying his face in her neck. The familiar scent of her skin nearly undid him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered repeatedly, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry if I did anything wrong. If I pressured you. If I—”
She held him tightly, rubbing his back. “No. I was the one who did everything wrong. You were right all along. You fought for me when no one else would.”
Relief flooded him. They moved toward the ceremonial space as the priest prepared the rituals. The family watched with cautious hope.
But as they were about to sit for the main rites, Nikitha hesitated. “Tharun, I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
“Later,” he urged, glancing at the priest and the rapidly approaching auspicious time. “We can talk after. The muhurat is almost here. Please, sit.”
Nikitha’s expression shifted. She took a deep breath, then suddenly called out, voice clear and strong across the temple courtyard:
“Mithra!”
From behind a flower-decorated pillar at the side of the mandap, a woman emerged. Mithra. She walked forward gracefully, holding a garland of fresh flowers in one hand and carrying the exact silk saree the family had chosen for Nikitha—beautifully folded, as if prepared for a bride.
Tharun froze, stunned into silence. His mind struggled to process the scene. Confusion, disbelief, and a rising wave of dread washed over his face as he stared at Mithra, then back at Nikitha, the weight of what was unfolding crashing down on him.
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