What I Chose to Believe
992 Words
Chapter 7 — What Armaan Chose to Believe
Two weeks had passed since Aarohi Sharma left.
The house remained exactly the same—orderly, silent, untouched.
Nothing felt out of place.
Nothing demanded attention.
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If someone looked closely, they might notice the absence of a few belongings…
A faint emptiness in certain corners.
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But even that was easy to ignore.
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It was almost as if she had never been there at all.
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And that was how Armaan Malhotra preferred it.
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He did not look for her.
There were no calls made.
No questions asked.
No attempts to trace where she might have gone.
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Her departure had been her own decision.
And he had simply allowed it to remain that way.
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Unchallenged.
Unimportant.
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At least—
That was the version of truth he chose to believe.
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“You’re really not going to find her?”
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The question cut through the stillness.
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Armaan lifted his gaze slowly.
His friend stood across from him, frustration evident in his expression.
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“She left,” Armaan said, his tone even. “That was her choice.”
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The explanation sounded sufficient.
Simple.
Final.
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But it wasn’t enough.
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“Choice?” his friend repeated, disbelief slipping through. “You’re talking about your wife.”
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The word lingered.
Unwelcome.
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“Was,” Armaan corrected, without hesitation.
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Silence followed.
Heavy.
Judging.
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“It’s been two weeks,” his friend continued, more controlled now. “And you haven’t done anything. Not even tried to check if she’s okay.”
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Armaan didn’t respond immediately.
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Because the answer was obvious.
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“There’s nothing to check.”
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His friend exhaled slowly, clearly holding back.
“What if something happened to her?”
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Something already had.
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The thought surfaced—
Uninvited.
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And this time, Armaan didn’t push it away.
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“Something did happen,” he said quietly.
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Confusion crossed his friend’s face.
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For a brief moment, Armaan considered staying silent.
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But the past—
Had a way of forcing itself into the present.
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“Fifteen years ago,” he began slowly, his gaze drifting away, “my brother died.”
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The words carried no emotion.
Not anymore.
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“It was called an accident,” he continued. “Something sudden. Unavoidable.”
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That was the official version.
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“But it wasn’t.”
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The room grew still.
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“There were inconsistencies,” Armaan said. “Details that didn’t make sense. Things that were ignored.”
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He had noticed them.
Even then.
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“And eventually,” he added, his voice quieter now, “the truth became clear.”
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His gaze lifted again.
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“Her family was involved.”
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The reaction was immediate.
Shock.
Disbelief.
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But Armaan had lived with that truth for years.
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“That’s why you treated her like that?” his friend asked carefully.
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Armaan didn’t answer directly.
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“I didn’t marry her for revenge,” he said instead. “But I wasn’t going to forget what happened either.”
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The distinction mattered.
To him.
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“She wasn’t the one who did it,” his friend said quietly.
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“No,” Armaan agreed.
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A pause.
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“But she wasn’t separate from it either.”
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That belief had shaped everything.
Every decision.
Every action.
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His friend looked at him as if something about that logic was fundamentally wrong.
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Maybe it was.
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But Armaan had never questioned it.
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“Just don’t regret it,” his friend said after a while.
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Regret.
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The word felt distant.
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“I won’t.”
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And he meant it.
At least—
In that moment.
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His friend left soon after.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
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Armaan remained seated, the stillness settling back around him.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
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He reached for the file on the table.
Work.
Routine.
Control.
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But the words blurred.
Refused to settle.
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For no reason at all—
Aarohi’s face surfaced in his mind.
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Quiet.
Composed.
Always present—
Yet never demanding.
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He closed the file.
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It didn’t matter.
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Nothing about her mattered anymore.
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His phone rang.
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The sharp sound broke through the silence.
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He glanced at the screen.
His cousin.
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Armaan answered.
“What is it?”
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“Where are you?” the voice came quickly.
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“Why?”
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“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
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“Say it.”
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A pause.
Long.
Deliberate.
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And then—
“I think I saw him.”
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Something in his tone made Armaan still.
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“…Saw who?”
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“Your brother.”
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For a moment—
The words held no meaning.
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Then—
Everything shifted.
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“That’s not possible,” Armaan said, instinctively.
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“I thought the same,” his cousin replied quickly. “But I followed him. The name is different—but the face… I’m telling you, it was him.”
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Armaan’s grip on the phone tightened.
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Alive?
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After fifteen years?
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It didn’t make sense.
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“Where?” he asked.
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The details came quickly.
Country.
City.
Fragments of a life rebuilt elsewhere.
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Armaan listened.
Silently.
Carefully.
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But something had already begun to crack.
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“…Don’t tell anyone,” he said finally. “Not until I confirm it.”
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“I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but—”
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“I’ll handle it.”
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He ended the call.
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Silence returned.
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But this time—
It felt different.
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Because for the first time in fifteen years—
The truth Armaan Malhotra had built his life on…
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Didn’t feel certain anymore.
- Writer
