My spark firefly

"The Weight of a Name"

The Weight of a Name

While chaos brewed elsewhere, a different kind of silence settled in Khushi’s apartment.

I pushed open the door, my steps measured, my breath steady. Vani followed behind me, silent yet observant, as if she could hear the storm raging inside me. But she knew me well enough to understand—I never shared my weaknesses. My silence wasn’t emptiness; it was a fortress, built brick by brick with every betrayal, every wound.

"Are you okay, ma’am?" Vani’s voice was careful, almost hesitant.

I ignored her and moved straight to my suitcase, unzipping it to pull out my guitar. The one thing in this world that never lied, never left. My fingers ran over the strings, my own pulse aligning with the vibrations. Music was my only escape, my only voice when words failed me.

Vani stood beside me, watching as I let my fingers dance over the chords, as if waiting for the storm to settle within me.

"Do you ever think, Vani," I asked, my voice cold but laced with an edge of something deeper, "that we build our lives around certain people, and then one day, everything just... changes?"

She exhaled softly. "Do you really believe it’s over? That you’re truly alone?"

I set my guitar down, inhaling sharply. My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall. "Nothing has changed, Vani. Nothing will ever change. The Singhanias mean nothing to me. They were just a name I was once forced to carry."

Vani hesitated before speaking. "But they’re still your family, aren’t they? Whether you accept it or not?"

A sharp laugh escaped my lips, bitter and hollow. "Family?" My voice was sharper now. "Is that what family is? Just blood ties? Are relationships supposed to matter just because we share DNA?"

Her silence told me she had no answer to give. And honestly, neither did I.

Then, my phone rang. Without looking at the screen, I picked up.

"What?" My voice was laced with ice.

"Why didn’t you come home?" The voice on the other end was sharp, commanding—Mr. Singhania.

"Your home? Or your business?" I shot back instantly.

"You owe me an answer," he snapped. "You are a responsibility of this house. The way you’re talking—"

"Do you expect me to care?" I cut him off, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Even if I died tomorrow, it wouldn’t make a difference to you. I am nothing more than a name in your books, an obligation you never wanted."

A heavy silence followed. Then, he spoke again, his voice controlled but seething. "Do you really think you can do whatever you want? You were raised under my roof. The talent you flaunt today—that’s because of us. Everything you are, it’s because of what we gave you."

I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening around my guitar. "You think you made me?" A humorless chuckle left my lips. "The person I am today, the fire in me—it’s because of my battles, my scars, my struggles. Not because of your so-called generosity."

"You’re blinded by your own arrogance, Khushi," he spat.

I took a slow breath before speaking, my voice eerily calm. "And you’re blinded by your need for control. But let me make one thing clear—I am no longer your responsibility. I never was."

Without waiting for a response, I ended the call.

Setting my phone aside, I picked up my guitar again, letting my fingers strum a melody—soft at first, then sharp, angry, full of the emotions I could never put into words.

Vani watched me, her eyes filled with something unreadable. "How long will you keep running from this, Khushi?" she whispered.

I stopped playing, my fingers stilling over the strings. My gaze met hers, unflinching.

"Until I find my peace," I said.

Vani didn’t argue. Maybe she knew there was no point. Maybe she knew that no matter how much she tried, she could never fix what had already been broken.

And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t looking to be fixed at all.