Shakthi had always been able to read Dilli—
even when the world couldn't.
For weeks she watched him from the courtyard of Hope Island,
his footsteps heavier,
his eyes lost in places she could not follow,
his smile slower to appear.
He didn't sit with the families in the evenings.
He didn't laugh at the children's antics.
He didn't look at her the way he used to—
with the easy warmth of someone who felt at home.
One evening, as the sun dipped orange into the sea,
she approached him quietly.
Dilli was staring at the ocean,
hands clasped behind him,
shoulders stiff with unseen battles.
Shakthi tugged at his sleeve gently.
"Dilli brother… are you angry with me?"
The word hit him like a stone.
Brother.
Not wrong.
Not inappropriate.
But heavy—
so heavy it pressed against wounds he carried alone.
He swallowed hard.
"Why would I be angry, Shakthi?"
She looked up at him, eyebrows knitted with concern only a child could express so honestly.
"Because you don't smile anymore.
You don't sit with me.
You don't talk like before.
Everyone says you are busy…
but I feel like you went somewhere far away."
The last sentence cracked something in him.
He turned away, blinking fast.
But Shakthi stepped in front of him, small but unwavering.
"Dilli brother… talk to me. Please?"
His chest tightened.
He knelt down to her height, exhaustion pooling in his eyes.
"Shakthi… don't call me 'brother' now," he said, voice trembling.
She jerked back slightly, confused.
Her eyes widened—she had never heard him speak like that.
He saw the confusion and immediately softened.
"Not because you did anything wrong," he whispered.
His voice broke.
"Because… I feel like I don't deserve that place in your life.
Not with the lies I'm forced to carry…
Not with the dangers around me…
Not with the distance I have to keep to keep you safe."**
Shakthi's lips parted as realization dawned—not of the politics,
not of the danger,
but of the pain behind his words.
Dilli continued, tears welling despite his strength:
"You're the only piece of innocence I have left in this world, Shakthi.
When you call me brother…
it reminds me of a life I wished for,
a life where I wasn't hiding truths,
where I wasn't watched,
where I wasn't afraid of losing everyone I care about."
His voice cracked completely.
"I'm scared, Shakthi.
Scared that the world will take everything away again."
And for a moment—
the great visionary,
the brilliant inventor,
the leader of Hope Island—
just looked like a boy who never got to heal from his past.
Shakthi didn't fully understand everything,
but she understood pain.
She stepped forward and placed both her small hands on his cheeks.
"Dilli… you're not alone.
You can tell me when you're scared.
You don't have to be strong every time."
It was the kind of comfort only a child could offer—
pure, unconditional, without expectation.
His eyes overflowed.
Shakthi wiped his tears with her sleeves, frowning.
"See? You can cry.
I'll still be here.
Brother or not…
you're Dilli.
And I'm Shakthi.
That's enough, right?"
He let out a choked laugh, pulling her into a gentle embrace.
For the first time in weeks,
his heart loosened.
Not because his burden disappeared—
but because someone reminded him he didn't have to carry it alone.
"Yes, Shakthi," he whispered into her hair.
"That's enough."
And as the waves rolled in softly,
Dilli realized something:
Sometimes the world wounds you.
Sometimes it tries to claim your freedom.
But healing doesn't always come from strength—
sometimes it comes from a small hand reaching out
and saying:
"I'm here."