THE SOUND OF UNFINISHED ARGUMENTS
Sequel: Where Silence Learns to Breathe
(Meher's Perspective)
1
I didn't disappear.
That is the first lie everyone told about me.
Disappearing means vanishing without choice.
I remember every step that took me away.
Even now.
Especially now.
Rain had begun when I stepped out of the auto near the metro station. The sky looked bruised, swollen with unshed storms. I remember thinking the clouds looked exactly like Ma's eyes during our last argument — heavy, waiting, ready to burst but refusing to.
I stood under the broken neon sign of a closed gift shop, holding my tote bag against my chest like it was a life jacket.
My phone buzzed once.
Papa calling.
I stared at the screen until it stopped vibrating.
I wasn't ready to speak to anyone who loved me.
Love had started feeling like interrogation.
I didn't notice the woman standing beside me at first.
She smelled like sandalwood and wet newspapers — oddly comforting, strangely familiar.
"You look lost," she said.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I said the most dangerous sentence a girl can say to a stranger.
"I don't know where to go."
2
Her name was Shaila.
Or at least, that's what she told me.
She spoke softly, like someone who had spent years calming screaming children or grieving adults. She didn't ask questions immediately. She just stood beside me, watching the rain turn the road into mirrors.
"You shouldn't stay here alone," she said after a while.
"The station gets unsafe after dark."
"I'm waiting," I lied.
"For who?"
"Myself."
She smiled slightly.
"Then you're waiting for a very delayed train."
I laughed before I could stop myself.
That was the first mistake.
People who laugh together begin trusting each other too quickly.
She offered tea from the stall nearby. I followed her without thinking — like my feet were tired of choosing directions.
The tea tasted overly sweet. Too sweet. Almost medicinal.
"You look exhausted," she said, watching me closely.
"Just family stuff."
She nodded as if she already knew.
"Families are where people first learn how to hide pain politely," she said.
I stared at her.
"How do you know that?"
She didn't answer directly.
"Because people who leave home don't leave because of one argument. They leave because of a thousand quiet ones."
Something inside me cracked open.
I started talking.
About Ma.
About Papa.
About feeling like a rope in a tug-of-war match that nobody wanted to win, just not lose.
Shaila listened like my words were fragile glass she was carefully storing.
When I finished, she asked only one question.
"Do you want to go somewhere nobody expects you to be?"
I nodded before fear could interrupt.
3
The car ride felt endless.
The rain thickened into sheets, blurring streetlights into golden smudges. The city slowly thinned out into unfamiliar roads and quieter neighborhoods.
I remember feeling two things at once:
Relief.
And a warning I kept ignoring.
"Where are we going?" I asked eventually.
"To a place where people rest," she said.
That sentence sounded peaceful.
It wasn't.
The building looked like an old heritage bungalow converted into something halfway between a clinic and a boarding house. Faded blue paint peeled from its walls like old memories refusing to stay hidden.
There was a metal gate.
No name board.
Only a rusted bell.
When she rang it, a man opened the door. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just looked at me like he was measuring something invisible.
"This is Meher," Shaila said.
The way she said my name felt rehearsed.
4
They took my phone "for safety."
They said outside distractions slow emotional healing.
They said people come here to recover from trauma.
They said many things that sounded reasonable when spoken gently.
By the time I realized I hadn't asked how long I was supposed to stay, the rain had stopped.
And so had my exit routes.
The house had five residents.
None of them told full stories.
There was Riya, who laughed too loudly and stopped mid-sentence often, as if someone invisible kept interrupting her thoughts.
There was Kabir, who stared at walls like they contained hidden subtitles only he could read.
There was an older woman who called everyone by wrong names but cried if corrected.
And there was me.
The newest unfinished chapter.
5
The rules were simple.
Wake up at 6.
Group therapy at 8.
Silent reflection at noon.
Writing sessions at night.
It felt less like healing and more like being slowly rewritten.
Shaila visited every evening, always carrying herbal tea that tasted identical to the one from the stall.
I began feeling sleepy after drinking it.
Heavy.
Floating.
Memories started blurring at the edges.
One night, I overheard voices through the hallway.
"She's adjusting quickly," the man from the door said.
"She's fragile," Shaila replied. "Fragile people are easiest to reshape."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Reshape?
6
That was the night I tried leaving.
The front gate was locked.
Windows were sealed with metal grills.
Even the landline phone required a password.
I realized something terrifying then.
I wasn't a guest.
I was a project.
Days blended into each other.
They encouraged me to write letters to my parents that were never sent.
They asked me to rewrite painful memories "from a detached perspective."
They slowly replaced the word home with trigger.
I began forgetting the exact sound of Ma's voice.
That scared me more than anything.
7
The truth revealed itself accidentally.
Kabir slipped me a crumpled piece of paper during lunch one day.
It read:
They don't heal people. They keep people.
I looked up, but he had already turned away.
That night, I pretended to drink the tea and poured it into a potted plant beside my bed.
For the first time in weeks, my thoughts felt sharp again.
I stayed awake.
And I watched.
At 2:13 AM, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Shaila entered my room quietly, thinking I was asleep. She checked my pulse. My breathing.
Then she whispered something that froze my blood.
"You remind me of my daughter."
8
The next day, I followed her.
I pretended to participate in therapy. Pretended to trust her. Pretended to be softer, more broken, more obedient.
People underestimate quiet girls.
They think silence means surrender.
Sometimes silence means planning.
I found her office unlocked during lunch hour.
Inside were files.
Not medical records.
Profiles.
Every resident had photographs, psychological breakdown charts, and family histories.
I found mine.
Under "Parental Conflict Assessment," there was a note:
High emotional fragmentation. Suitable for long-term integration program.
Integration into what?
Then I saw another file.
A photograph fell out.
A teenage girl with my exact haircut.
Smiling nervously at the camera.
Her name was Aarohi.
Status: Missing.
Date: Five years ago.
My stomach twisted.
9
Footsteps approached.
I shoved everything back and hid behind the curtain.
Shaila entered with the man from the door.
"She's almost ready," he said.
"Not yet," she replied. "She still remembers too much."
"What if her parents find her?"
"They won't," Shaila said calmly. "Parents rarely search where they fear their children might actually be happier."
The sentence hit me like a slap.
10
That night, I wrote the notebook I sent home.
I needed them to know I was alive.
But not where.
Because if they came here unprepared, they would disappear too.
Weeks passed.
I mapped the house mentally.
Counted guard rotations.
Observed when electricity flickered during storms.
I waited for rain.
Storms weaken structures.
And secrets.
11
The escape happened during a power outage.
Thunder cracked like shattered glass.
Emergency lights flickered.
I slipped out through the laundry corridor, heart hammering so loudly I was sure someone could hear it echo through the walls.
The back gate had a rusted chain.
Kabir stood there.
Holding bolt cutters.
"You found the files," he said quietly.
"You helped Aarohi too?" I asked.
His silence answered everything.
We ran.
Through mud.
Through darkness.
Through years of buried fear.
Sirens began wailing behind us.
Or maybe they were only in my head.
12
We reached the highway just before dawn.
Kabir stopped running.
"You go," he said.
"What about you?"
"I never wanted to leave," he whispered. "I only wanted someone else to."
I didn't understand what he meant.
Not then.
I turned back once.
He was already walking toward the storm.
13
I reached the city alone.
Exhausted.
Terrified.
Alive.
I stood outside my own house at 7:42 PM.
The exact time I used to return from tuition.
The lights were on.
I could see Ma moving inside, lighting agarbatti.
I could see Papa sitting at the dining table, staring at an empty chair.
My feet refused to move.
Because I wasn't the same daughter who left.
And I didn't know if they were ready to meet the version of me that survived.
14
(Cliffhanger Ending)
I finally stepped toward the door.
But before I could ring the bell, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
A number I didn't recognize.
I answered.
Shaila's voice floated through the static.
"You forgot something, Meher."
My throat dried.
"What?"
A soft laugh echoed.
"People don't leave our house without leaving something behind."
Silence stretched.
Then she said something that made the world tilt beneath my feet.
"You left Kabir."
The call disconnected.
And as I turned slowly toward the street…
I saw a car parked across the road.
Headlights off.
Engine running.
Watching.
Waiting.
END OF SEQUEL — PART 1