Four months.

That’s how long I’ve been trapped in this silent misery. Four months since I last saw her smile or cry. Four months since we spoke. We used to be inseparable, but now we’re like strangers, merely clinging to the shell of our relationship.

“Tu Hi Re” is playing on the radio, but I can barely register it. She used to tease me about my obsession with this song. It used to remind me of happier times, but now it only deepens my sadness.

My world became brighter when my sister came into my life. We shared everything—support, love, understanding. Music was another bond between us. I used to perform at different events, and she was doing well in school. But her new friends began pulling her away from taking music seriously.

Four months ago, there was a singing competition at her school. She didn’t tell me she was skipping it. I found her at a club with her friends. A boy was trying to get her to drink beer. I went up to her, and without thinking, I slapped her. The boy panicked and threw his glass at me. It shattered against a table, and a shard lodged itself in my mouth. I started convulsing before I lost consciousness.

Since then, the doctors haven’t been able to restore my voice. That’s hard enough to bear, but losing our bond hurts even more. Now, I have just one wish: to get my voice back for a moment—just long enough to tell her it wasn’t her fault. She’s still my angel. I want to speak to her again, even if it’s only to sing one last song, just for her.

Today, she’s on stage, ready to sing. I’m sitting in the front row, right in front of her. We didn’t meet before the performance. She grips the microphone, her gaze fixed on mine, and starts singing:

“Tu Hi Re, Tu Hi Re

Tere Bina Main Kaise Jiyoon…..”

For the first time in four months, I realize I don’t need words. My tears say it all. She rushes into my arms, and as she holds me close, she whispers into my ear:

“I’m sorry.”

“I LOVE YOU, BHAIYA.”