She closes her eyes. Drifting into the melody of that ghazal, a final thought settles: Abir actually succeeded in branding her as the destroyer of his life. He won. Perhaps, under the relentless weight of his distrust, suspicion, and fear, she truly starts believing she is the villain, and so, in the end, she has no choice but to act the part. The pride she carries her whole life, the belief that she has never caused anyone harm, shatters like glass, the sound ringing in her ears. But is there any other way? Is there any other way out of this black hole, for her or for Abir? The pressure in her chest tightens, the pain intensifying. Pushing that feeling aside, she tries to focus on Ustad Ghulam Ali:
Raat Bhar Pichhli Hi Aahat Kaan Mein Aati Rahi
Jhank Kar Dekha Gali Mein, Koi Bhi Aaya Na Tha…
Faasle…Faasle Aise Bhi Honge, Yeh Kabhi Socha Na Tha…
Yaad Kar Ke Aur Bhi Takleef Hoti Thi, Adeem
Bhool Jaane Ke Siwa Aab Koi Bhi Chara Na Tha…
Faasle…Faasle…Aise Bhi Honge, Yeh Kabhi Socha Na Tha…