Siddharth learned early that some loves must be strangled before they breathe. He loved Suman when she laughed for his brother, smiled for his brother, lived for his brother. And so he killed that love quietly — not out of goodness, but fear of becoming something unforgivable. When Atharav died, the family demanded repair, not healing. A widow needed a husband. A child needed a father. And Siddharth became the solution no one asked if he could survive. Marriage did not free him — it sealed him inside a life where every glance feels like theft, every silence feels like confession, and every night feels like sharing a bed with a ghost that isn’t his. He wears loyalty like a wound. He breathes guilt like air. And he knows one truth that will never save him: Even now, loving her would still mean betraying his brother — alive or dead.