I shrug “A little, because you’re standing there listing reasons you think I’ll regret this, but none of them sound like reasons to me.”
She blinks. “What?”
I shrug lightly. “You’re talkative, yes. But it’s usually about something that matters. You trip sometimes, but you also get back up like it never happened. And as for huge…” I pause, grin tilting. “You’re not. You just take up space the way a person should.”
Her cheeks flush. “That’s… oddly poetic for a man who once described economics as romantic.”
“Hey,” I protest lightly. “I stand by that. It’s all about balance.”
She groans, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t believe you’re joking right now.”
“I can’t believe you’re not.”
She looks at me through her fingers, half glaring, half smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“Possible enough that you said yes,” I counter gently.
The smile fades, replaced by something more fragile. “You don’t even know me that well.”
I tilt my head. “We’ve known each other for four years, Sitara.”
“Yes, but—”
“—and in those four years,” I interrupt, “I’ve seen you convince a palace chef to add Nutella to gajar ka halwa,” I squint my nose at her choice of culinary crime, “make a five-year-old stop crying by drawing a cartoon of her nose, and argue with a prince about why God wouldn’t want people to suffer in heels. So, yeah. I think I know you better than any stranger would.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts. “You remember all that?”
I watch her fiddle with the edge of her dupatta, her fingers trembling like leaves caught in a storm. Four years. Four years of stolen glances, of laughing at her jokes like my heart wasn’t cracking open every time. Four years of pretending not to notice the way her eyes light up when she talks about her sketches, the way her laughter feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. Four years of telling myself it was enough just to be near her.
And now she’s here, looking at me like I’m her last hope.
I could tell her the truth—that I’ve been falling in love with her over these four years, and it all started from the very first time she spilled chai on my kurta and laughed like it was my fault. That every moment since has been a quiet ache, a longing for something I never let myself name.
But I won’t.
Because Sitara doesn’t need my confession. She needs my name. My protection. My silence.
“Of course,” I say simply. “I was there.”
For a moment, the room feels different. Lighter. The rain outside has softened into a quiet drizzle. The scent of roses drifts in through the window someone forgot to close.
“You really think this will work?” she asks softly.
“I don’t think,” I say. “I choose.”
She frowns. “Choose what?”
“You,” I answer. “Not because I have to, but because I want to.”
Her breath catches. The tears she’s been holding back finally spill, slow and silent.
“I’m scared,” she admits quietly. “What if I ruin your life?”
“You won’t,” I say. “And even if you tried, I’d still call it a good life.”
Her laugh is watery, a choked sound that somehow still makes me smile.
“You really have no idea what you’re signing up for.”
