His eyes move over my face like he’s trying to memorize it, like he’s searching for proof that I’m real and not something his fear has invented. There’s disbelief there. Hope too. And something fragile, like he’s one wrong breath away from breaking.
“That’s why I came into that room,” I say, my voice trembling now that I’ve started. The ache in my chest deepens with every word. “That’s why I followed you. I couldn’t let you walk away thinking you were alone in this. I wanted to tell you immediately, Dhruv. I didn’t want to wait. Not even a second.”
My fingers clutch the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight, as if letting go might undo everything I’ve just said. His warmth seeps into my palms, steadying me, keeping me upright when my legs feel like they might give out.
“I want to be yours,” I continue, the words rushing out of me now, raw and unfiltered. “Not because of circumstances. Not because of that wedding day. Not because we were pushed into something neither of us planned.” My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. “I want to be your wife because I choose you.”
That’s when the sob breaks free, tearing out of my chest before I can stop it.
“I want to be with you as long as I’m breathing, Dhruv,” I whisper, desperation clinging to every syllable. “So don’t tell me to go away. Please. Don’t ask me to leave.”
My vision blurs as tears spill over, and then his hands are there—warm, steady, gentle—cupping my cheeks like he’s afraid I might shatter. His thumbs brush away the tears I didn’t realize were falling, and the tenderness of that simple touch makes my chest ache even more.
“Please,” I murmur again, my forehead resting against his, our breaths mingling. “I love you so much.”
His breath stutters, a sharp inhale that trembles all the way through him.
And then he leans in. The kiss is not careful or restrained. It’s fierce in its honesty, heavy with everything we’ve been holding back. His lips press against mine with an urgency that steals my breath, that tells me he’s here—fully, completely—and that he’s choosing me too. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just need. Just certainty.
I taste salt, tears mixed between us, and his hands slide into my hair, fingers threading through it as if anchoring me in place. I clutch at him in return, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solid proof of him against me, until there’s no room left for doubt or fear.
The world slips away quietly.
There’s only this moment. Only him. Only the overwhelming, undeniable certainty that we are standing here together—not broken, not running, not afraid.
Just two people choosing each other.
And this time, neither of us lets go.
Live a little
DHRUV
Her head fits under my chin like it was always meant to be there.
Her fingers are curled into my shirt, knuckles soft now, no longer tight with fear. The sobs have eased into quiet breaths, the kind that tremble a little before they steady. I can feel every inhale she takes, every exhale brushing against my chest, and with each one, something inside me loosens—slowly, cautiously—as if my body is learning that this moment is safe.
I wrap my arm around her more firmly, not trapping, not claiming, just holding. Like if I don’t, the world might try to take her away again. Hell, I was going to take her away from me.
For a while, we don’t speak.
The silence isn’t heavy. It’s fragile. Sacred.
It’s broken when my chest tightens without warning, when an old ache presses up from somewhere deep and familiar, the kind that never really leaves—it just waits.
“My father,” I say quietly, the words tasting bitter even now.
Her body stills for half a second. Not pulling away. Not tensing. Just listening.
“I’ve spent my whole life terrified of becoming him,” I continue, my voice lower than I intend. “Every raised voice. Every flash of anger. Every moment I feel something too strongly—I hear him. I see him.”
My jaw clenches, muscle jumping as I stare at nothing. Memories I don’t invite slip in anyway. My mother’s silence. The way she learned to disappear without leaving the room. The way love was never gentle in that house—it was sharp, unpredictable, something you braced yourself for.
“I told myself I’d never marry,” I admit. “Because I thought it was safer to stay away. Safer for everyone.”
Her fingers tighten slightly in my shirt.
“I thought if I never loved someone this deeply, I’d never hurt them.”
