“Good,” I murmur. “Because I might give you the moon, too, when you ask.”
Her jaw drops. Actually drops. And for a split second, she looks so stunned it takes everything in me not to laugh outright.
“Princess,” I add deliberately, enjoying this far too much.
She groans. I straighten and motion to the staff member hovering nearby. “Chocolate,” I say. “Which one do you want?”
She tilts her head. “Dark chocolate.”
The answer surprises me. Not because it’s wrong—but because something about the way she says it feels… practiced. Careful. I narrow my eyes slightly. “I thought you loved Kinder Joy.”
Her lips pout instinctively, and I almost—almost—lose my composure entirely. “I still do,” she says. “But I’ve been trying to eat healthy.”
Something shifts in my chest. “Why?” I ask, not accusing, just curious. Not that it’s wrong, but if she enjoys kinder joy, she can have it.
She hesitates. Just for a moment. Then shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like it hasn’t shaped parts of her life in ways she’s learned to minimize. “I was diagnosed with PCOD last year, so I'm trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle and all.” Her shoulders sag. It’s clear she’s upset.
I don’t react immediately. I don’t frown or panic or ask a hundred questions the way some people do. I just hum softly, nodding once, absorbing it. “Okay,” I say simply, then turn back to the staff. “Dark chocolate.”
He nods and leaves. Sitara watches me carefully, like she’s waiting for something—concern, judgment, pity. I give her none of it.
Instead, I ask, “Does it get hard sometimes?”
Her shoulders drop, like she didn’t realize how tense she was until now. “Yeah,” she admits. “Some days more than others.”
I nod again. “We’ll figure it out.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “We?”
I shrug lightly. “You’re not doing this alone.”
It’s not a grand declaration. It’s not dramatic. It’s just… true.
She doesn’t cry again. She just smiles—small, soft, a little tired—but real.
And in that moment, I know something with quiet certainty:
I may not know how to fix everything.
I may not always know the right words.
But I will learn her.
All of her.
And I will show up. Every single time.
The Quiet Things I Decide to Love Loudly
DHRUV
She’s asleep.
The room is quiet in that way that only exists after a long day—when exhaustion settles into the walls and even the air feels softer. The lamp beside the bed casts a warm, steady glow, enough to keep the darkness at bay without intruding on her sleep. My laptop rests open on my lap, its screen dimmed, a dozen tabs still staring back at me like proof of a private resolve.
I glance at her again.
She’s curled slightly toward me, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely against her waist. Her breathing is slow, even. Peaceful. The crease between her brows—the one she doesn’t even realize she carries when she’s anxious—is gone. In sleep, she looks lighter. Younger. Like the world hasn’t been asking things of her all day.
