“Yes.”
“And this mysterious someone…” I lean closer slightly. “Would he happen to be devastatingly handsome and emotionally attached to you?”
“You’re ruining the moment.”
“I’m creating the moment.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling now. And suddenly I realize. something. This is probably the first New Year’s where she isn’t alone. The first one where she isn’t bracing herself through midnight pretending it’s just another day. My chest tightens quietly at the thought.
I close the notebook slowly. Then reach for her hand. Her fingers slide into mine automatically now. Like they belong there. “I can’t give you back the years fear took from you,” I say softly. Her eyes lift to mine immediately. “But I can stay while you take new ones back.”
The room goes quiet after that. She looks at me in a way that always makes my heartbeat feel uneven. Like she’s trying to memorize me.
Then quietly—“You make everything sound so easy.” I brush my thumb against her knuckles gently.
“No,” I murmur honestly. “You just make me want to try harder.” Something flickers across her face so quickly I almost miss it. Love. Raw and terrified and overwhelming. Then she leans forward suddenly, pressing her forehead against mine.
“So what’s first on the list, Golden Boy?”
I smile slowly. “Kissing you at midnight,” I whisper.
Her breath catches.
Outside somewhere, distant fireworks begin testing the sky early.
And sitting there on the living room floor with her curled against me, surrounded by half-eaten noodles and messy notebooks and the quiet beginning of a future she finally wants—I think this might be the first year of my life that actually feels important.
EPILOGUE
ARYAN
AFTER 1 YEAR
I never understood how people survive the exact moment their dreams begin to come true.
You spend your whole life wanting something so badly it settles into your bones, becomes a quiet ache you stop talking about because wanting it too much feels dangerous. And then one day it’s suddenly standing in front of you, real and breathing and smiling nervously while adjusting the sleeves of her kurti for the fifth time in two minutes.
And all you can think is—Don’t let this slip through your fingers. The little studio smells like fresh paint, coffee, and flowers.
Her flowers.
Not the aggressively romantic bouquets I keep shoving at her despite her constant complaints that “normal people don’t need this many roses, Aryan.” These are softer. Smaller. White lilies near the entrance. Tiny baby breaths tucked into corners. Yellow daisies near the billing desk because apparently they make spaces feel “less intimidating.”
Ishika has spent the last three days pretending she isn’t losing her mind over this opening. Which means she has absolutely been losing her mind over this opening. I lean against the doorway of her office space and watch her pace around with a clipboard in hand, muttering under her breath while one of the employees nods helplessly beside her.
“No, no, move that frame slightly left,” she says, squinting critically. “Why is the lighting so warm there? It looks like a dental clinic.”
“It’s just a lamp,” the poor guy says weakly.
“Exactly. Why does it hate me?”
I bite back a laugh. She turns sharply and spots me. Immediately narrows her eyes. “You’re smiling.”
“I am admiring my girlfriend.”
“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“Can both things not happen together?”
