Chapter 25: The Weight of Choosing Matured

The terrace gate creaked open.

Kabir didn’t step out instantly, but the moment he did- he froze.

Riya sat on the parapet wall, feet dangling over the edge, back straight, silhouette cut sharp against the city lights below. Wind tugged at her hair, careless of how fragile the moment was.

For one split second, Kabir forgot how to breathe.

“Riya,” he shouted, voice breaking before he could stop it.

She flinched but didn’t turn.

Didn’t look at him.

That scared him more than if she had.

He crossed the distance in long, panicked strides, boots thudding too loud against the concrete. He reached her in seconds, hands gripping her arms firmly, urgently, like she might disappear if he let go.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped. “Have you lost your mind?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He lifted her down from the wall in one swift, controlled motion, setting her on solid ground as if gravity itself had betrayed him once too often tonight.

“Do you have any idea…” his voice cracked, breath uneven,“…any idea what could…?”

Still nothing.

She stood there, eyes lowered, face pale, exhaustion carved into every line of her.

Kabir exhaled sharply, hands running through his hair in helpless frustration. Then he noticed it.

She was shivering.

Barely.
But enough.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, already shrugging off the jacket he brought for her. “You always do this. Forget yourself completely.”

He draped it around her shoulders, tugging it closer, fingers lingering longer than necessary as he adjusted the sleeves down her wrists.

“Hands inside,” he said firmly. “Properly.”

She obeyed without a word.

That hurt more than resistance would have.

He crouched slightly in front of her, searching her face desperately. “Say something,” he pleaded under his breath. “Riya!”

Her lips parted, then pressed together again.

Silence.

Kabir swallowed hard.

He straightened, stepped back, giving her space he didn’t want to give. His chest felt tight, crowded with things he didn’t know how to say first.

Then she moved.

She reached for his hand.

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, warm despite the cold, grounding despite everything.

Before he could react, she tugged gently, insistently.

“Riya…” he started.

She didn’t let go.

She pulled him down with her, guiding him to the floor near the wall. Kabir followed, stunned, letting himself be led because it was her.

She made him sit down first.

Then she shifted.

Until her spine rested against his.

Not facing him.

Not looking at him.

Just… there, backs touching.

Kabir sat frozen, her back warm against his, their shoulders barely touching. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, uneven, controlled too tightly.

Oh.

The realization hit him slow and heavy.

She doesn’t want to look at me.

His throat closed painfully.

He stared out at the city, lights blurring as his eyes stung. This position wasn’t comfort.

It was defense.

This was how you sat when facing someone felt too dangerous.

This was how you talked when words were meant to end things.

Kabir clenched his fists against the concrete, heart pounding with a fear deeper than anything the day had thrown at him.

He leaned his head back slightly, careful not to press into her.

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t move away either.

Kabir closed his eyes.

That tiny mercy was enough to keep him breathing.

For now.

--

For a long time, they sat like that.
Backs touching.
Breathing the same cold air.
Sharing the same silence.

Kabir counted her breaths without meaning to.
Too shallow. Too controlled.

Then she took a breath that was different.
Long. Shaking. Intentional.

“Did you…” Her voice finally broke the quiet, fragile and unsure. “…did you think I would leave?”

Kabir stiffened.

The question landed softly, but it shattered something inside him.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t look at him. She just waited, spine still pressed against his, like she needed the contact to survive the answer.

“Hmm,” he said honestly.

The word tasted like blood.

She inhaled sharply.

“When you were coming up here,” she asked again, slower now, “were you scared?”

Kabir let out a breath that was halfway to a laugh and halfway to a sob. “Terrified.”

“I thought…” He stopped, laughed once under his breath, hollow. “I thought you were calling me here to end it. I thought I was already too late.”

Her breath hitched.

“I couldn’t take the lift,” he continued, words spilling now that the door had opened. “I took the stairs like an idiot because I didn’t want to reach you faster. Because I didn’t want to hear it. Because if I delayed it, maybe it wouldn’t be real yet.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and trembling.

“I’ve been scared all day,” he admitted quietly. “Scared something happened to you. Scared you’d decided you were done. Scared that… I wasn’t enough anymore.”

Riya’s grip tightened on her sleeves.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The words were so quiet they almost dissolved into the wind.

Kabir’s chest tightened.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and this time there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “For making you feel that way.”

He shook his head instinctively. “Riya…”

“No,” she interrupted gently. “Let me.”

He went still.

“I haven’t loved you enough,” she said, voice steady but fragile beneath it. “Not in the way you needed. Not in the way you deserved.”

Something cracked in his chest.

“We wouldn’t be sitting here like this,” she continued, “if I had.”

He leaned his head back against her, eyes burning.

“You know what’s unfair?” she said softly. “I have never, not once, thought you would leave me. Not in my worst moments. Not even when we fought.”

Her words landed gently. Devastatingly.

“I never doubted that you’d stay,” she said. “I always knew you would.”

Kabir swallowed.

“But you doubted me,” she added. Not accusing. Just honest. “And that’s on me.”

He inhaled sharply. “Riya, I…”

“I made you feel like you were optional,” she said, her voice trembling now. “Like there were parts of my life where you didn’t belong. Like if it ever came down to choosing… you’d lose.”

She paused.

“I walked past you,” she said quietly.

Kabir stilled.

“I knew you were scared. I knew you were trying to protect me. And I still chose to run ahead. Again and again.”

Her hands clenched in her lap.

“I didn’t just walk into danger, Kabir. I walked past you.”

His breath shuddered.

“That wasn’t courage,” she said. “That was selfish.”

The word stayed between them. Unsoftened. Unrescued.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “But I did it. And intention doesn’t undo damage. So, I’m sorry.”

Kabir closed his eyes.

Images flooded him. Her silences. Her careful distance. The way she always balanced responsibility over reassurance.

And his own words.

Don’t leave me.

God.

He turned his head slightly, just enough for his voice to reach her back.

“I didn’t say that because I don’t trust you,” he said quietly. “But somewhere along the way… it started feeling possible. And that scared me more than anything else.”

She nodded slowly.

“I know,” she said. “And that’s why I feel miserable.”

The air between them felt charged now, heavy with truths finally stepping into the light.

“I need you to understand something,” she said softly. “Not to excuse what I did. But so, you know where I broke.”

She reached back, finding his hand, threading her fingers through his with deliberate care.

Kabir froze.

“I’ve always had everything,” she said. “Money. Influence. A name people recognize before they ever look at me.”

Her grip tightened.

“And because of that,” she whispered, “nothing I earned ever felt real to anyone else. And that I when I started seeking useless validation from people who would never even...”

His chest ached.

“But when you said I didn’t belong,” she continued, voice barely holding, “when I saw doubt in your eyes… it shattered something in me.”

She swallowed.

“Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it. It was you.”

Silence pressed in again.

“I know I crossed lines,” she said. “I know I ran ahead without listening, without waiting, without thinking of the cost.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“That was wrong,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t empty.”

She took a breath.

“I used danger to feel worthy,” she said quietly. “And I used your love to feel safe.”

The truth landed heavy and unguarded.

“That wasn’t fair to you.”

Kabir leaned back, breath unsteady.

“I wasn’t trying to leave,” she whispered. “I was trying to prove I deserved to stay. And somewhere in that mess… I made you feel like you were the risk.”

“Earth…” she said softly.

Kabir froze.

The name fell like a confession. Their secret.

“You’ve always been my Earth,” she whispered. “Steady. Safe. Constant.”

Her voice shook.

“I didn’t realize that while I was standing so safely on you… you were scared I’d walk away.”

Tears slid freely down Kabir’s cheeks.

“I crossed a line too,” he said, voice rough. “I tried to shrink you because I was scared.”

She turned slightly.

“I confused protection with control,” he whispered. “And I became someone I hate.”

Her breath hitched.

“I should have been angry at the world,” he said. “Not at you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fire…” he breathed.

Riya’s grip on his hand tightened as he called her that.

“You are my Fire,” he said, cracked open. “And I was so afraid of losing you that I tried to put you out.”

He took her hand in his.

“I doubted you,” he said. “And I let my fear get louder than my faith in you.”

“And for that… I am so sorry.”

They stayed like that. Broken. Breathing.

“Earth,” she whispered. “I hurt you.”

“And Fire,” he replied softly, pressing his head briefly to hers, “I failed you.”

Kabir leaned back just enough for his spine to rest against hers again.

He was still there.

He had always been there.

And this time, he wasn’t running from the fear.

He was staying inside it. With her.

They stayed like that for a moment longer.

Then Riya moved.

Slowly. Deliberately.

She shifted away from his back and settled lower in front of him.

Kabir stiffened. “Riya?”

Her eyes were red, swollen, unguarded.

This was not strength.

This was truth.

“I want you to forgive me, not now, but whenever I become worthy of it.”

“And what I’m about to do,” she whispered, “is not romance. And it’s not drama."

His breath caught.

“It’s accountability.”

She met his eyes.

“It’s me choosing you not just with words,” she said. “But with the part of me that always chose myself first.”

She inhaled slowly.

“I need you to understand that… before I do it.”

Something shifted inside Kabir then.

Not toward forgiveness.
Not toward comfort.

Towards trust.

--

Kabir didn’t interrupt her.
He didn’t ask.
Didn’t rush her.

He only nodded once, slow and steady, like a man bracing himself for whatever truth she was about to place in his hands.

“I’m listening,” he said quietly.

Riya closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering courage not from strength, but from honesty.

“All my life,” she began, “I’ve held onto control like it was oxygen. Control over my choices. My space. My future. My worth.”

She exhaled, shaky but deliberate.

“Because the world decided so much for me before I ever got a say. Who I was. What I had. What I didn’t deserve credit for.”

Kabir watched her, unmoving.

“So I learned to keep one thing sacred,” she continued. “My independence. My ability to say: this is mine. I earned it. I survived it. I stood alone.”

Her voice softened.

“And then you came into my life… and I never learned how to carry that independence with love. I treated them like they had to compete.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

“I chose myself so often that I forgot how to choose us.”

Something tightened in Kabir’s chest, but he didn’t look away.

“I don’t want to be that person anymore,” she whispered. “The one who protects her pride at the cost of someone else’s heart.”

She folded her hands together, gripping them tightly.

“I don’t want to be a woman who only knows how to be strong alone.”

Silence followed. Long. Honest.

“You don’t have to give up who you are to choose me,” Kabir said gently.

“I know,” she replied immediately. “That’s exactly why this matters. I’m not giving anything up. I’m sharing it.”

The words landed quietly. Heavily.

“I keep saying sorry,” she continued. “But sorry doesn’t show understanding. It doesn’t change a pattern.”

Kabir’s fingers pressed into the concrete.

“So, I need to do something that costs me,” she said. “Something that means I’m no longer standing alone inside my own life.”

His breath slowed.

“I spent years proving I didn’t need anyone,” she said. “Tonight, I want to prove that I choose someone.”

Not yet.
Still not yet.

She was letting the truth find its own weight.

“When you asked me to slow down,” she said softly, “when you asked me to trust you… you weren’t trying to cage me.”

Kabir closed his eyes.

“You were trying to stand beside me.”

She inhaled, long and unsteady.

“And I mistook love for limitation.”

Her eyes shone with quiet regret.

“I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

Kabir leaned forward slightly, grounding himself.

“Riya,” he said, calm but firm, “whatever you’re about to do…don’t do it because you think you owe me.”

She shook her head.

“I’m not paying a debt,” she whispered. “I’m changing a pattern.”

That sentence settled between them like a vow.

She let her hand drift toward her fingers.
Not touching.
Just acknowledging.

“This isn’t me giving you power over me,” she said. “It’s me trusting you to hold me when I don’t trust myself.”

Kabir’s throat tightened.

“You trusted me with your safety,” she continued. “With your body. With your heart.”

Her voice cracked, but she steadied it.

“But you never trusted me with your life. With your choices. With your identity.”

She looked up at him.

“Tonight… I want to.”

The city hummed below them, distant and indifferent, as something irreversible gathered between their breaths.

Kabir nodded once.

“Then I’ll hold it carefully,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

Riya exhaled slowly.

Not breaking.
Not shaking.

Steady. Like a decision finally made.

She looked at him, memorizing the version of him who was about to receive something sacred.

“This is not me asking you to carry me,” she said quietly.
“And it’s not me asking you to save me.”

Kabir didn’t blink.

“This is me saying I don’t want to survive separately anymore.”

The words were simple.
Devastating.

She turned fully towards him now. No walls. No angles. Just presence.

“I spent my whole life proving I could stand alone,” she said.
“And somewhere in that, I forgot that love isn’t about standing tall. It’s about standing together.”

“You never needed to be smaller for me,” Kabir said softly.

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why this isn’t about shrinking. It’s about sharing.”

Her gaze dropped to her hand.
To the ring she had worn for years without thinking.

Kabir followed her eyes, noticing the hesitation in her fingers.

“People think independence is about not needing anyone,” she said quietly.
“But real independence is knowing when you want someone.”

Her fingers closed around the ring.

She didn’t remove it yet.

She just held it.

Like acknowledgement.
Like farewell.

“This ring,” she said softly, “was the first thing I ever bought with my own money.”

Kabir’s breath caught.

“My first salary,” she continued. “The first time I held something and knew… this exists because I worked for it. Because I survived. Because I earned my place.”

His eyes burned.

“I had my name engraved inside it,” she said. “Not out of pride. Out of fear. Fear I’d forget who I was.”

Her thumb brushed the metal unconsciously.

“It reminded me I was real. That I wasn’t just a surname. Or a background.”

She swallowed.

“I wore it to protect myself.”

Her fingers trembled now.

“And tonight,” she said, lifting her eyes to his, “I’m choosing not to stand without you.”

Slowly, reverently, she slid the ring off her finger.

Unhurried.
Final.

She opened his palm.

Kabir stared, caught between understanding and disbelief.

“Riya…” His voice broke. “You don’t have to…”

“I know,” she said gently. “That’s why it matters.”

She placed the ring in his palm.

Small.
Warm.
Heavy.

He looked down.

And saw the engraving.

Riya.

Not Riya Mukherjee. Just Riya.

His breath left him in a broken sound.

“This was my beginning,” she whispered. “My proof. My anchor.”

His fingers curled around it instinctively.

“And I’m giving it to you,” she said, “not because I’m giving myself away… but because I’m trusting you with the part of me that never trusted anyone.”

His hands trembled.

“With my independence,” she said.
“With my ambition.”
“With my life.”

Silence pressed in, sacred and unbearable.

She reached for his hand slowly, giving him time to pull away.

He didn’t.

She slid the ring onto his finger.

Not ceremonially.
Not dramatically.

Like placing something precious where it would be safe.

There was no applause.
No grand moment.

Just two people breathing around a truth that had changed everything.

She didn’t smile.

She looked relieved.

“This is me choosing us,” she whispered.
“Not just with my heart. With who I am.”

Kabir stared at the ring on his finger like it had altered gravity itself.

Weight.
Responsibility.
Trust.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers.

And for the first time, he didn’t see apology.

He saw surrender.

And it scared him.

And honored him.

And grounded him in ways he had never known how to ask for.

--

Kabir’s chest rose and fell unevenly.
He stared at the ring like it had altered gravity itself.

“Riya…” His voice was barely there. “This isn’t small.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“This isn’t something you give in apology.”

“I’m not apologizing with it,” she said softly. “I’m choosing with it.”

He closed his fingers around her hand, the one that had just placed her entire history in his palm.

“You’re trusting me with something you built before I ever existed in your life,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“With something that made you… you.”

“Yes.”

His throat tightened.

“What if I fail?” he asked honestly. “What if I’m not careful enough with it?”

She looked at him then. Not as Fire. Not as a woman asking for love.
But as someone offering partnership.

“Then we fail together,” she said. “And we learn together. And we stand again. That’s what choosing us means.”

Kabir swallowed.

He lifted her hand and pressed his forehead to her knuckles.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just reverent.

Like a vow made without witnesses.

“I won’t treat this lightly,” he said. “Or you. Or what you’ve just done.”

Her eyes softened. “I know.”

He adjusted the ring once on his finger, as if making sure it fit not just his hand, but his life.

“Earth,” she whispered.

“Yes, Fire?”

“I don’t want you to carry me,” she said. “And I don’t want to carry you.”

She shifted closer, until their knees touched.

“I want us to walk with equal weight.”

Kabir nodded. “Then we slow down. Together.”

She exhaled, relief softening her shoulders.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The city continued below.
Unaware that something sacred had just been exchanged above it.

Riya folded her hands in her lap, calmer now. Lighter. Like shehad finally set something heavy down.

“You asked me to trust you,” she said quietly. “And I kept hearing it as you doubting me.”

Kabir winced slightly.

“But tonight,” she continued, “I finally heard what you were really saying.”

She lifted her eyes to his.

“You were asking me to stop being alone.”

His eyes burned.

“And I was asking you,” he replied softly, “to let me matter.”

She reached for his face, thumb brushing the tear still clinging near his lashes.

“You do,” she said. “You always did. I was just too busy proving myself to prove that.”

They stayed close, breathing each other in, not touching beyond what was necessary.
Right now, space mattered as much as closeness.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” Kabir said quietly.

“No,” she agreed. “But it changes how we face everything.”

He nodded.

The ring caught the terrace light, faint and unassuming, carrying more meaning than any promise spoken aloud.

Riya watched it for a second.

Then Kabir shifted.

“Wait,” he said suddenly.

She frowned. “What?”

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, movements slower now, deliberate.

“I didn’t plan this,” he said quietly. “At least… not this way.”

Her brows knit. “Kabir…”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “Just… let me.”

He pulled out a thin chain, silver catching the light, the pendant small but unmistakable.

Two letters.
Intertwined.

R K.

Riya froze.

Kabir looked almost nervous now. A rare thing.

“I bought this a while ago, when I got promoted,” he admitted. “Didn’t know when I’d give it to you. Or if you’d even want it.”

He held it up between them.

“It’s not a claim,” he said quickly. “It’s not ownership. It’s nota promise of anything you didn’t choose.”

Her throat tightened.

“It’s just… togetherness,” he said. “Something we both stand inside. Side by side.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“So, when you handed me your beginning,” he continued softly, “I realised something.”

He stepped closer.

“I don’t want to just hold who you were,” he said. “I want to walkwith who you’re becoming.”

He lifted the chain gently. Questioning.

Riya nodded. Once.

That was all he needed.

Kabir moved behind her, careful, almost reverent, brushing her hair aside as he fastened the chain around her neck.

The pendant settled warm against her skin.

RK.

Not loud.
Not possessive.
Shared.

When he stepped back, she touched it instinctively, fingers trembling.

“You gave me yourself,” he said quietly. “I’m giving you us.”

Her eyes shimmered.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

Then Kabir exhaled slowly. Deep. Dramatic.

Riya blinked. “What?”

He stared at the sky like a man who had just survived a natural disaster. “I’m just… trying to understand what exactly happened here.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her. Really looked. Then at the ring. Then at the pendant.

“So,” he said thoughtfully, “let me get this straight. You brought me to a terrace, scared me half to death, emotionally dismantled me, gave me your entire identity…”

She opened her mouth, and he shut it with his palm.

“…and then,” he continued, warming up now, “allowed me to mark you with jewellery that strongly suggests lifelong emotional captivity.”

He enjoyed every bit of it, until she finally got herself free from his hold.

“That is not…”

“Because,” he went on, “in my very limited romantic education, this sounds dangerously close to a proposal.”

Her eyes widened. “What? No!”

“Ah,” he nodded gravely. “So, it wasn’t a proposal.”

“It was… reconciliation.”

He tilted his head. “With kneeling?”

Her cheeks flamed. “That was not…I wasn’t…”

“So,” he said, enjoying himself far too much, “not a proposal, not just reconciliation… what was it then?”

She crossed her arms. “Accountability.”

“Right,” he said. “On your knees.”

“Kabir.”

“I’m just saying,” he smirked, lifting his hand, “I never imagined I’d live to see the day when Riya Mukherjee voluntarily rewrote my existence.”

She groaned. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He stepped closer, softer now.

“You were terrifying tonight,” he said.

She blinked. “Terrifying?”

“One moment you’re breaking me open,” he said, “the next you’re trusting me with your entire life. I didn’t even get time to panic properly.”

“You panic very well on your own.”

“Talent.”

Then his tone shifted.

“You do realise,” he said quietly, “that I’m never letting this go.”

She sighed. “Of course you won’t.”

“Future conversations will absolutely include: Remember that time you emotionally destroyed me and then branded me?”

She covered her face.

He laughed, pulling her hands away.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You were brave tonight.”

“I was scared.”

“That’s what makes it brave.”

Her eyes flicked to the ring. Then to the pendant.

“You’re wearing it,” she murmured.

“Obviously.”

“And you gave me this.”

“Obviously.”

She smiled. Small. Certain.

They stood there lighter now, the storm easing into something familiar.

“Thank you,” she said, resting her forehead against his chest.

“For?”

“For not turning my mistakes into my identity.”

His arms wrapped around her. “And thank you for trusting me with yours.”

They stayed like that.

Then he added casually, “Still processing the kneeling thing, though.”

She hit his chest. “Kabir!”

He laughed, holding her tighter.

They walked toward the stairs together, shoulders brushing, fingers tangling.

And just like that, after a storm that almost broke them, they slipped back into the rhythm that was unmistakably theirs.

Love.
Laughter.
And the quiet certainty that whatever they were…

They were stronger now.

--

The bedroom was dim, washed in the soft amber glow of a single bedside lamp. Outside, Mumbai breathed in its restless rhythm, but inside, the silence was heavier than noise.

Sameer lay on his side, back to Sonali, one arm tucked beneath his pillow. His eyes were open. Unblinking. Fixed on nothing.
Arjun.
Riya.
The training module.
What it would stir. What it would fracture. What it would expose.

He had seen enough battles to know some wars didn’t happen in thefield. They happened inside people.

Sonali lay beside him, on her back, scrolling idly through her phone, the faint light reflecting in her eyes. She was peaceful in that soft, domestic way that had nothing to do with uniforms or operations or command structures. After a while, she spoke, voice light, almost playful.

“You know who’s in town?”

Sameer didn’t turn.
“Hmm.”

“My best friend from childhood,” she said. “I told you about her, remember? The one I grew up with. Practically my little sister.”

Another pause.
“Mm.”

She glanced sideways at him, studying the rigid line of his shoulders. She could tell when he was tired. And when he was somewhere far beyond tired.

“I’ve been asking her to meet you,” Sonali continued carefully. “I think she’s a little intimidated. You and your uniform and all that serious ACP aura.”

Sameer exhaled slowly. “Not this week, Sonali.”

Her smile faltered. Just a fraction. “It’ll be quick. Coffee, maybe dinner. Nothing formal.”

“I’m busy.”

Two words. Flat. Final.

She set her phone aside. “You’re always busy, Sameer.”

Silence.

She wasn’t accusing. Just stating a truth that had grown familiar.

“You don’t even know her name yet,” she added softly.

He closed his eyes. “Not now.”

That was when she knew.
He wasn’t refusing her.
He was somewhere else entirely.

She shifted closer, resting on her side, watching the back of his head. “You’re not here, are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he was thinking of Arjun, standing at the edge of control.
Of Riya, walking into a storm that would test both of them.
Of how mentorship could heal… or destroy.

Sonali sighed quietly. Not dramatically. Just tired in a way love becomes when it keeps waiting.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll go meet her tomorrow myself.”

He nodded once. Barely.

“She’s excited,” Sonali added. “You know… the kind of excitement that comes from wanting your world to merge with someone else’s. I just wanted you to be part of that.”

A beat.

“Since she’s here,” Sonali went on, trying again. “I was thinking we could invite her over to Ganpati. I really want to bring Bappa home this year. Can I? We can invite everybody. Pihu also loves her. You always say the house feels empty without people.”

Sameer swallowed.

“Do what you want,” he murmured.

Not harsh.
Just absent.

Sonali turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling now.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “I feel like I talk to the uniform more than the man.”

That made his jaw tighten.

But he still didn’t turn.

She softened immediately, as if afraid she had crossed a line. “I know you’re tired. I know your job asks for things most people can’t give. I’m not angry.”

She paused.

“I just… miss you. Even when you’re right here.”

That finally reached him.

But by the time he rolled onto his back, her eyes were already closed. Not asleep. Just withdrawn.

A silence built between them.
Not hostile.
Not broken.

Just distant.

Like two people standing on opposite sides of a river, loving each other, but unsure how to cross.

Sameer stared at the ceiling, guilt pressing against his ribs.

He didn’t know yet that the woman Sonali called her little sister was already walking into the heart of his professional storm.

That soon, these two worlds would collide.

And that this quiet distance he felt tonight was the very lesson Riya and Kabir were learning too.

That love does not always break with shouting.
Sometimes, it erodes in silence.

That fear does not always look like anger or control.
Sometimes, it looks like withdrawal. Like absence. Like choosing “later” too many times.

That when two people love each other deeply, but stand on opposite sides of the same fear, the distance between them doesn’t announce itself.
It simply grows.

And that the most dangerous thing love can do is wait patiently for someone who believes they are protecting it by staying away.

Sameer turned his head slightly, just enough to look at Sonali’s profile in the dim light. Her face was calm. Tired. Still open, despite everything.

He realised then, with a heaviness that settled deep in his chest, that love didn’t ask to be shielded from the world.

It asked to be chosen inside it.

--

The room was quiet in the way rooms are after storms.
Not empty. Just settled.

Kabir slipped his jacket off and draped it over the chair without thinking, the movement automatic, muscle memory from years of shared spaces and borrowed corners. Riya moved more slowly, unpinning her hair, setting her phone aside, letting the night catch up with her.

The pendant rested against her collarbone.
The ring caught the lamp-light when Kabir reached for the bedside table.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

They moved around each other easily, the way couples do when words have already been spent. Kabir turned his back to give her space as she changed into his loose t-shirt. She watched him do it. Always so careful. Always so instinctively considerate, as if love was something you protected by default.

It struck her then, sharply, almost uncomfortably.

He had never learned this from anyone.
No parents. No home that stayed long enough to teach him gentleness.

And yet, he carried it like it had always been his.

Kabir finished changing and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the floor like he was grounding himself back into the world. He looked tired now. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of duty, but the softer kind that comes after you finally stop holding yourself together.

Riya crossed the room quietly.

He felt her presence before he saw her. She always did that tohim. Made the air shift.

She stopped in front of him.

Kabir looked up, instinctively searching her face. “You, okay?” he asked, softly. Not cautious. Just caring.

She nodded. Then, after a beat, shook her head. “Hmm.”

He reached for her without thinking, fingers brushing her wrist, familiar, reassuring. “Come here,” he murmured, ready to pull her into the kind of comfort he always offered.

She didn’t move.

Instead, she stepped closer.

Close enough that his knees brushed her legs. Close enough that he had to tilt his head back slightly to keep looking at her.

That made him pause.

Riya lifted her hands slowly, deliberately, and rested them on his shoulders. Not clinging. Not hesitant. Just present.

Kabir’s breath stilled.

This was new.

“You always do that,” she said quietly.

“Do what?” he asked, voice careful now.

“Hold me,” she replied. “Before I even ask.”

His mouth curved into a small smile. “That’s kind of the point.”

“I know,” she said. “And I let you. Every time.”

Her thumbs pressed lightly into his shoulders, grounding him in place. “But I don’t think I ever realised how rarely I do the same for you.”

Kabir frowned slightly. “Ri…”

“No,” she said gently. Not apologetic. Just certain. “I’m not fixing something. I’m noticing it.”

She exhaled slowly. “You give love like it’s a reflex. Like it doesn’t cost you anything. Like it’s just… how you exist.”

His jaw tightened, emotion flickering behind his eyes. “It’s not…”

“I know it costs you,” she interrupted softly. “That’s the problem. You never make it visible.”

She pulled him up on his feet. Her hands slid up, fingers brushing the sides of his neck. He stilled completely now, like his body didn’t know whether it was allowed to lean into this yet.

“You grew up without anyone choosing you first,” she said quietly. “And still, you choose everyone. Me most of all.”

Her voice didn’t break. It didn’t need to.

“And I grew up surrounded by love,” she continued, “so used to receiving it that I never learned how frightening it is to give it without holding something back.”

Kabir swallowed. “Riya…”

She leaned in, just enough that her forehead rested against his. Not a kiss. Not yet.

“I don’t want to love you like something I might lose,” she whispered. “I want to love you like something I’m willing to hold.”

His hands hovered at her waist, uncertain now, waiting.

She noticed. Of course she did.

Riya reached down and guided his hands to her, resting them where they always found their way eventually. Only this time, she placed them there herself.

Kabir’s breath hitched. “You don’t have to…”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I am. And no, this is not apology or guilt.”

She lifted her head slightly, just enough to look at him.

“This isn’t me being brave,” she said. “This is me stopping myself from hiding.”

And then she kissed him.

Not the way fear kisses.
Not the way desperation does.

Slow. Sure. Unrushed.

Like a decision.

Kabir froze for half a second, the way people do when something they’ve wanted quietly for a long time arrives without warning.

Then he kissed her back.

Not guiding. Not leading.

Just meeting her.

Her fingers slid into his hair. His arms tightened around her like he was anchoring himself to something solid at last. When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breaths uneven but calm.

Kabir laughed softly, disbelief threaded through it. “You know,” he murmured, “I always thought I was the one teaching you how to be loved.”

She smiled, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “Turns out you were just patient enough to wait for me to learn how to give it.”

His eyes softened. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” she said. “This isn’t payment. It’s participation.”

She kissed him again, shorter this time. Certain. Intentional.

Kabir closed his eyes, holding her like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re terrifying,” he murmured.

She smiled against his mouth. “Get used to it.”

They stayed like that for a while, not rushing towards anything else. Just standing. Just holding.

This time, love wasn’t something Kabir carried alone.

Riya had reached out and taken her share of it.

And she wasn’t letting go.

--

The room had settled into that gentle, late-night quiet where the world feels far away and everything important fits inside four walls.

The lights were low. The curtains half-drawn. The city reduced to a distant, breathing hum.

Riya sat against the headboard, knees pulled close, her diary resting on her thighs. Her hair was still damp from the shower, loose and unguarded around her shoulders. The pen moved steadily, line after line, as if she were afraid that if she stopped writing, the day would find its way back to her.

Kabir lay beside her on his stomach, chin propped on his folded arms, watching.

Not obviously.
Not intrusively.

Just… there.

“You done yet?” he asked after a while.

“No.”

“Soon?”

“No.”

“Before sunrise?”

She didn’t look up. “Kabir.”

“Yes, Fire?”

“If you peek, I will burn you.”

He smiled into the pillow. “Bold threat.”

She shot him a look. “Effective one.”

He rolled onto his back with a dramatic sigh, staring at the ceiling like a man deeply wronged by privacy laws. “Fine. Be secretive.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Riya’s pen slowed.

She glanced sideways and frowned. Kabir was no longer staring at the ceiling.

He had reached for his own diary.

The thick one.

The one that didn’t live on his bedside table but usually stayed tucked away in his bag, edges worn, spine cracked from use. The one she’d seen before without ever really looking at.

He flipped it open.

And started writing.

Riya stared openly now. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking,” he said lightly.

“With a pen?”

“Yes.”

“That’s suspicious.”

He didn’t look at her.

That made it worse.

She shut her diary decisively and leaned over. “What are you writing?”

Kabir closed his instantly and pressed it to his chest. “Hey.”

“That’s unfair.”

“You started it.”

“I didn’t actually look.”

“You threatened to.”

They stared at each other.

This time, Kabir lost first.

He sat up, exhaling slowly, and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But you’re not allowed to judge.”

She arched a brow. “I’m incapable of that.”

He ignored her.

He opened the diary again and turned it so she could see.

At the top of the page, written infirm, unmistakable strokes, was a heading underlined twice.

Operation RiCommando

Riya blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“You named it,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“That’s… really bad.”

“It’s memorable.”

She snorted despite herself. “Kabir, what is this?”

His expression shifted then. Not playful. Not teasing.

Focused.

“I started this months ago,” he said quietly. “Not today. Not because of tonight.”

Her smile faded.

“I started it because you scare me,” he continued evenly. “Because you walk into rooms like the world owes you safety. And because one day, it won’t.”

He tapped the page gently.

“So, I made a plan.”

--

Across the city, in a room stripped of warmth, Arjun Rawte sat alone.

The light was wrong here. Too white. Too sharp. It flattened everything it touched. The desk lamp had been pushed aside, angled not to comfort but to interrogate the surface of the table.

Files lay open in controlled chaos. Manuals. Protocols. Evaluation sheets with margins eaten alive by red ink.

Chai sat untouched. Cold.

Arjun didn’t notice.

He hadn’t slept. Not because he couldn’t, but because this was familiar ground. This was where his mind went when something threatened to slip out of control.

He rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck, and began typing.

Fast. Precise.

Not words. Structures.

Scenarios.

He didn’t think of her as a person while he wrote. He couldn’t afford to. He reduced her to variables. Inputs. Outputs. Stress thresholds.

If–then.
Fail–repeat.
Break–observe.

This was how you trained someone for a world that didn’t forgive hesitation.

He typed until the room disappeared.

Kabir flipped his diary back a page and frowned.

“No,” he muttered, scratching something out. “That’s too much.”

Riya leaned closer, peering at the mess of arrows and notes. “Too much?” she echoed.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You’d hate it.”

She blinked. “You’re planning based on what I’d hate?”

“I’m planning based on what you’d shutdown during,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He drew a small box in the margin. Wrote decision window next to it.

“Pressure,” he continued, half to himself, “doesn’t need to be cruel to be effective. It just needs to be honest.”

Arjun’s fingers paused mid-sentence.

He stared at the screen.

DECISION-MAKING UNDER DURESS

He leaned back slightly, jaw tightening, then typed again.

He imagined her standing in front of him.

He gave her no context.

No comfort.

Only a choice.

Hostage or suspect.

Pick.

He watched her hesitate in his mind. Watched the doubt creep in. Watched her choose.

Then he imagined telling her exactly what that choice had cost.

Not to humiliate her.

To educate her.

Regret was a sharper teacher than reassurance.

He moved on.

Kabir had circled a word three times now.

Freeze.

He tapped the pen against his mouth.

“You don’t freeze because you’re weak,” he said quietly. “You freeze because your brain gets loud.”

Riya’s fingers tightened in the sheets.

“So,” he continued, drawing a branching diagram, “we make it quieter.”

He sketched scenarios. Not commands. Questions.

What did you notice first?
What did you miss?
What would you do differently next time?

Growth lived there. In reflection. Not punishment.

Arjun stood in a warehouse in his mind.

Dark.

No lights.

No comms.

He imagined her alone in it, breath too loud, footsteps echoing against concrete.

He didn’t give her hints.

He didn’t shorten the drill.

She would fail.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until invisibility stopped being a concept and became instinct.

This wasn’t cruelty.

This was survival.

Kabir smiled faintly as he wrote tracking games in the margin.

Hide and seek, but sharper.

Footstep counting.

Shadow recognition.

Learning how presence felt before danger arrived.

“It should feel like play,” he murmured, “right until it doesn’t.”

Riya watched him carefully. “You’re sneaky,” she said.

He glanced up. “I’m thorough.”

Arjun typed INTERROGATION PREP and didn’t blink.

He didn’t soften the language.

He didn’t dilute the method.

He would break her confidence on purpose.

He would make her question herself.

Then he would step back and let her rebuild.

If she could.

Kabir paused longer here.

He chewed the pen cap thoughtfully.

“No,” he said finally, crossing something out. “I won’t teach you to dominate first.”

Riya tilted her head. “Then what?”

“To listen,” he replied. “To make people feel safe enough to forget they’re lying.”

He looked at her. “Power is loud. Trust is quiet. Quiet lasts longer.”

Arjun moved on to injury simulations.

Blood packs.

Broken limb drills.

Panic stripped away until only action remained.

No talking.

No soothing.

Just response.

Fear was a luxury the field didn’t grant.

Kabir underlined first aid twice.

“Talk while you work,” he wrote. “Keep the other person anchored.”

Riya’s voice was soft. “You’re always thinking about the other person.”

He shrugged. “Shock kills faster than wounds.”

Arjun designed isolation.

Solo drills.

No backup.

No reassurance.

He believed in one rule above all others.

Never expect rescue.

Kabir laced his fingers through Riya’s absentmindedly as he wrote paired exercises.

“Even warriors need witnesses,” he said. “Someone to remind them they’re still human.”

She didn’t pull away.

Arjun typed sentences he had lived by for years.

Sometimes you will do wrong to stop worse.
Sometimes there is no clean choice.

Grey wasn’t weakness.

It was reality.

Kabir wrote something smaller.

You don’t stop being human because you wear a badge.

He circled it once.

Arjun stared at the line TRUST FALL and modified it without ceremony.

No one catches.

She rolls.

She stands.

Lesson complete.

Kabir smiled softly at the same phrase and wrote the opposite.

Catch every time.

“Fear shouldn’t teach loneliness,” he said quietly. “It should teach coordination.”

Arjun closed his laptop hard.

He stood and went to the window, city lights sprawling beneath him like a map of things he couldn’t control.

He told himself this was distance.

Detachment.

He told himself he was training her out.

But the plans betrayed him.

Every safeguard.

Every abort condition.

Every line that softened without permission.

He hated it.

And he couldn’t stop.

Kabir shut his diary gently.

He didn’t look at it again.

He looked at her. But she snatched his diary in a moment.

"Riya...", Kabir tried to fight back but she was already at it.

She opened the page right before the one he was just writing.

“I planned it because I was scared,” he finally said. “Because if I can jump out of choppers, you can punch through glass. And I didn’t want to wait till something worse happened.”

She began reading.

“Wake her at 5 AM. Send coffee first. To apologize.”

She smiled faintly.

“Basic self-defense refreshers. Kickboxing. With reward points.”

She glanced at him. “Reward points?”

“Kisses,” he clarified. “Motivational.”

She rolled her eyes, but her fingers curled into the sheet.

“Tactical evasive manoeuvres,” he took the diary from her. “Crowd exits. Narrow spaces. How to disappear without running.”

He paused, then added softly, “So you never freeze again.”

Riya’s breath hitched.

“Undercover body language,” he said. “Where to stand. How to look bored, not scared. How to let men underestimate you.”

Her jaw tightened.

“Breath control under stress,” he continued. “So panic doesn’t steal your air.”

He flipped the page.

“Weapon handling,” he said firmly. “Dummy grenades only. No debate.”

She opened her mouth.

“No debate,” he repeated, meeting her eyes. “Not optional anymore.”

Silence settled between them.

He pointed to the last line, written messier than the rest. Like it had been added late. Like it hurt to write.

“Train her,” he read quietly, “not because she needs to fight...”

He swallowed.

“...but because she deserves to never be cornered again.”

Riya stared at the page for a long moment.

“You planned all this,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I was waiting,” he admitted. “Waiting for the right time. Waiting to do it with you. Not because you messed up. Not as punishment.”

He closed the diary gently.

“But that day,” he said, voice tightening, “you walked into danger alone. No plan. No fallback. No one watching your back.”

Her gaze dropped.

“And that scared me more than anything,” he finished. “Because I had this. All of this. And it didn’t matter if you didn’t know it existed.”

She nodded slowly.

“I don’t want to train you to be fearless,” he said. “I want to train you so fear doesn’t trap you.”

She reached out, resting her hand over his.

“This is very different from what my mentor will do,” she said quietly.

Kabir gave a humorless smile. “Yeah. He’ll train you to survive a battlefield.”

He squeezed her hand.

“I’m training you so you never feel alone in one.”

She leaned into him then, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Deal,” she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head, eyes drifting back to the open diary.

He closed it gently and didn’t look at it again.

He looked at her.

Two rooms.

Two men.

One sharpening her armour.
The other guarding her centre.

One preparing her to fight the world.
The other preparing her to live through it.

And between them, unknowingly, they were building something dangerous.

Not a trainee.

A force.

The training would begin soon.

Neither of them yet understood
what it would cost.

--

Kabir glanced at the clock without meaning to.

It was late. Too late to pretend the day hadn’t rearranged something fundamental inside him.

He reached out and brushed his knuckles lightly against Riya’s arm. “Hey,” he said gently. “You should sleep now.”

She made a small sound of protest immediately, turning her face toward him. “What? No. We just survived emotional warfare. You can’t just…” she yawned mid-sentence, betrayed by her own body, “…send me to sleep.”

He smiled. Soft. Careful.

“I have to step out early tomorrow,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Meeting an old friend.”

It was a lie.

A necessary one.

Riya frowned, instantly displeased. “Tomorrow?” she echoed. “After today?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m compensating.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

“The day after tomorrow,” he said, brushing his thumb lazily against her pendant, “I’m completely yours. No uniform. No interruptions. No disappearing acts.”

She considered this, lips pursed in exaggerated suspicion. “Completely?”

“Painfully,” he replied. “Annoyingly. You’ll beg for silence.”

She scoffed. “Unlikely.”

He smiled, full and unguarded. “Sleep!”

She huffed once, dramatic, then shifted closer anyway, curling instinctively into his side like the argument had never stood a chance. “You owe me,” she murmured sleepily, her fingers entwined with his.

“I know,” he said softly. And meant it in the best way.

Her breathing evened out faster than she realised.

Half-asleep, balanced on that fragile edge between waking and rest, a thought settled inside her with the steadiness of something finally chosen.

Not a promise spoken aloud.
Not a declaration meant to be heard.

Just a knowing.

That before the world.
Before duty.
Before fear disguised as strength.

She would choose him.

Not later.
Not when it was convenient.
Not when she felt worthy enough.

First.
And then everything else.

For the first time in days, Riya slept without bracing for impact. Without holding herself apart. The pendant rested warm against her skin, the world finally quiet enough to trust.

Beside her, Kabir didn’t sleep.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way she had looked at him earlier. The way she had chosen him without armour. The way love, when freely given, could be heavier than any vow. He pulled her closer.

Across the city, in a room lit too harshly for rest, Arjun Rawte lay with his eyes open, the blueprints still dancing in front of his eyes.

Just in two rooms, three people.

One held by peace.
One held by memory.
One held by preparation.

And somewhere between love and discipline, between rest and resolve, the weight of choosing settled in.

The training would begin soon.

--

If this chapter made you pause, ache, smile, or quietly reconsider your own definitions of love and strength, I’d really love to know. 💛

Your thoughts, reactions, and interpretations mean more than you think and they genuinely shape what comes next.
So, do tell me, what stayed with you after The Weight of Choosing?
Leave a review, drop a comment, or just whisper it into the void. I’m listening.