Where vows begin again ❤️-A Prashiv SS

So our discussion in the forum edt last night,where we discussed multiple theories and probability... wildest imaginations knew no bounds ...and I couldn't help but write it...My first writing on our dearest Prashiv ❤️

It was written over night...I know how imperfect it probably is...yet I hope it is enough to atleast touch you at some place in your heart and make you connect with the Prarthana and Shivansh you all know and love

Also it's an exclusive Shivansh-prarthana ff...I have assumed that no other character exists apart from them .🤣.so please bear with that kindly....🙏🤗

Part 1

“Tell Me You’re Mine” – A Shivansh-Prarthana Story 🖤

The night was heavy. Not with rain or thunder—but with something far more unbearable: silence.

Not the kind that comforts. The kind that lingers between two people who should be speaking, but are drowning instead in everything unsaid.

Prarthana stood by the window of their room, the moonlight kissing the curve of her face. She looked ethereal, unreachable—like a memory slipping through fingers. She remembered her previous encounter with Raunak in his house...his crazy behaviour.. showering her with flowers.. forcing himself on her,then stopping her with yet another bouquet of apology and charm...and not to forget creepy way in which he keeps declaring his love for her even after her repeatedly saying that she is only Shivansh's

She hadn’t done anything wrong. But Shivansh had watched all of it.He had always watched. Every movement, every glance, every politeness she offered as a respectful response to Raunak—and each one felt like a dagger he had no right to name.

He sat in the shadows, his knuckles white around the crystal tumbler in his hand. The liquor burned down his throat, but not half as much as the fire in his chest.

It wasn’t anger.
It was fear, dressed up in fury.
It was love, starved of words.
It was the ache of a boy who had once begged to be chosen and never was.

“Don’t do this,” she said softly, sensing the shift in the air, her voice more plea than reproach.

“Do what?” he asked, voice low, brittle.

“This,” she turned to face him now. “Building walls because you’re afraid I’ll walk out the door.”

Shivansh laughed—a hollow, bitter sound that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t you?” he said. “It’s what people do. They leave.”

Her breath caught. There it was. The wound. Bleeding. Open. As raw as the day his mother left him behind without a glance. As raw as his father’s cold indifference. As raw as every time he watched someone love someone else while he stood, invisible, in the background.

“You think I would?” she whispered. “After everything?”

Shivansh stood up, the glass abandoned on the table like a ghost of his restraint. He took two steps toward her—then stopped, as if afraid to cross a line.

“I saw the way he looked at you,” he said, his voice trembling under the weight of jealousy he had tried so hard to bury. “And you… you smiled. You always smile at him.”

Prarthana was shocked...not understanding what he is talking about..but however she composed herself..

“I smile at everyone, Shivansh.”

“But not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you’ve never been hurt.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. And now they hung between them, brutal and honest.

Prarthana’s eyes glistened, not with anger—but with a sorrow so deep, it threatened to pull them both under.

“Do you know why I smile like that?” she asked, stepping closer now. “Because when I’m with you, I feel everything. The ache, the anger, the love, the fire. But with him… there’s nothing. Nothing at all. That smile? It’s emptiness wearing a mask.”

Shivansh clenched his jaw, looking away. “You deserve more than a man who can’t even trust your smile.”

“No,” she said, gently placing a hand on his chest. “I deserve a man who tells me when he’s hurting.”

His breath hitched. His heart was thundering beneath her palm.

“I hate how he looks at you,” Shivansh confessed, voice barely a whisper. “Not because I think you’ll leave me for him. But because it reminds me of every time I wasn’t enough for someone I loved. Every time I was replaced. Forgotten.”

Her eyes softened.

“And yet you forget,” she whispered, “that I chose you… in every way someone can be chosen. Not by fate. Not by force. But by faith. I walk toward you every single day. Don’t make me beg you to see that.”

Something inside him broke then. The armor. The pride. The carefully constructed illusion that he didn’t care.

He wrapped his arms around her as if anchoring himself to the only truth he had ever known—her. His lips pressed into her hair, his breath ragged.

“I don’t know how to love without breaking things,” he murmured. “I don’t know how to not be afraid.”

Prarthana tilted her face up, her hands cradling his jaw with a tenderness that undid him completely.

“Then break,” she whispered. “Break, Shivansh. And I’ll hold the pieces. All of them. Just… don’t push me away when all I want is to stay.”

And there, in the quiet embrace of midnight, two wounded hearts found a rhythm again. Jealousy hadn’t ruined them. It had revealed them. Unmasked their fears. Stripped their souls bare.

Because sometimes, love isn’t a confession.
It’s not a vow or a kiss under stars.
Sometimes, love is just saying:

“Tell me you’re mine… and I’ll believe you. Even when I don’t believe in myself.”

And that was the kind of love Shivansh and Prarthana had.

Not perfect.
But real.
Fiercely, irrevocably real....

Part 2

“If Only You Could See Yourself Through My Eyes” – Prarthana’s POV 💔

I saw it the moment he looked away.

That flicker in his eyes—the storm swelling just beneath his lashes, the one he hides behind his cold silences and whisky-stained words. I know it now. I know that look. It’s the same look he wore the night he told me about his mother. That same ache, cloaked in anger. That same boy, trying to act like a man too soon, holding broken pieces together with sheer will.

Tonight, it was Raunak’s presence that woke the monster in him.
But I know better.
It wasn’t Raunak he was fighting.
It was abandonment. It was grief. It was every person who had ever looked at him… and still walked away.

He doesn’t understand it—this love.
He doesn’t know what to do with a woman who stays.

And yet, here I am.

I stood by the window tonight, waiting. Hoping he’d say something. Anything. That he’d look at me and not through me. That he’d reach for my hand instead of his drink.

But he chose silence.
Like he always does when he’s hurting.

And still—I couldn't walk away.

Because even in his silence, I hear him. I hear the chaos of a heart that’s never been safe. I hear the echo of promises never made to him. I hear the screaming child inside who doesn’t believe he’s worthy of being chosen… even now.

When he asked, “Why wouldn’t you leave?” — I nearly broke.

Not because he doubted me,
but because he doubted himself so deeply that even my love couldn’t convince him otherwise.

You see, Shivansh doesn’t get jealous because he thinks I’ll cheat.
He gets jealous because he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve to be loved the way he craves it. Because when someone else looks at me, he sees all the things he believes he can never be.

But if only he could see what I see.

If only he could feel what I feel when he walks into a room—this unspoken gravity that pulls my world into place.
If only he knew how his voice steadies my storms.
How even his silence is louder than anyone else’s words.
How I ache for him, not because he’s perfect, but because he’s real—wounded, weathered, yet still standing.

When he broke down tonight, when his voice cracked and he whispered his fears into my skin, something inside me shattered too.

He said, “I don’t know how to love without breaking things.”

And all I wanted to say was—

Then break, my love. Break if you must.
I will not run.
I will not flinch.
I will stay.
Even when your love cuts me.
Even when your fears bruise me.
Because you are worth the ache. Every time.

I love him.

Not just the parts that are easy to love—but the sharp edges, the haunted silences, the bitter words. I love the way he trembles when he’s trying not to cry. I love the way he walks away before he says something cruel, and the way he always comes back, ashamed and soft-eyed, asking me to stay without saying a word.

I love him like prayer. Quiet. Relentless. Sacred.

So tonight, I held him. Not to comfort. But to anchor. To remind him of something his fears will always try to erase:

He is loved. Fiercely. Entirely. In all the ways no one ever taught him to believe.

And maybe one day, he’ll stop asking if I’ll leave.
Maybe one day, he’ll believe I was always his.

But until that day comes, I’ll whisper it through every silence, every touch, every breath:

You are mine.
And I am yours.
Even when you doubt it. Especially then..

Part 3

“Then Why Does It Hurt Like This?” – Shivansh’s Confession, Prarthana’s POV 💔

I thought he would leave the room. That’s what Shivansh usually does when emotions rise too close to the surface—he walks away before the silence turns into surrender.

But tonight, he stood still. His back to me. Breathing uneven. Shoulders trembling under the weight of something he could no longer bury.

And then, in a voice so low it sounded like a prayer lost in the dark, he said—

“I know I don’t have the right to feel this way about you.”

My heart stopped. The room stilled. Even the moon seemed to pause in the sky.

He turned toward me slowly, his eyes tired—haunted. And for the first time, I saw not the businessman, not the Randhawa heir, not the man who carried his pain like armor.

I saw him.
Just Shivansh.

“I married you through deception,” he whispered, his voice thick with the shame he had long refused to name. “You were supposed to marry Raunak. You stood at the altar for someone else. And I... I played God with your life.”

He took a step closer, the distance between us shrinking, but not the ache in his eyes.

“So tell me,” he asked, almost begging, “why does it hurt this much?”
He placed his hand over his heart.
“Why does it burn when I see you smile at him?”
“Why does my chest ache like it’s caving in, when I know I have no claim on your happiness?”

I couldn’t speak. My throat tightened with the grief he had never shown me before.

“When did this happen, Prarthana?” he murmured, barely holding himself together.
“When did you become... this important to me?”
He looked at me like I held the answer to a question he never meant to ask aloud.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he confessed, voice cracking. “I just wanted revenge. Justice. Some twisted closure for everything my mother ruined. And then you came into my life like a storm I didn’t see coming.”

He looked down, ashamed, tears threatening.
“And now you’re in my bones. You’re in my mind every hour of the day. And the thought of you ever choosing him… of you even looking at someone else the way I look at you…”
He shook his head, a broken laugh escaping his lips.
“It destroys me.”

I stepped closer now, closing the final space between us. My fingers reached for his jaw, gently lifting his face to meet mine.

“You don’t have to ask when it happened,” I said softly.
“Because it happened to me too.”

His eyes widened.

“I hated you for what you did. I tried to hate you longer than I should have. But somewhere between your late-night silences and your haunted eyes, I saw the man behind the cruelty. The man no one ever loved right. The man who was taught to fight for everything but never allowed to feel.”

He leaned into my touch now, his eyes wet and childlike.

“And now?” I whispered. “Now you live inside me too, Shivansh. In the quietest corners. In the loudest fears. You—your brokenness, your anger, your impossible tenderness—you became my story without even trying.”

He closed his eyes as if my words hurt more than healed.

“But I don’t deserve this,” he said brokenly.
“Maybe not,” I answered honestly. “But neither did I.”

He looked up at me then—really looked.

“And yet… here we are,” I continued. “Two wounded people. Two damaged hearts. Yet still beating for each other in spite of it all.”

There were no more words left after that. Just the hush of healing. The air around us heavy with truth and trembling hope.

And when his lips finally met mine—not in passion, but in surrender—it wasn’t forgiveness he sought.

It was belonging.

And in that moment, I gave it to him

Part 4

🕊️ “Let Me Be Deserving This Time” – Shivansh’s Gesture of Redemption 🕊️

The morning after was quieter than usual.

No footsteps echoed in the corridors. No clinking of tea cups or rustling of staff moving about the Randhawa mansion. It was as though time itself was holding its breath—watching, waiting.

Prarthana stirred awake to the soft rustle of paper. When she opened her eyes, the space beside her was empty—but not untouched. A neatly folded letter sat on the pillow where his head had rested just hours ago, still warm with presence. Next to it lay her mangalsutra, its chain untangled, the black beads glinting like solemn stars.

Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the paper.

**“I never gave you a choice.
Not when I should have.
Not when it mattered.

Today, I’m giving it back to you.

This marriage was built on betrayal. On my hurt. My revenge.
But I’ve come to realize… I don’t want a love I stole.
I want a love I earn.

You once stood at the altar for someone else, and I took that moment from you.
So now I give it back.
Not to him.
To you.

Your freedom. Your right to walk away.
Or your right to choose me—not because you have to, but because something in your heart still believes in us.

I’ll be waiting.
Not as your husband.
But as a man who’s finally learning to love without chains.”**

— Shivansh

Tears gathered in Prarthana’s eyes, not out of pain—but from the sheer weight of what the gesture meant.

She rushed out of the room, her bare feet cold against the marble, her heart thudding louder than her steps. She knew where to find him—there was only one place he would go when he needed silence deeper than any room could offer.

And there he stood.

In the old Randhawa estate temple where his mother used to pray often. No guards. No walls. No expectations.
Just Shivansh—shoulders hunched, eyes closed, palms folded in reverence.
His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by a raw stillness she had never seen in him before.

He turned when he heard her approach. For a moment, he said nothing. Neither did she.

Then, slowly, Prarthana walked up to him. Her eyes didn’t accuse. They searched.

“I didn’t leave,” she whispered.

Shivansh’s eyes burned.

“I didn’t choose to walk away,” she continued, stepping closer. “Because even if this marriage began in the shadows… you brought me into your light. Bit by bit. Word by trembling word.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “I had to give you the choice.”

“You did,” she replied, voice firm. “And I’m choosing you. But not the man who tricked me. I’m choosing this Shivansh. The one who weeps. The one who breaks. The one who finally... lets me love him.”

And then, slowly, she took the mangalsutra from her pocket.

“Put this back,” she said gently, holding it out.

Shivansh froze.

“I want you to put it on me this time,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “Not as a weapon. But as a promise.”

He took it with trembling hands, stepping behind her. His fingers were clumsy. Careful. Reverent.

And when the sacred thread settled around her neck once more, it wasn’t just a ritual.

It was a new beginning.

A quiet vow.

That from this day forward, they would choose each other—freely, honestly, painfully, completely.

Not as broken people.
But as people who broke, healed… and still chose to love.

Part 5

💍 “Let Me Marry You Again” – Shivansh’s Divorce Proposal 💍

The sun had dipped low, casting long amber shadows across the marble floor of the study. It wasn’t just the hour that was golden—it was the moment. Tenuous. Precious. Something was changing.

Prarthana stood near the open window, her dupatta swaying gently with the breeze, as if it, too, was caught between two choices. She could feel his presence before he even stepped in—he always carried a kind of stillness that wrapped itself around her before his shadow even touched the floor.

Shivansh entered quietly, dressed in a soft white kurta, the kind he only wore on the rarest of days. His face bore no mask tonight—just the raw truth of a man who had wrestled with himself and come out on the other side… humbled.

He didn’t speak right away.

He walked toward her, carrying something in his hand—a plain envelope. The kind that didn’t usually bring good news. Her eyes dropped to it, then flicked back to his face.

There was no malice there.

Only... peace. And something far more dangerous—hope.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, his voice low and steady.

She nodded, heart beginning to race.

He held the envelope out to her.

She took it, slowly, uncertain. Her fingers unfolded it with trembling caution, and when she saw the papers inside—divorce papers—her breath caught in her throat.

A thousand thoughts screamed through her at once. But he silenced them all with the quiet power of his next words:

“I want to divorce you, Prarthana.”

He paused.

“Not to let you go… but to marry you again.”

She blinked. His voice was steady, but his eyes glistened with the force of what this meant to him.

“I don’t want our story to begin in betrayal,” he continued. “I don’t want our forever to be rooted in something I stole. You were never mine to take that way. But somehow… you became mine anyway.”

His voice faltered, just for a second, before he caught himself.

“I want to do this right. Not out of rage. Not out of revenge. Not under pressure or fear. I want to stand before you again—this time not as a man seeking control, but as a man offering everything.”

Her hands trembled around the papers. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

He stepped closer.

“I want to ask you the question I never gave you the dignity of answering before.”

Then he did it.

He slowly dropped to one knee—no theatrics, no ring—just honesty, humility, and heartbreak wrapped in his voice.

“Will you marry me, Prarthana?
Not because you have to.
But because you want to.
Because you see me—not the broken boy, not the vengeful man—but the one who’s finally ready to be worthy of your love?”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

Her voice shook as she knelt down in front of him, clutching the papers.

“No man has ever broken me like you did,” she whispered. “And no man has ever loved me like this either.”

He looked down, ashamed—but she cupped his face, bringing his eyes back to hers.

“You want to divorce me?” she asked. “Then let it be the end of the old us. The us that was built on pain.”

She reached into her dupatta and pulled out the pen from her notebook, clicking it softly.

“Let’s end that chapter,” she said, signing the bottom of the papers with a shaky flourish. “So we can start a new one. One written in truth. In choice. In love.”

He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck, and for the first time in his life, he wept—not from pain, but from the relief of being finally, completely seen… and still chosen.

And in that moment, two souls who had collided in the wreckage of revenge, finally stood on sacred ground:

Love.
Chosen, not forced.
Earned, not stolen.
Begun again, not forgotten

Part 6

“To the Woman Who Finally Chose Her Own Story” – A Letter from Prarthana to Her Future Self 💌

Written the night before her second wedding to Shivansh.

Dear Me,

If you're reading this, it means you did it.
You stood in front of the mirror, not as someone else's bride, not as someone trapped by fate or deception, but as a woman who chose—freely, fearlessly, and with a heart stitched back together by her own hands.

Tonight, as I sit here beneath the stars in a room no longer haunted by what was, I find myself caught between two selves—the one who entered this house months ago, trembling and betrayed… and the one who is about to walk down an aisle of her own making.

And oh, what a journey it's been.

I married Shivansh once before. But not like this.
That day, I wore red but didn’t feel like a bride. My soul wore shackles. My smile was a mask.
I stood beside him, but he wasn’t mine. And I wasn’t his.
We were strangers locked in a ritual, shadows bound by secrets.

But now… now everything has changed.

Because love, when it is real, doesn’t arrive with fireworks. It arrives with silence and surrender. With nights of held-back tears and unspoken apologies. With soft glances that say, “I see your scars, and I’m not afraid of them.”

That’s the love Shivansh gave me.

Eventually. Painfully. Slowly.
And beautifully.

It took him everything to say the words, “I want to marry you again.”
Not because he doubted me—but because he doubted himself.
Because when you’ve been abandoned by everyone you ever loved, believing you’re worthy of being loved back becomes the hardest war to win.

But he won. Not because I healed him.
But because he let me stay when all he knew was how to push people away.

So, if the future ever feels distant or uncertain, if your heart ever forgets how much it fought to get here, read this letter again.
Remember the girl who once stood in a wedding dress with no say in her destiny—now choosing the same man, with every inch of her heart awakened.

Remember the way his voice trembled when he asked if he could start over.
Remember the way he didn’t kneel like a prince, but bowed like a man who knew what it meant to lose you.
And most of all, remember the way your soul said yes—not out of need, but out of knowing.

You’re not just marrying him.
You’re marrying everything you've both survived.
The silence. The storm. The slow, sacred bloom of trust.

So go on. Step into that mandap tomorrow.
Let the fire bear witness to a love that wasn’t given—but rebuilt.
And as the mangalsutra touches your neck again, feel the weight of it not as a chain, but as a promise.

You are not who you were.
Neither is he.
And this time… this time it’s yours.

With all my love,
Prarthana

Part 7

🖤 “The Vow I’ll Never Speak, But Will Always Keep” – Shivansh’s Private Monologue 🖤

Morning of his second wedding to Prarthana.

I’ve worn suits tailored to perfection, stood in boardrooms that smelled of power, signed papers worth empires—but never have my hands trembled the way they do this morning.

Not even the first time I married her.

That day, I wore my cruelty like armor. My heart was locked behind vengeance, and she was just collateral in a war she never declared. I stood before the fire that day not as a groom—but as a man trying to burn someone else's sins with someone else's life.

But today… I stand bare.

No lies.
No masks.
No vengeance in my veins.

Only her.

Only Prarthana.

The woman who should have hated me—but stayed. The woman whose eyes saw my wounds before they saw my wealth. The woman who held me in my ugliest silences and never once asked me to be anything other than honest.

God, how did I not see it before?

That love isn’t loud. It’s not conquest. It’s not ownership.

It’s a quiet presence in the room when you're trying not to fall apart.
It’s forgiveness served with tea when you don’t deserve either.
It’s her touch on your shoulder that steadies your entire being.
It’s the sound of your name on her lips—not in anger, not in fear—but in faith.

And I…
I was a coward before.

Because it's easier to manipulate someone than to need them.
Easier to control than to confess.
Easier to hide behind rage than to admit you're afraid of not being enough.

But she saw through it all.

She saw the boy who once watched his mother walk away without turning back.
She saw the man who built empires just to feel safe.
And she stayed—not because I made it easy, but because she made it true.

So no, this vow won’t be spoken aloud. I don't need witnesses. I don’t need rituals.
Because the real vow... it's already alive in my bones.

I vow to never again love her in silence.
To never again let pride speak louder than pain.
To never again choose power over presence.
And if I ever falter, I vow to remember the woman who chose me when I was least lovable—and love her, every day, like it’s the first time I get to.

This time… I don’t want her to be bound to me by mangalsutra or surname.

I want her bound by her own will.
By choice.
By love.

And I will spend every sunrise, every scar, and every second proving that I am no longer the man who took her.
I am the man who will never stop deserving her...

Part 8

💫 “This Time, We Begin” – Shivansh & Prarthana’s Second Wedding 💫

The mandap was small.

No towering decor. No chandeliers. No audience of curious eyes or whispers trailing behind silk saris.

Just the glow of marigolds strung with intention, the scent of sandalwood curling through the air, and the hushed breath of two souls learning to breathe together again.

Shivansh stood in ivory—plain, graceful, stripped of every embellishment his wealth could afford. His sherwani was not ornate, but there was something sacred about the way it rested on his frame, like a second skin of redemption. He had never looked more vulnerable. More real.

Prarthana arrived in silence.

She wore no red this time. Instead, a muted gold—soft, ethereal, like morning light after a long storm. Her eyes were steady, her heart louder than the shehnai. The same feet that had once walked unwillingly into a forced marriage now moved with purpose, with pride, with peace.

Their eyes met.

Not with surprise.
Not even with passion.
But with that quiet knowing that only comes after war has ended.

He didn’t look away this time.
And neither did she.

They sat beside each other, the sacred fire crackling between them—not to burn, but to bless.

As the priest chanted, Shivansh didn’t look at the flames. He looked at her hands—steady in her lap, fingers slightly trembling. The same hands that had wiped his tears in the dark. The same hands that had signed divorce papers so they could rewrite a future in ink made of choice.

The pheras began.

Not a single step was taken in haste.
With each circle around the fire, something shed: old pain, silent blame, past versions of themselves.

First step—for dharma. And they both thought of the truths they finally told.

Second—for strength. Of the days they survived loving each other in silence.

Third—for prosperity. And the wealth they now knew was not in gold, but in trust.

Fourth—for family. The one they would build, not from bloodlines, but from soul-ties.

Fifth—for children. Maybe. Maybe not. But certainly for healing the child within.

Sixth—for companionship. The kind that walks beside you even when you push it away.

Seventh—for love. The slow, sacred kind. The one that forgives. The one that stays.

As the final round ended, Shivansh reached for her hand.

Not to possess. Not to perform. But to promise.

The priest handed him the mangalsutra. But this time, he didn’t rush.
He held it with reverence—as if it were made of memory and mercy.

He stepped behind her. She lifted her hair.

And when he tied it gently around her neck, his hands trembling, she closed her eyes—not to escape, but to savor.

The sindoor followed.

He dipped his fingers in crimson, then paused. No command. No ritual pressure.

Only a whispered question against her ear.

“May I?”

She turned to him, smiling softly through unshed tears, and whispered, “Yes.”

And so he marked her again.

Not as a symbol of ownership.
But as a man who had finally earned the right to walk beside her—freely, fully, and with a heart that would never again hide behind rage.

The rituals ended. The fire faded. But the love that rose from its ashes was eternal.

As they stood before each other, man and wife once more, Shivansh cupped her face and leaned in—not to kiss her lips, but to rest his forehead against hers. A silent, sacred exchange.

A vow without words.

And Prarthana… she smiled.

Not because the pain was gone,
but because it had finally been seen.

And in that moment, with no audience, no applause—only the slow settling of breath and belonging—

a new story began.

Part 9

“When Touch Becomes a Prayer” – A Gentle Consummation 🌙

The night Shivansh and Prarthana become one, not out of fate… but love.

The moon spilled silver over their room, casting long, languid shadows on the floor. Outside, the world slept. But inside, time had slowed to a heartbeat. A breath. A whisper of something too sacred to name.

Prarthana stood near the dresser, her back to him, hands nervously brushing the edge of her dupatta. Her bangles chimed softly as she moved—an anxious melody, fragile and uncertain.

Shivansh watched her.

Not with hunger.

With awe.

There was something achingly beautiful about the way she stood—draped in soft gold and moonlight, like a prayer that had taken human form.

He walked toward her—each step a question.

May I come closer?
May I unburden you from the weight of this day?
May I touch you—not to possess, but to honor?

When he reached her, he didn’t speak. His fingers gently found the edge of her dupatta. She stilled, but didn’t flinch.

Slowly, reverently, he slipped it from her head, letting it fall like the walls they'd both carried for too long. Her shoulders rose with her breath—uncertain, expectant.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice barely louder than the wind brushing against the curtains.

She nodded, still not turning to face him.

“So am I,” he whispered.

And something in that confession broke the tension in the air. She turned to him, eyes wide—not with fear, but tenderness.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said quietly, “Not this way. Not with love.”

She gave him a tearful smile. “Then let’s not do it the way the world expects.”

He reached for her jewelry first—slowly unhooking the earrings that had grown heavy on her ears. One by one. His touch was feather-light, like he feared he might shatter something sacred.

Her hairpins came next. Then the necklace. Then the bangles, each slipped off with a care that made her chest ache.

He wasn’t undressing her.

He was unburdening her.

Layer by layer, not of silk or gold, but of years of silence, hurt, and uncertainty.

When she was finally bare in her simplicity—no jewels, no weight—he stepped back, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time.

Not as Prarthana, the woman he married.
Not as the girl caught in a cruel game.
But as the one who stayed, healed, loved.

And she… she stepped forward.

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

He cupped her face, thumb brushing the tears from her cheek.

“I’ll never hurt you again,” he whispered. “Not in word, not in touch.”

Then their foreheads met.

There was no rush. No demand.

Only skin against skin, breath against breath, a sacred slowness that comes when two people choose to unravel in each other’s arms — not to forget pain, but to rewrite it.

They lay down, wrapped in silence and heartbeat.

He kissed her shoulder—not to stake a claim, but to leave behind a promise.

She touched his scar—the invisible one beneath his chest—and held it as gently as a prayer bead.

And when they finally became one, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t desperate.

It was soft.
Like rain touching cracked earth.
Like the wind slipping between temple bells.
Like two broken halves whispering,

“You are safe here now.”

And afterward, when her head rested against his chest, his arms wrapped around her protectively, she whispered—

“This time, it was mine too.”

And Shivansh… he wept.

Not from shame. Not from sorrow.

But from the unbearable beauty of being loved after believing you never could be.

So finally I have written something on our dear Prashiv....

I would be very grateful if you take out time to read it and give me very necessary feedback... criticisms are welcome with wide open arms ...

Thanks ❤️