Where the Light Comes In- A PraShiv SS - Page 2

Chap 10 "The Moment Between Heartbeats"

The rain had softened to a drizzle — the kind that made the earth smell like memories.

It was late afternoon, and the NGO was alive with the gentle hum of conversation, children’s laughter, and the clinking of cups being rinsed in the kitchen. Prarthana had just returned from a field visit, her cotton dupatta damp with rain, hair curling slightly from the humidity.

She entered the common hall, rubbing her arms, her mind already slipping into to-do lists and pending reports.

And then she paused.

She felt it before she saw him.

A strange silence folded itself around her — not empty, but charged. As if time had stopped breathing for a second.

He was standing by the window — back to her, one hand resting lightly on the frame, watching a child play with paper boats in the rainwater puddles.

No security. No formality.

Just Shivansh — in a simple shirt rolled at the sleeves, his damp hair falling over his forehead.

He turned, slowly — as if he’d sensed her presence too.

Their eyes met.

Neither moved.

Not yet.

He wasn’t here for confrontation.

And she… didn’t feel the burn of anger anymore.

There was a beat of silence. Then another. And then… a breath.

Prarthana took a step forward. Hesitant, but not afraid.

Shivansh lowered his gaze briefly, as though her eyes were too sacred to meet all at once. When he looked back up, there was no entitlement in his expression — only a quiet ache and the softest flicker of hope.

“Did you come to see the kids?” she asked finally, voice gentle.

His voice cracked before it steadied. “I… came to return a book.”

She knew it was a lie.

But the kind of lie that held truth in its bones.

She let the corners of her mouth lift — not quite a smile, but enough to say “I know.”

He reached into his bag, pulled out a book — Letters to a Young Poet — and held it out like an offering. The same dried jasmine petal she had once found fell from between the pages and landed softly on the floor.

Neither of them bent to pick it up.

“I read what you wrote,” he said quietly.

She nodded.

“I didn’t expect an answer,” he added, eyes lowered now. “But… thank you. For giving me one anyway.”

Her throat tightened. “You didn’t ask for it, but… I needed to say it. For myself.”

A silence.

Rain continued to fall outside. The child laughed and yelled something about his boat winning the race.

Shivansh smiled faintly. “Do you remember… you once told me you loved the smell of rain because it made broken things bloom again?”

Her eyes shimmered.

“I never understood it back then,” he said, voice low, reverent. “I think I do now.”

She looked at him then — really looked — and saw it.

He was still the same man.

But also… not.

The rage had gone quiet. The wounds were still there, yes — but so was the will to heal.

She didn’t rush forward. Didn’t collapse into his arms.

Instead, she stepped beside him, stood shoulder to shoulder, and simply looked out the window at the rain.

Two people.

No longer battling the storm.

But letting it pass — together.

And somewhere between that silence and breath…

Hope bloomed again.

Chap 11 Side By Side . Without saying much

Not all power roars.

Some power speaks in grant proposals, in classroom notes typed late at night, in field visits to broken homes where children dare to smile again.

This was the kind of power Prarthana wielded.

And Shivansh, for once, simply watched.

---

A Different Kind of War Room

The first time Shivansh stepped into her NGO office, he felt underdressed—not because of his clothes, but because the energy in the room demanded something deeper: purpose.

It was a converted old municipal building—no marble floors, no air-conditioning—but it buzzed with motion, with meaning.

In one room, caseworkers discussed the reintegration of rescued teenage girls.

In another, volunteers organized care kits and legal aid documents.

And at the center of it all stood Prarthana, in a simple kurta, her hair in a loose braid, sleeves rolled up, her voice firm, kind, unshakably clear.

“No, we don’t need another sponsor event,” she said into the phone. “We need legal help for the custody battle. If your firm’s pro bono hours are exhausted, say it plainly. Don’t waste our time with PR games.”

She hung up, scribbled something in a file, and moved on.

Shivansh stood quietly in the hallway, hands in his pockets, utterly disarmed.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

She was too busy being herself.

---

The Watcher

Later, they sat on the terrace of her NGO, overlooking a patchy garden some rescued girls had planted with their own hands.

She sipped her lukewarm coffee.

He said nothing.

Just kept looking at her.

She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“You’re a force,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m underfunded, exhausted, and running on caffeine and ambition.”

“And yet,” he said, “everyone in that building moves when you speak.”

She glanced at him, cautious. “You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”

He held her gaze. “No. I knew you could. I just didn’t realize how much I needed to see it.”

Her face softened.

He added, “You’re not my shadow, Prarthana. You’re your own light. I’m just lucky to stand close enough to feel it.”

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The next few days passed like a quiet tide—never rushing, never stalling, just gently carrying them forward.

It was Gayatri who’d first suggested the collaboration.

“The fundraiser proposal needs help,” she had muttered, flustered and overworked. “And Shivansh jiju...," Prarthana looked at her...," I mean Shivansh sir has connections. Maybe he could… you know… assist?”

Prarthana had blinked. “You want me to work with him?”

Gayatri gave her a pointed look. “You trust the work. Trust your instincts. Let the rest… figure itself out.”

And so, there they were.

Two people once entangled in storm, now sitting across from each other at the long table in the community office—papers scattered, budget spreadsheets open, hand-written notes crammed in margins.

The NGO was quiet that morning, the children at school, volunteers out on field visits. Sunlight filtered through the windows in slanting gold beams, dust dancing between them like soft ghosts of memory.

Shivansh was dressed simply again. No suit. No cold boardroom mask. Just a man with rolled-up sleeves, trying to focus on numbers but stealing glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

Prarthana, meanwhile, was all business. Focused. Calm. But the corners of her eyes softened when he leaned in to ask a question. The tension that once lived between them hadn’t disappeared—but it had changed. It no longer threatened to snap.

It hummed.

“I think your logistics estimates are a little optimistic,” she said, reviewing his draft. “We have local vendors, but they won’t deliver in bulk at that rate.”

Shivansh chuckled under his breath. “Still the same Prarthana. Precise and merciless.”

She arched a brow. “Still the same Shivansh. Overconfident and mildly chaotic.”

He smiled. And for the first time in days, she didn’t look away.

They worked in tandem. Editing documents, making calls, organizing transport for a women’s health camp in a remote village.

He listened—really listened—when she spoke about grassroots needs and local trust.

She observed how he negotiated without ego, even deferring to her judgment in areas where he once might’ve bulldozed his way through.

At one point, she offered him a glass of water. Their fingers brushed.

A pause.

A breath caught.

Neither said a word.

But in that tiny, inconsequential gesture—something thawed.

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By afternoon, the proposal was ready. Shivansh leaned back in his chair, glancing at her sideways.

“You’re brilliant,” he said, softly. “Not because you fixed this… but because you didn’t let me ruin it.”

Prarthana didn’t answer at first. She just looked at the papers on the table.

Then, without meeting his eyes, she replied, “You didn’t ruin it. You were just… lost.”

He turned fully toward her now. “And if I keep finding my way back…?”

She looked at him then. Long and slow.

“I’m not a finish line, Shivansh,” she whispered. “But if you’re walking for the right reasons… I won’t stop you.”

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Outside, a group of children came running in with muddy feet, laughter echoing through the halls.

Inside, two broken hearts kept working—together.

No longer pushing or pulling.

Just walking. Slowly. Forward.

Chap 12 : "When She Finally Let Him See"

It was nearing dusk.

The power had flickered twice in the past hour — typical of the old NGO building during monsoon. A few lanterns were lit, casting a warm amber glow through the narrow halls. Most of the staff had left. The children had been put to bed.

Prarthana was in the storeroom, stacking boxes of supplies on the shelves — alone, thinking no one was watching.

But Shivansh had come back.

He had returned with a file he forgot to sign, but lingered when he saw her—standing on a stool, trying to balance a heavy carton above her head. The flickering light threw soft shadows over her face. She was humming a lullaby, barely audible. The same one she once sang to calm one of the little girls in the NGO.

There was something haunting in the way she hummed it now.

Gentle. But hollow.

Like she was singing to herself.

The box slipped slightly. Shivansh stepped forward instinctively. “Careful—”

Startled, she turned, nearly losing balance. He caught her wrist just in time, the carton landing with a dull thud on the floor.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

She nodded quickly. “Yes. I didn’t know anyone was still here.”

He hesitated. “I came back for the file. But… I saw you. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

She stepped down slowly, dusting her hands, avoiding his gaze.

Then, without thinking, he asked softly, “Why do you hum that lullaby when no one’s around?”

She froze. Her spine straightened. She didn’t answer immediately.

But then, her voice broke through the silence—low, almost too quiet.

“My mother used to sing it… not to me. To her own daughter. I would sit outside their door, listening through the cracks. Just… imagining she was singing to me too.”

His heart clenched.

She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the shelf now, glassy and far away.

“She was my adoptive mother,” she said, with a small, tight laugh. “But I was never really hers. Not the way Gayatri was. I was the girl with the 'pretty face and no lineage.' Useful for show. But never loved.”

Shivansh didn’t breathe.

She continued, softer now. “I got used to being second. Second in love. Second in choice. Even with you…”

She finally turned to him, eyes shimmering.

“I knew you didn’t love me when you married me. I told myself I’d make peace with that. But when you doubted me about Raunak… it wasn’t just your question that broke me. It was the way it proved I was still not worthy. Still dispensable.”

Silence.

Pain hung in the air, heavy and raw.

Shivansh’s voice, when it came, was thick. “I didn’t know.”

“I never told you,” she replied, her voice trembling. “Because I didn’t want pity. I wanted… to matter. To someone. On my own terms.”

She turned away again, swiping at her tears quickly, almost angrily.

“I hate that I still care,” she whispered. “I hate that I still feel like a child waiting outside a door that never opens.”

Shivansh stepped forward slowly — not to fix it. Not to offer platitudes.

But just to be there.

He didn’t touch her. Just stood close enough for her to feel his presence.

Grounding. Silent. Steady.

“If I could open that door for you,” he said hoarsely, “I would tear it off its hinges.”

Her shoulders shook once. Then again. Then collapsed entirely as she turned and finally let herself fall forward — into his arms.

And he caught her.

This time, not as a man trying to possess her.

But as one finally worthy of holding her pain.

They stood there for a long time. No confessions. No promises.

Just her tears against his chest, and his hand gently cradling the back of her head.

Chap 13 : "The Morning After Rain"

The early sun filtered through the NGO kitchen’s old glass windowpanes, leaving golden puddles of light on the tiled floor.

It was just past six.

Most of the house still slept. Only the chirping birds and the smell of boiling chai hinted that the world was beginning to stir.

Prarthana sat at the end of the wooden bench, wrapped in a soft shawl, her hands curled around a warm steel cup. She hadn’t slept much. But her face was peaceful in a way it hadn’t been for weeks.

Shivansh entered quietly, holding two cups.

He hesitated at the door when he saw her. Not because he didn’t want to walk in — but because something about her sitting in that soft light, silent and still, made his heart ache.

She looked up. Their eyes met.

She didn’t flinch this time.

He walked in, placed one cup gently in front of her, and sat beside her — not too close, but not far either.

“I added cardamom,” he murmured, watching her reaction. “You always put that in yours.”

Her lips twitched — a half-smile. “You remember.”

He looked down at his cup, blew on it once. “I remember more than you think.”

A pause.

The kind of pause that didn’t need to be filled. But today… they were ready.

“About last night…” she began.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said quickly, gently. “You gave me something sacred. I won't ask for more.”

She turned toward him now. Not angry. Not wounded. Just… honest.

“I didn’t cry because I was weak. I cried because I’ve carried that story alone for years. I didn’t even know how heavy it had become.”

He nodded. “I know that weight.”

“You do,” she said softly, surprising even herself.

They sat in silence again.

A leaf rustled outside. Somewhere in the hallway, a child’s sleepy voice called for their didi.

Then she asked, almost shyly, “Why did you come back that night?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Because I saw you in the storeroom. And something in me said — stay. Not to fix. Not to be forgiven. Just… to witness what I never had the courage to ask about.”

She looked at him for a long time. “You’re not the same Shivansh anymore.”

“I’m trying not to be,” he admitted. “I don’t want to love you with guilt, or ego, or fear. I want to love you like this—”

He looked into her eyes, “—quietly, patiently, with no demands.”

Her eyes glistened.

“You’re doing it already,” she whispered.

He blinked once, slowly. “Do I still have a chance?”

She smiled now — truly this time — the kind of smile that could crack a sunrise wide open.

“You’re not on trial, Shivansh. You’re on your way.”

---

The chai had cooled.

The world outside grew louder.

But inside that little kitchen, two souls sat in a kind of hush that only love resurrected could know.

--------------------------------------

The days passed slowly, but with purpose.

Since the night he held her as she broke down — the night she told him what his words had done to her, how deep they had carved into old wounds — Shivansh had changed.

Not loudly. Quietly.

He no longer tried to explain himself. He had learned that guilt does not deserve gratitude, and love is not owed — it’s earned.

And so, he began his journey back. One silent act at a time.

—

At the NGO, he arrived early — before the others — to clean the playroom where the children spent their mornings. He painted the walls himself, even though his hands ached by the end of the day.

He brought books. Toys. He repaired the broken desk that had been gathering dust for months.

One evening, when a boy with cerebral palsy refused to eat, Shivansh sat with him for over an hour, telling him stories — of dragons and sea-monsters — until the boy finally laughed and took a bite.

Prarthana saw it all.

She didn’t speak to him much. Not yet.

But she noticed how he no longer sought her gaze for approval. How he helped the old cook carry her bags without saying a word. How he paid for a child’s surgery anonymously — only the NGO director knew. And even he hadn’t known until the cheque appeared in a sealed envelope.

---

And then, one dusk, Prarthana found something.

A file.

Tucked in the corner of her desk — full of hand-sketched layouts for a rehabilitation wing. Her name was written on the top in his handwriting:

> For the people she never stopped fighting for.

She clutched the file to her chest, stunned.

—

Later that week, during a volunteer break, she stepped outside for air — and saw him across the courtyard, kneeling, quietly re-potting plants for the centre’s therapy garden. Soil on his hands. Sweat on his brow. But his face calm — like he was finally breathing.

She walked to him slowly.

He looked up, not startled — just expectant, unsure.

She crouched beside him, hands brushing the soil.

“Why this?” she asked softly. “You’re Shivansh Randhawa. The man who once fired someone for getting a coffee order wrong.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t dodge.

He answered honestly.

“Because I spent years trying to control the world so it wouldn’t abandon me again. And in doing that… I became the man I swore I never would. I broke everything I loved — including you.”

Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t look away.

He added, “I can’t undo it. But I can become someone who deserves forgiveness. Even if I never get it.”

There it was.

Not entitlement. Not excuses.

Redemption.

In its purest, simplest form.

She reached forward, dusted some soil off his cheek.

Then quietly whispered, “You’re getting there

Chap 14 -The Name of What We Are

Some days feel like they’re made of honey and mischief—soft, sticky with laughter, dripping with the kind of comfort that only comes after surviving a storm together.

This was one of those days.

It began with snow.

And... stolen pakoras.

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The Beginning: Pakoras and Petty Crimes

“Did you just steal my pakora?” Prarthana blinked, scandalized, holding up an empty plate like a crime scene exhibit.

Shivansh, sitting cross-legged across from her near the fireplace, tried his best to look innocent—his fingers still dusted with crumbs.

“I was saving that!” she protested, eyes narrowing.

“I’m redistributing snacks to the underfed,” he said solemnly, patting his flat stomach. “It’s a social service.”

“You’re a corporate criminal turned pakora thief. Congratulations on the downgrade.”

“Better thief than traitor,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

He looked up, smirking. “You betrayed the pakora by letting it get cold.”

Prarthana launched a cushion at him.

He caught it mid-air, dramatically shielding his chest. “Violence! This is domestic violence in potential!”

“This is justice,” she said, standing. “You’re going to fry the next batch.”

Shivansh raised his brows. “I am?”

“Yes. You want to be in my life, you better know how to deep-fry like a dignified adult.”

He stood, feigning defeat, and followed her into the kitchen, where the real fun began.

------------------------------

The Middle: Kitchen Mayhem

He stood with an apron tied around his waist—backward—and a look of pure confusion as she dropped potatoes into the batter with practiced ease.

“I feel like a tortured soul in a tragic novella,” he muttered.

“You look like a malfunctioning MasterChef contestant,” she replied.

“I don’t understand how you make it look effortless.”

“Because unlike you, I don’t declare war on trust every five minutes.”

He turned toward her sharply—but her smirk told him she was teasing.

Still... the words struck a chord. He lowered his eyes for a beat.

She softened. “Shivansh.”

He looked up.

She held out the bowl of batter. “Here. Win my trust by not setting my kitchen on fire.”

He gave a short laugh and dipped the first pakora into oil, wincing as it splattered.

“You know,” she said, leaning against the counter, “this is probably the most domestic thing you’ve ever done.”

“I once assembled a bookshelf for you,” he said.

“That doesn’t count. You made the carpenter hold the screwdriver while you clicked pictures of yourself helping.”

He gave her a withering look. “Details.”

-----------------------

The Shift: One Breath Between Light and Heavy

Later, they sat down again on the floor by the fireplace, the fresh pakoras between them, snow falling thick and slow outside. Laughter still clung to their shoulders like warmth.

And then, as often happens in the quietest moments, something turned.

Shivansh leaned back, watching the flames. “You know... I didn’t think I’d ever laugh like this again.”

Prarthana didn’t answer.

“I thought I’d ruined it all. Not just with you. With myself.”

His voice had dipped—not to drama, but something more honest.

“I was always waiting to be abandoned,” he continued. “So I made sure I was the one who left first. Or who made it so difficult that no one stayed. That way, it hurt less.”

She listened.

“But you... you stayed. Until you couldn’t anymore. And when you left—God, Prarthana—it felt like I finally understood what real loss was. Not because I lost you. But because I finally saw who I could’ve been if I hadn’t been so afraid.”

Her smile faded. The light in the room seemed softer now, dimmed by memory.

She shifted closer, her voice gentle. “You were afraid. But you weren’t unlovable.”

He looked at her, that sharp vulnerability flickering again in his eyes.

“Then why did you leave?”

“Because I couldn’t be your punching bag anymore. I could carry your fears, Shivansh. I could hold your silences. But I couldn’t keep proving I was real.”

A long pause. Then—

“I know,” he said. “And I’ve never hated anyone in this world the way I hated myself that night.”

The air between them thickened—not with tension, but with honesty.

He reached forward—not to touch her, but to close the distance in words.

“Can I say it now?” he asked.

She knew what he meant.

Slowly, she nodded.

“I love you,” he said. “Not for staying. Not for forgiving me. I love you because when I was at my ugliest, you still saw something in me worth saving. And now... now I want to love you like you deserve. Gently. Clearly. Without making you bleed for it.”

A single tear slipped from her eye, and she didn’t wipe it away.

“I never stopped,” she whispered. “Loving you.”

He moved closer. Gently took her hand.

And this time, there was no hesitation.

Only a soft, steady knowing.

That the room between them no longer had walls.

Only warmth

Chap 15

Some bonds defy language.

They are not quite love, not merely friendship, and certainly not the memory of what once was. They are formed in the quiet space between two people who have broken and mended—separately, then slowly, together.

And somewhere in that space, Prarthana and Shivansh now lived.

---

A Visit with No Reason

He arrived unannounced again.

It had become their pattern. No messages. No calls. No schedule.

Just a quiet knock. A familiar coat. The scent of old books and tea and something softer—something wordless.

“You again,” she teased, leaning against the doorframe.

He shrugged. “The hills were calling. And so was your tea.”

She gave him a look. “Your addiction to my hospitality is noted.”

“And yours to my company is conveniently ignored.”

She rolled her eyes. “You talk like a man who still thinks he’s charming.”

“And yet,” he replied, slipping past her, “you haven’t asked me to leave.”

She didn’t. Not once.

---

A Game of Naming

That evening, as rain curled like ribbon smoke outside and the fireplace glowed low with amber embers, they played a game.

“Give it a name,” she said.

He raised a brow. “Give what a name?”

“This,” she said, waving a hand vaguely between them. “Whatever this is.”

He leaned back, arms crossed. “Ah. The infamous label hunt.”

She smirked. “Don’t dodge.”

He pretended to ponder. “What about... a treaty?”

She laughed. “This is not a peace negotiation.”

“Then... détente?”

“Still political.”

“Truce?”

“Still temporary.”

He looked at her then, serious. “Why does it need a name?”

She hesitated. “Because everything else in my life has one. The pain had a name. The loss had a name. Even the leaving did. But this? This... thing between us? It floats. And I don’t know if I should hold it or let it pass.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Outside, the storm murmured softly against the windows.

Shivansh leaned forward, his voice low. “Can I name it something?”

She nodded.

He spoke slowly, deliberately.

“Home.”

She looked away, blinking too quickly.

He added, gently, “Not a place. Not even a person. Just... this feeling. Of not needing to be anything but who I am. Of not being afraid I’ll be punished for being real.”

She swallowed. “Home doesn’t ask for anything.”

“Exactly. And yet... you want to stay.”

---

The Name They Didn’t Say

Later, she walked him to the porch. The rain had softened, mist rising like breath from the earth.

He turned to her. “You never gave your name.”

She looked at him, eyes unreadable, voice soft.

“Not yet. I’m still learning what it wants to be.”

He nodded, not pressing further.

But just before he stepped away, she whispered, “If this is home... don’t break it again.”

He looked back. And in his gaze was something rare. Something quiet and sacred.

“I won’t.”

Then he walked into the fog, the hush of his footsteps fading like a poem at its last line.

Chap 16 -When She Stood Beside Him"

The community hall was packed.

Decorated with modest streamers and strings of marigold, the NGO’s annual fundraiser had drawn in local officials, volunteers, donors, and a few skeptical members of the press. The project board stood proudly near the dais — “Saanjh,” a new women-led healthcare initiative funded in part by the Randhawa Group.

And right at the center, standing tall yet visibly tense — was Shivansh.

This was his first time speaking in public since his disappearance from the corporate world. Whispers still followed him. The man who broke his engagement scandalously. The one who married Raunak’s bride. The one who vanished after his empire nearly slipped away.

He wasn’t afraid of truth anymore. But he also didn’t expect applause.

As he took the mic, a few murmurs rose.

“He’s only here for PR.”

“Where was this empathy when he was destroying his competitors?”

“Rich men wear charity like perfume.”

Prarthana heard it all from where she stood near the steps, holding the presentation folder.

She watched him clear his throat, his fingers tightening slightly over the mic. For a moment, she could see it — the old Shivansh, the one who masked vulnerability with stoic silence. But she also saw the man he was becoming.

He began his speech with grace. No bravado. No rehearsed charm. Just honest words about change, accountability, and second chances.

But midway through, a journalist stood up.

“Mr. Randhawa, some might say your presence here feels… strategic. Are we to believe this sudden interest in social work is rooted in anything real?”

The room quieted. All eyes turned to Shivansh.

He hesitated.

And then—Prarthana stepped forward.

Her voice rang through the room before he could speak.

“If it were strategic, he wouldn’t have spent the last few weeks repairing laptops in the tech room. Or filling patient forms in rural camps without a camera in sight.”

Everyone turned.

She climbed the steps with quiet authority, standing beside him.

“You don’t have to like Shivansh Randhawa,” she continued. “But don’t question the work of a man who now shows up without needing to be seen.”

Her voice didn’t tremble. Her chin didn’t lower. She looked at them all — then looked at him.

“He’s not perfect,” she said softly. “But he’s present. And that counts more than any reputation ever could.”

A pause.

One slow, powerful breath passed between them.

And in that breath, he knew.

She still believed in him.

Not because he had asked her to.

But because she had watched him become someone worth standing beside.

The audience clapped slowly. Then louder.

Shivansh didn’t say another word. He just looked at her, eyes shining — a kind of gratitude that no thank-you could hold.

Later, when they stood backstage, he turned to her and said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

She tilted her head. “I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

He smiled.

“I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.”

She smirked gently. “Again? You barely started the first time.”

He laughed, low and warm. And this time, she didn’t look away.

Chap 17: "Where Love Finally Found Them"

The fundraiser had ended.

Laughter still echoed faintly down the hallways as volunteers packed decorations and children chased balloons through the courtyard. But Shivansh and Prarthana had slipped away — not out of shyness, but need.

They found themselves at the rooftop of the old NGO building, under a sky just beginning to cloud over with distant thunder. The breeze was soft, scented with petrichor. The city lights below flickered like forgotten wishes.

Prarthana leaned against the rusted railing, her shawl wrapped tightly around her. She didn’t speak.

Shivansh stood beside her, hands in his pockets, unsure how to begin.

The silence wasn’t heavy. Just… full.

Finally, he exhaled. “Back there, when you stood up for me… I didn’t expect it.”

She didn’t look at him. “I didn’t do it for you to expect anything.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “That’s why it meant everything.”

She closed her eyes briefly, the wind lifting a strand of her hair.

“I still get scared,” she admitted softly. “That I’ll give too much of myself… and again be told I was never enough.”

He turned to her, slowly.

“I’ve told myself,” she continued, “that strength is being unshakable. But I don’t want to be unshakable anymore, Shivansh. I want to be held. I want to fall without being shattered.”

He took a step closer, his voice raw now. “Then let me be that place.”

She looked at him then — really looked. Her eyes searched his, slowly, painfully, like unwrapping a wound that had scabbed over too soon.

“I used to dream,” she whispered, “that someone would fight for me. Not with fists or anger. Just by choosing me — every single time. Without needing to be convinced.”

A pause.

“And then,” she added, “I met you — a man with eyes full of storms, a heart stitched together by pain, and yet… you were the one I still hoped would stay.”

His throat clenched.

“I didn’t stay,” he admitted. “I let my own shadows hurt you. And when you walked away… I deserved it.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

“I’ve read every page of your journal,” he said. “And every line carved something into me. Not guilt. Not pity. But clarity. That what I lost was never yours to give back — it’s mine to earn. Slowly. Quietly.”

She didn’t reply.

He took one more step, now standing inches away.

“I love you, Prarthana,” he whispered. “Not because I’m healed. But because loving you is what makes me want to be.”

The tears finally slipped from her lashes.

She didn’t leap into his arms. She didn’t melt with cinematic ease.

Instead, she did something deeper.

She reached out.

Took his hand.

And gently laced her fingers with his.

A soft, silent choice.

And for both of them… it was enough.

For tonight, it was everything.

Chap 18

The past has a way of following you—quietly at first, like the soft rustle of leaves behind your steps. But eventually, it taps you on the shoulder and asks, “Are you sure you’ve moved on?”

Prarthana and Shivansh had built something delicate—something not yet defined, but warm and real. But the world beyond the hills was waking up to their silence. And it was ready to question it.

---

The First Crack

It began with a phone call.

Shivansh had left his phone on the kitchen counter, sipping tea while teasing Prarthana about her complete lack of faith in his cooking abilities.

“You still think I can’t make khichdi?” he asked, mock wounded.

“You once tried to boil rice without water,” she said dryly.

“That was a creative experiment in evaporation.”

She was mid-laugh when his phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen casually.

Sonalika. 2 Missed Calls.

Her fingers stilled on the cup. The name was sharp—like the jagged edge of a glass you thought you'd thrown away but found underfoot.

He noticed the shift in her expression instantly. And when he followed her gaze, his face sobered.

“I didn’t answer,” he said, quietly.

“I didn’t ask.”

“But I want you to know... I haven’t spoken to her. Not since I left..i apologized to her, explained her everything..and I was as honest to her as possible.”

She nodded slowly, but the moment had shifted. The air between them grew tighter, a thread pulled taut by history.

“I don’t doubt that,” she said. “I just... I remember what it felt like to be blamed because of her.”

He sat down beside her, his voice lower, his fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for her but didn’t dare.

“I believed the wrong people,” he said. “I let them name you before I even listened to your voice.”

She looked at him, eyes suddenly glassy. “You didn’t just let them. You joined them.”

He nodded. “I did. And I live with that version of myself every single day.”

There was no anger in her voice. Just memory. But memory, when revisited, always leaves ash on the tongue.

---

The Storm Arrives

Two days later, it escalated.

A car pulled up near her cottage—black, sleek, intrusive.

And from it stepped Bua Maa.

Draped in silk, armed with condescension, and cloaked in the self-righteousness of a woman who had watched her nephew weep and still believed pain was a sign of weakness.

She didn’t knock.

She simply entered, as if the world owed her obedience.

Prarthana stood still in the kitchen, shoulders squared.

“So this is where you’ve hidden him,” Bua Maa said, glancing around with a sneer. “I always knew your middle-class charm would trap him someday.”

Shivansh arrived behind her, eyes narrowing. “Bua Maa. That’s enough.”

She turned, unfazed. “You are a Randhawa, Shivansh. Not some hill-side poet waiting for crumbs of affection. This—” she gestured to the modest home, “—is not who you are.”

He stepped beside Prarthana, his voice cool but steely. “No. This is exactly who I am.”

Bua Maa’s eyes flashed. “And what is she to you now? A hobby?”

Prarthana flinched—just a little—but Shivansh didn’t miss it.

He reached for her hand.

Held it.

And for the first time, not even as a performance, but as truth, he said:

“She’s my peace. And for once, I’m choosing her over my pride.”

Bua Maa’s face darkened. “You’ll regret this.”

“No,” he said calmly. “I only regret not doing it sooner.”

With that, she turned on her heel and left.

The air remained thick after her departure.

---

The Release

That night, Prarthana stood on the porch, silent. Shivansh joined her.

“I didn’t expect her to come,” he said.

“She was always going to,” she murmured.

He looked at her. “Did it hurt?”

She shrugged. “Not like before. I’ve learned to expect very little from people who never tried to understand me.”

He turned to her, voice earnest. “Then let me be someone who learns. Every day. About you. With you.”

She looked at him.

“Then stop being afraid to ask me what we are.”

His breath hitched. “What are we?”

She took his hand and placed it over her chest.

“This. Right here. Whatever it is... it’s real. And I’m ready to stop running from it. But only if you stop looking back.”

He closed his eyes.

And nodded.

From that moment on, they stopped asking if they could begin again.

They simply did.

------------

Chapter 19: The Word for Love

There are some nights when the sky holds its breath.

No wind. No storm. Just a strange, charged stillness—as though the world itself waits for something to be said.

Tonight was one of those nights.

And somewhere beneath that unmoving sky, in a cottage lit with quiet warmth and quiet hearts, two people stood on the edge of something unnamed… and didn’t flinch.

---

Unspoken Questions

Dinner had long ended, the plates washed, the world outside wrapped in fog and pine-scented silence. Prarthana sat on the edge of the couch, her knees drawn to her chest, eyes half-lost in the embers of the fire.

Shivansh was nearby, silent, watching her more than the flames.

He had always found her in the quiet—not in her words, but in the way she stared at nothing when something was bothering her, or the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.

Tonight, she did both.

He waited.

Finally, she broke the silence. “I used to imagine this.”

“This?”

“This peace. This stillness. This version of you.”

She paused. “I imagined it when I hated you most.”

His breath caught in his chest.

“I told myself it wasn’t real,” she continued. “That this version of you—the one who listened, the one who held his anger instead of unleashing it—was just something I made up to survive you.”

He walked over slowly, sitting beside her on the floor.

“And now?” he asked.

She looked at him. “Now I know I wasn’t wrong. He was in there. You just didn’t believe in him yet.”

He bowed his head, pain flickering through his expression like shadow over water. “I didn’t believe I was worth becoming him.”

She reached forward then—not for comfort, not for forgiveness—but for truth.

Her fingers traced the outline of his face, slow and reverent, like trying to memorize pain that was slowly becoming peace.

“I need you to understand something, Shivansh.”

He looked up.

“I didn’t love you despite your flaws. I loved you because I saw them. I saw the boy who hated himself for being abandoned. I saw the man who wore cruelty like armor. And I loved him anyway.”

He closed his eyes, and this time, he didn’t fight the tears.

Not the single, silent tear that slid down his cheek.

Not the way his shoulders sagged like a man finally putting down years of grief.

And not the way his hand found hers, trembling but sure.

---

The Word for Love

They didn’t say I love you right away.

Instead, she whispered, “You can break now. I’ll stay.”

And he did.

He let go.

Everything.

The shame. The weight. The guilt. The old, rusted pride that had kept him from holding her the way he’d always wanted to.

He leaned into her—his forehead resting against hers—and whispered the words like a prayer:

“I love you.”

Not for show.

Not to fix anything.

But because he finally believed he could.

And in return, she said it back not with words, but with the way she kissed him. Gently at first. Slowly. Then with a rising urgency, like needing to erase the distance that had haunted them for far too long.

Their bodies met not in hunger, but in healing.

Not in escape, but in anchoring.

There was no rush.

No performance.

Just skin and breath and hearts, remembering what it meant to belong.

They fell asleep later, tangled and bare, their pain folded between them like a letter never sent.

And outside, the night finally exhale