cosmolvrr

The heat hits you first—thick and cloying, like a shawl draped around your shoulders the moment you step out of the car. The driveway is already full, colors blurring as cousins pour out like a flood. A kaleidoscope of voices tumbles over each other: squeals, shrieks, the holler of your Chacha shouting “Move, move! Let her breathe!” as someone tries to shove a laddu into your mouth before your suitcase has even touched the ground.

“Oye hoye! Look at her! Gori hogayi hai!”

“Do you even eat there, or just survive on air?”

"Beta, you remember me, right? I'm your mother's chachi's devar's wife."

You blink. You're not sure who to hug first. A tiny cousin is already clinging to your leg like a koala. Another one, maybe eight, is dragging your bag toward the door while telling you about how she’s getting her ears pierced next week and do you want to come?

There’s laughter from every corner. Someone’s phone is playing a song on full volume. An uncle you barely recognize is wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and asking about your thesis. 

By the time you enter the house, your cheeks ache from fake smiling and your ears are ringing from the overlapping chaos of children crying, elders blessing you, and someone setting off fireworks even though it’s 3 PM on a Tuesday.

Then you see him.

Your grandfather.

Sitting in his usual chair, white shalwar kameez freshly pressed, glasses perched low on his nose, a bowl of peeled oranges in his lap like always.

“Meri beti,” he says, arms open.

You bury your face into his chest, the scent of sandalwood and old paper wrapping around you like a lullaby. The noise fades for a moment. His hands tremble slightly as they hold your shoulders, but his smile is steady.

“You’re home,” he murmurs, like it’s a truth the universe should bow to.

“I missed you, Nana.”

“I can tell. You’ve lost weight. And that glow—where is it? We’ll feed you. Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkle. “You’ll be shining again in two days. Just you wait.”

You laugh, and for the first time in months, it doesn't feel hollow.

Behind you, your sisters are already arguing over which lehenga you’ll wear to the wedding. Your brothers are negotiating who gets the guest room. Your mother is shouting from the kitchen. Somewhere, a child wails about someone stealing their last gulab jamun.

The house is bursting at the seams.

And in the middle of it all, you exhale.

This—this chaos, this noise, this life—it fits into your bones in a way your quiet studio apartment never could. You’d forgotten what it was like to belong so loudly.

Nana leans in conspiratorially, whispering, “Don’t tell your mother, but I saved the last gulab jamun for you. Come. Before your sisters sniff it out.”

You follow him through the courtyard, dodging small feet, a rogue football, and a chorus of voices calling your name.

In your chest, something cracks open.

Your room still smells like jasmine and old notebooks.

The bedspreads have changed, but the walls are the same—covered in faded posters, hand-painted memories, and glow-in-the-dark stars your childhood friends insisted would help you sleep. It’s chaos and comfort all at once. There’s barely space for the four of you to sit, let alone stretch, but somehow you’re all sprawled on the floor, feet tangled, arms overlapping.

“Remember when she tried to run away because Ammi wouldn’t let her buy that glittery purple sharara?” your oldest sister snorts, pointing at you with a tube of lipstick she’s stolen from your makeup bag.

“I was ten!” you protest, laughing.

“You were dramatic,” your second eldest sister smirks, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “We found you sulking behind the swing set with a granola bar like it was your last meal.”

“She still does that,” the middle sister teases, nudging your knee. “Only now it’s over men and deadlines.”

You groan, flopping back on the rug. “I regret coming home.”

“No, you don’t,” your eldest murmurs, softer now, brushing your hair out of your face. “You missed us.”

The room quiets for a beat. There’s no music, no screaming relatives, no henna fumes or wedding bells—just the sound of four hearts syncing up again after too much time apart.

You missed this. The shared language of glances. The way you don’t have to explain your silence here. How your sisters know when to pull you into a hug without asking why your voice trembles.

There are binders. Color-coded. Made by your middle sister who’s taken on the role of wedding planner with the precision of a military general.

"You're wearing yellow for the haldi, green for the mehndi, red for the shaadi, and blue for the walima. No negotiations."

“Don’t even think about escaping wedding shopping tomorrow,” the other two warn. “We’re going to that madhouse bazaar. And you are wearing yellow.”

“Why yellow?”

“Because,” they say in unison, “it makes your skin glow.”

You don’t argue.

The laughter rises again, old and new, stitched into the seams of the night.

You fall asleep to the sound of your sisters breathing next to you, lulled by the hum of belonging.

The market is loud enough to make your teeth vibrate.

Rickshaws honk like they're being punished. Street vendors chant their deals in an unholy chorus. The smell of frying pakoras, gasoline, and rose garlands drapes itself over you like a second skin. It's sticky, messy, and somehow—it’s exactly what you needed.

You haven’t walked these streets in years, but your feet still remember the way the uneven tiles make your sandals catch. The colors around you scream in every direction: turmeric yellow, chili red, emerald green, sequins that wink in the sun like mischief.

Your mother is already fifteen steps ahead, deep in bargaining mode with a vendor who looks like he hasn’t smiled since 2004. Your sisters flank you like a desi SWAT team—one arguing about blouse necklines, the other snapping photos of lehengas to send to the family group chat that currently has 472 unread messages.

Your ears ring with:

“Aunty, yeh last price hai!”

“Beta, is mein lining nahi hai toh thoda dhekhna padega…”

“No, not that dupatta! It looks like mosquito netting!”

You’re half-listening. Mostly trying not to sweat through your kurti. The dupatta keeps slipping off your shoulder. Your bangles ring with every breath. A rogue toddler grabs your hand thinking you’re his mom. You're exactly three seconds from turning around and running straight back into the AC of the car when—

Everything quiets.

Not literally. The market is still chaos incarnate. But your mind blanks for a beat—just long enough to feel like something shifted in the air.

Across the narrow, crowded street, in the shade of a peeling blue storefront, someone is watching you.

He’s sitting on a wooden stool, a sketchpad balanced on his knee, a pencil paused mid-stroke. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, collar open, dark hair messy like he ran a frustrated hand through it too many times. His skin catches the sunlight in that golden, almost unfair way.

And his eyes.

His eyes are the sea right before a storm. Quiet, searching, endless.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

His gaze is fixed, not on your face, but on your earrings. Your jhumkas—the same ones your Nani gave you when you were fifteen. They're old, oxidized gold with tiny red beads, and they swing every time you move. You feel suddenly hyper-aware of every motion, every breath, every step. Like you’re under glass.

He tilts his head, sketchpad now forgotten on his lap.

And you—you don’t look away.

You should. You should say something to your sisters, fake a call, pretend you’re not affected. But there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you, like he’s not just seeing you, but seeing through you. Like he’s been starved of color, and you just walked into his line of sight wrapped in a hundred shades of it.

A scooter zips between you, breaking the line of sight.

You gasp a little, startled, and look down—finally breaking the gaze.

Your heart is hammering. Not out of fear. But something… unspoken. Ancient. Like your soul recognized something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

Your sister bumps your shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

You glance back. He’s still there—but now, sketching. As if the moment never happened. As if you didn’t just crash into a silent kind of thunder between two strangers in the middle of a chaotic market.

You turn back to your family.

But you feel him still—like a thread tugging at your wrist.

Rafayel wasn’t supposed to be here for long. He came for pigment—something earthy, something unnameable. He thought the reds would inspire him, or maybe the deep indigo he heard came from this region. He didn’t expect... this.

He didn’t expect you.

You are standing in the middle of all this noise, holding up a sky-blue sari to the light, and laughing. There’s a smear of haldi on your wrist. A streak of kohl at the corner of your eye. You’re trying on glass bangles that catch the sun and break it into prisms.

And he cannot move.

It isn’t a thunderbolt kind of moment. It’s the kind that creeps up his spine and sets his chest aching.

It’s the way your laugh folds into the bazaar’s song and yet stands out.

It’s the way your sisters shout over one another, but you tilt your head and listen; patient and amused.

It’s the way you look radiant even when you're scolding a rogue child.

Paaon tale mere zameenein chal padi (The earth beneath my feet has started to move) 

Aisa toh kabhi hua hi nahi (This has never happened before) 

He doesn’t know the song. He doesn’t understand the lyrics playing from a rickshaw parked nearby, but the melody sticks to his skin like paint.

He hears his name being called distantly—his guide, confused, trying to tug him back toward the dyes. But he’s rooted. Drenched in the color of you.

He watches you laugh, mouth full of stories he doesn’t know yet, voice lifted in that language he hasn’t learned.

He steps back.

He’s an intruder here. A guest.

But oh, how his fingers itch to draw you—no, paint you—with every shade the sun left in this country.

You pass him without seeing him again. The crowd swallows you.

Rafayel is left standing in a pool of spilled marigold petals and longing.

And for the first time in months—his fingers twitch.

Inspiration bleeds through the haze of his block, like color finding water.

It’s three days later.

You’ve barely slept. Between pre-wedding events, endless fittings, and relatives using you as a glorified errand runner, you’re running on three hours of sleep and one aggressively sweet cup of chai. You’re back in the market—again—because your younger cousin decided she hates her mehndi outfit and apparently you’re the only one she trusts for “aesthetic guidance.”

“I swear I’ll owe you for life,” she says, fluttering her lashes.

“You already owe me for when I lied to your mom about you sneaking out to that concert,” you mutter.

You're too tired to dress up. Hair in a braid. Simple shalwar-kameez. Just your everyday silver jhumkas, because you feel weird without them now. No makeup, no pretense. You’re not here to be seen.

Which is, of course, why he finds you now.

You’re crouched by a rack of embroidered dupattas, texting your sister and regretting all your life choices, when you hear a low, thoughtful voice just behind you:

“You dropped something.”

You look up—and there he is.

Closer now. Too close, maybe. The kind of close where you can smell the faint sea-salt in his cologne and count the tiny flecks of light hidden in his dark eyes. He holds out his hand, palm up. In it is a single silver jhumka.

You feel for your ears, finding one bare. You hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching out.

His fingers brush yours as he passes it over. Not by accident.

Not subtle.

He doesn’t let go right away. Just an extra second—barely long enough to call attention to it. Long enough to make your skin burn.

You straighten, suddenly aware of how much taller he is. He’s dressed simply—white shirt, sleeves rolled again, one button casually undone at the collar—but there’s something meticulous about him. Like a man who knows exactly how to exist in a frame.

His sketchpad is slung under one arm. His eyes never leave your face.

“I saw you here a few days ago,” he says, voice calm, eyes sharp. “You were… hard to miss.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because I was yelling at a shopkeeper?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Because your earrings sounded like a song I forgot I knew.”

You stare at him.

He doesn't blink.

You break eye contact first. “That’s dangerously close to a line.”

“Wasn’t one,” he says softly. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d have quoted poetry. Or lied.”

“You’re not trying to impress me?”

“No.”

He pauses, tilts his head.

“I’m trying to remember the exact curve your bangles made when you laughed.”

You forget how to breathe.

Your cousin chooses that exact moment to shout your name from two shops down, waving a hideous magenta lehenga like it’s a victory banner. You don’t look away from him, but your mouth curls into something that’s halfway between a smirk and a smile.

“Duty calls,” you say.

He nods but doesn’t step back. “You’ll be back?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“If you keep staring at my jewelry like it owes you answers.”

That smile again, this time more open. “Only if it keeps making music.”

You take a step back, heart beating far too fast for someone who just met a man whose name she still doesn’t know.

But as you turn to leave, he says, “Wait.”

You look over your shoulder.

“I’m Rafayel,” he says. “Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Things?”

“People.”

You hold his gaze.

Then, with a half-smile, you say, “Try not to forget me then.”

“I already tried,” he says quietly. “Didn’t work.”

You're sitting on the veranda with a bowl of cut mangoes, trying to ignore the sound of your cousin playing “Sheila Ki Jawani” for the seventh time this morning. The shaadi countdown has entered a new phase of intensity—someone’s having a breakdown over missing heels, someone else is sobbing about flowers, and a child just ran past you naked holding a samosa.

Typical Thursday.

Your phone buzzes. It's your sister.

come outside

RIGHT NOW

ur not going to believe this

You’re already outside, but you get up anyway, curiosity prickling down your spine.

Then you see it.

The house next door—your grandparents’ old neighbor’s bungalow that’s been empty for months—is open. Curtains drawn back. Movers bustling. A man standing at the gate, talking to your mother.

Not just any man.

Him.

Rafayel.

White shirt again. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. A small smile playing on his lips as your mom gestures wildly, no doubt trying to understand who exactly this foreign-looking man with art-supply-colored fingers is and why he’s moving in next door during a wedding.

You freeze.

He glances toward you, and his smile shifts—something quieter, softer, almost smug.

Your stomach does a flip it has no business doing.

Of course, your mother clocks the silent exchange. She calls out your name like she just uncovered a scandal.

“Come say hello! Our new neighbor just arrived! Artist banda hai, you’ll like him!”

Before you can fake a phone call or a divine intervention, your entire extended family flocks to the gate like vultures spotting free pakoras. Uncles. Aunties. Cousins. At least three toddlers. Your sister’s already live-tweeting it in the family WhatsApp group.

Someone asks if he’s married.

Someone else asks if he’s single.

Your chachi squints suspiciously. “Artist? Matlab, kya karta hai full-time?”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch. “I paint.”

“Paint? As in walls or...?”

“Canvas,” he says, deadpan. “And sometimes silence.”

Your mamu side-eyes him like he just spoke French.

A cousin snickers. “Do you also paint feelings, bhai?”

“Yes,” Rafayel says. “But only the unspoken ones.”

The chaos halts for one holy second as they invite him into the house. He walks in like a man accepting a dare. Hair a little too perfectly tousled, expression unreadable—but his hand brushes yours lightly as he passes.

You feel it in your wrist.

Your grandfather is already seated at the head of the room, his cane leaning beside him, newspaper folded with surgical precision.

“Artist sahib,” he says, voice low and amused. “Come. Sit. Tell us—what exactly are your intentions toward our pigment?”

Rafayel blinks. “My... intentions?”

Cousins snicker.

You groan. “He means what color you’re looking for.”

“Ah,” Rafayel says, lips twitching. “Ultramarine, if I can find it. And maybe vermilion. Something that bleeds a little.”

That shuts them up. Slightly.

Nana nods, eyes gleaming. “Good answer. Sounds expensive.”

One of your younger cousins leans in and whispers—loud enough for everyone to hear— “He looks like a drama hero. All broody and tragic.”

Another pipes up, “He’s hot. Is he rich too? Or is this a starving artist situation?”

You elbow her gently. “You all have no shame.”

“We just care about your future, sis,” she says sweetly, then looks straight at Rafayel. “Do you like chaat?”

He nods. “If it burns the roof of my mouth and makes me question my decisions, yes.”

They love him. Instantly.

Tea arrives. Biscuits. Then laddoos. Then a plate of steaming samosas. Rafayel is juggling a cup, a plate, a toddler in his lap, and three questions from three different relatives at once.

But he keeps looking at you.

Between bites, between glances, in that moment when your jhumka catches the light and you sip your chai with both hands around the cup—he watches. Not like a man who wants to undress you with his eyes. Like a man who wants to learn you like a language.

Aisa lagta hai kyun teri aankhen jaise  (Why do I feel as if your eyes) 

Aankhon mein meri reh gayi  (Have settled in my eyes)  

Nana clears his throat loudly. “You know,” he says, tone casual, “in my day, a man came home only if he meant to stay.”

The entire room goes still.

You make a strangled sound into your tea.

Rafayel’s mouth quirks. “Then I hope I’m not offending tradition. I was told there’d be snacks.”

Nana sips his chai and gives a secretive smile.

And you know you’ve lost this round. Rafayel has officially infiltrated.

It’s nearly midnight, but the house is still humming.

The elders have finally gone to bed, the kids tucked away like mismatched socks in spare rooms and floor mattresses. From the rooftop, faint laughter still drifts—your cousins playing antakshari. A fan creaks overhead as you sit cross-legged on the bed, brushing your hair out with slow, absent strokes.

The day is still clinging to you in pieces—Rafayel’s fingertips brushing yours at the doorway, his long lashes lowered as he sipped chai, the way your Nana watched him like he was trying to read a painting that kept changing under his gaze.

You try not to smile.

But then the door creaks.

“Knock knock,” comes the sing-song voice of your eldest sister as she slips in uninvited. “Or should I say... Rafayel Rafayel?”

You groan. “No.”

“Oh yes.” She plops down beside you, stealing the brush from your hand. “Explain to me how the world’s most expensive painter just so happens to be hanging around our living room? Looking like a Renaissance sculpture with abandonment issues?”

“He’s here for pigment,” you mutter.

She wiggles her brows. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Your second sister pokes her head in. “Are we talking about the mysterious artist who doesn’t eat sugar but somehow accepted two laddoos from Dadi?”

You chuck your pillow at her. She dodges, cackling, and climbs in beside you. “Oh, you’re blushing. This is historical.”

You bury your face in your hands.

The third walks in dramatically, arms crossed. “I just want to know if we’re getting an international jiju. I need to update my Snapchat story accordingly.”

“There is nothing going on!” you yell, tugging the dupatta over your face in mock shame.

But they know better. They’ve seen the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t look at anyone else. The way you spoke a little softer around him.

The way his gaze lingered even after you'd left the room.

“You know what he told Nana?” your eldest sister says, smirking. “That the light in our courtyard reminded him of Florence. Florence, yaar. Who talks like that?”

You mumble through your scarf, “A pretentious idiot with a brush addiction.”

The second sister hums. “A pretentious idiot who kept staring at your jhumka like it was whispering secrets.”

Your third sister nudges you, “Are you gonna kiss him or sketch him?”

You groan again. “Can I have one peaceful night in my own house?”

But when they finally leave, trailing whispers and giggles behind them, the room is too quiet again. You lie back, fingers still warm from brushing your hair, the ghost of a gaze heavy at your wrist.

The courtyard isn't special.

It’s cracked tiles, uneven shade from a too-old neem tree, and the constant whir of a dying pedestal fan set up for the caterers. But somehow, in the late afternoon light, it feels like the only place untouched by wedding chaos.

You escape here more often now. Everyone’s too busy with haldi prep, last-minute fittings, sifting through bangle boxes and earring piles. The aunts are arguing over oil brands, the cousins are choreographing dances with the passion of Broadway stars. You’re slipping away before someone hands you another gift basket to decorate.

There’s a rustle—fabric, leaves—and then him.

You don’t startle. You’re almost used to it now. His quiet arrivals. The way he steps into a space like he was always meant to be part of it.

Rafayel.

Squatting on the ground this time, surrounded by ceramic bowls—actual hand-thrown ones—filled with powders that shimmer like magic. Ground turmeric, dried marigold, beetroot, crushed hibiscus, even something that smells faintly of cardamom and ash.

He looks up but doesn’t speak.

Just watches you as you approach, the corner of his mouth twitching in recognition. His eyes flick to your anklet when it chimes faintly against the stone. His gaze lingers. Longer than polite.

You sit without asking. Without needing to.

“Are you starting a spice shop?” you ask, picking up a pinch of burnt orange powder.

“I’m making a base for coral,” he murmurs. “The kind that dries dusky, not bright.”

“And that requires... cooking ingredients?”

He dips a brush into water, adds a swirl of powder. The hue that blooms is molten. Dreamy. “Natural pigments have soul. Artificial ones lie.”

“You sound like my Nana when he talks about real ghee.”

That earns a chuckle.

Then, a quiet beat.

“You always come here after everyone else is busy,” he says. Not a question.

You shrug. “Hard to be the youngest. Loud family. I disappear and no one notices for ten minutes.”

“I notice.”

It’s soft. Not performative. Like he’s telling you he breathes. A simple fact.

You glance at him. And this time, you really look.

He’s beautiful, yes—but not in the obvious way. Not in the way your cousins whisper about, half-laughing. There’s something in the curve of his mouth when he concentrates. In the quiet reverence with which he holds pigment. In the way his knees are dusty from squatting too long and he hasn’t even noticed.

“Why do you keep showing up wherever I go?” you ask, not sharply.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I think I was always going to end up here,” he says, still mixing. “You just happened to be in the frame.”

You should roll your eyes.

Instead, your fingers tap absently at your bangles.

“That’s a line.”

He glances up. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

You want to say something back. Something clever. Instead, you reach out and swipe a finger through the coral pigment he’s just finished blending. It stains your fingertip a shade deeper than the sunset.

“Will it stay?” you ask.

“Days,” he replies. “Weeks, if it gets under your nails.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Better than henna?” he asks.

You go still.

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t say how he knows.

Maybe you had mentioned it once, offhand. At the bazaar. While he handed you a tissue for your chili-stung mouth.

You hadn’t thought he was listening.

He was.

You look down at your coral-stained finger.

“It’s different.”

“How?”

You hesitate. Then:

“Henna… feels like a promise. This feels like a secret.”

He nods. “Some promises lie. But secrets—secrets always tell the truth.”

Your eyes meet. Not flirting. Not play. Just that pull again.

You rise to leave—because if you don’t now, you’ll stay, and if you stay, you’ll say something you aren’t ready for. But as you brush past him, he lifts his hand like he might reach for your wrist. Stops. Thinks better of it.

Still, you feel it.

The warmth of him. Close. A little too close.

“Next time,” he says, quietly, “tell me what color you want. I’ll make it for you.”

You pause, turning just slightly.

“And if I want a shade that doesn’t exist?”

His smile curves, slow and knowing.

“Then I’ll invent it.”

You don't remember agreeing to be the haldi handler, but somehow your arms are covered in it and your cousins are weaponizing rosewater like it’s war paint.

The inner courtyard is a riot of flowers, steel thalis, and three aunties yelling conflicting instructions. There’s singing, of course—off-key and heartfelt—and a cousin blasting Punjabi remixes from a Bluetooth speaker taped to a potted plant.

You’re wiping your hands on the edge of your dupatta when he appears.

Rafayel.

Again.

Leaning against the carved stone archway like he walked out of a Mughal painting and forgot to go back in. His sleeves are rolled up. He's wearing a kurta—pale ivory, thin enough that the shadows of his movements peek through. His gaze is easy but intent, scanning the courtyard until it finds you.

You freeze. Your cousin, of course, does not.

“Oh hello again, Sketchboy.”

You groan.

Rafayel’s lips quirk, just barely. “It’s Rafayel.”

“I know. She told me.”

You send her a glare. She ignores it.

He walks in further, cautious not to step on the wet haldi puddles. “I was looking for your grandfather,” he says, to you.

Her eyes gleam. “Nana’s upstairs. But since you’re here—do you want to help?”

He raises an eyebrow, and she thrusts a bowl of turmeric into his hands.

“You are always hovering around her,” she says with a wicked grin. “Might as well get your hands dirty.”

You open your mouth to protest—to save him—but he just nods. Calm. Graceful. Hands the same golden bowl back to you, and another box on top of it, like it’s a peace offering.

“For your bangles,” he says, eyes warm. “So they match the rest of you.”

Your cousins howl.

Another one whistles. “He’s got lines! Who gave this man lines?!”

You flee before they start chanting wedding shlokas.

He follows. But only after you’ve gone far enough that no one can see how your cheeks burn beneath your earrings.

That night, you escape to the rooftop.

The city is hushed, just the whisper of distant car horns and the soft rustle of leaves. The stars blink lazily. The fairy lights from the courtyard glow below like grounded fireflies. You breathe in silence.

And then—

You know it’s him before he speaks.

He doesn’t say your name. Just steps beside you, a safe distance away, holding two steaming cups of chai.

“Your sister cornered me,” he says mildly. “Asked if we were in love yet.”

You snort. “I hope you told her we weren’t.”

“I told her we weren’t yet.”

Your laugh catches, half a sound.

He hands you a cup. You wrap your fingers around it slowly.

The night presses close. The chai smells like cardamom and something darker—clove, maybe.

“You were looking for Nana?” you ask.

He nods, gaze distant. “I asked him about indigo. Real indigo. He told me a story about how it dyes memory, not just cloth.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said…” Rafayel turns, voice quieter, “...some colors never leave the skin. No matter how hard you scrub.”

You don’t reply.

You just drink.

The wind teases the hem of your dupatta. His shoulder is only inches from yours now, even though neither of you moved. You can feel the warmth of him in the space between.

“I remember the sound of your anklet before I saw your face,” he says, out of nowhere.

You turn your head sharply.

He’s not looking at you.

Just the city.

“But I think…” he adds, barely audible, “...I would’ve found you either way.”

And your heart does something reckless.

You shift your hand slightly. It brushes against his on the cement railing. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

Neither of you say anything about it.

But you don’t let go.

The house is a riot of colors and movement.

Marigold garlands are being strung across doorways. Plates of samosas, mithai, and chai pass from hand to hand with military precision. Your eldest massi is in a standoff with the decorator over the exact shade of pink for the drapes. The children are being bribed with mango juice to stop climbing the stage pillars. Your cousin nearly sets his kurta on fire trying to light a candle.

And you’re in the center of it all—trying to fasten a stubborn anklet that refuses to cooperate with your patience or your Garara.

“Uff, I swear I’m going to cut it off,” you mutter, crouched on the low veranda step.

“Would that be considered an act of war here?”

The voice is low, amused—and far too close.

You freeze.

Looking up, you find him standing above you, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. Rafayel. Dressed simply—white kurta, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes, though—sharp as ever—are focused only on you.

He kneels slowly before you, tilting his head up. “Need help?”

You blink, heart thudding. “You know how to tie an anklet?”

“I know how to observe.” His voice drops a little. “You were pressing too hard. The clasp just needs a little patience.”

He reaches forward before you can protest. His fingers brush yours, gentle, cool.

It’s suddenly very quiet despite the chaos around you. Like the volume’s been turned down on the world just so you can hear the sound of your own pulse.

He fixes it carefully, then lets his hand linger a second longer than necessary against your ankle, his thumb grazing skin. Your breath catches.

When he finally looks up, there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Something reverent.

“You wear color like it was made for you,” he murmurs. “Sound, too.”

You blink. “Sound?”

He gestures lightly. “Your anklets. Your bangles. That jhumka. You don’t just move. You announce yourself.”

You try to laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm. “Bit poetic for someone who paints with mud and beetroot juice.”

A flicker of a smirk curves his lips. “You haven’t seen what I can do with turmeric and heartbreak.”

You’re saved from replying by the sudden shriek of your sister yelling your name from the terrace. “OYE—stop flirting! We need help with the gajre!”

Rafayel’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter as you groan and get up, brushing off your hands.

“I’m not flirting,” you shout back automatically, already turning away.

But you feel him watching you go.

The anklet chimes with every step, traitorous and delighted.

The courtyard is transformed.

Fairy lights drip from the trees like liquid stars. Orange and pink drapes flutter in the breeze. Someone’s playing the dhol like their life depends on it, and the beat rattles through the ground and into your ribs. Laughter crashes like waves—loud, unrestrained, warm.

This is what you missed.

Home.

Family.

And right now, the stage belongs to you and your sisters.

You’re twirling, lost in rhythm, dupatta flying behind you like fire, bangles clashing with the music. Your sisters flank you, all of you laughing, dancing in sync, every step a memory coming alive. Anklets sing with every movement. Across the crowd—near the water fountain where the elders have congregated—he stands.

Rafayel.

Wearing deep blue, like storm clouds threatening to pour. Hair swept back now. A quiet shadow among all this noise. But his gaze never wavers.

Not even for a second.

It’s not just admiration. It’s... hunger. The kind born not of lust, but of longing. His eyes drink you in like he’s found the muse he crossed oceans to chase.

And for a moment, you dare to meet his gaze mid-spin.

The world doesn’t slow—it stutters. Your breath snags. The dance fades into background noise. His lips twitch at the corner, not quite a smile, not quite a challenge.

He looks like he wants to walk straight into the fire of it all.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stands rooted, one hand curled around a cup of chai he’s forgotten, the other clenching loosely by his side like he’s holding back something urgent. Something unruly.

The music swells. You turn away, cheeks burning, heart loud.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him this much.

You shouldn’t be wondering how it would feel to rest your head against that chest, warm and steady like thunderclouds before the rain.

Tu hi tu hai joh har taraf mere (Now that you are there all around me) 

Toh tujhse pare main jaaun kahan (So where can I go far from you) 

You mouth the lyrics with the music, not realizing how they cling to you like a secret.

Later that night, when the guests begin to trickle out and the lights grow softer, you pass him by in the corridor. He’s leaning against the arch, one leg crossed over the other, gaze unreadable.

“You danced like you were trying to set something free,” he says quietly.

You pause, heart skipping.

“And did I?” you ask.

His voice is low—dangerous. “No. You caged something else instead.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But neither of you moves. The moment stretches like silk—thin, shining, threatening to snap.

Until your little cousin barrels down the hall screeching, “SWEETS!”

Rafayel glances up, chuckling. “Always the dramatics in this family.”

You smile, but it trembles a little at the edge.

Because you know it now.

This isn't just a crush.

It’s something deeper.

The smell of mehndi hangs thick in the air—earthy, sweet, nostalgic. The house is glowing with fairy lights, cushions thrown everywhere, dhol beating loud enough to shake your ribs. Cousins are dancing. Aunties are gossiping. Kids are high on sugar and unregulated enthusiasm. Everything is bright and loud and spinning.

Except you.

You sit on the edge of the steps, hands folded neatly in your lap. Bare.

Everyone else has swirls of deep brown trailing up their arms, names of lovers hidden in curls, flowers blossoming across skin like poetry. You? Nothing.

Because in the chaos—between fixing someone’s ripped lehenga, calming your crying niece, and being sent to find a charger for the henna artist’s phone—you missed your turn.

By the time you got back, the artist was packing up. Everyone else had gone back to eating, laughing, taking selfies.

No one noticed your hands were still empty.

No one asked.

You don't cry. That would be stupid. It’s just mehndi, right? You’re not the bride. You’re not even the sister of the bride. You’re just... here. The guest. The helper. The fixer. The extra set of hands.

But god, it hurts.

You slip away from the crowd, down the back path that leads toward the garden. It’s darker here. Quiet. Your bangles don’t jingle. You’ve stopped moving like music.

That’s when you hear him.

“You look like someone punched your soul.”

You turn.

Rafayel stands leaning against a tree, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small paper cup of juice. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t try to crowd you. He just looks.

You try to laugh it off. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you were invited again.”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “I was summoned. By your grandfather. Said there’d be sweets.”

You snort. “Of course.”

He walks forward slowly. Stops beside you, close but not too close.

You look down at your bare hands.

He sees.

“What happened?”

You shrug. “Nothing. I was just—busy.”

“With everyone else.”

You look away.

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Would you let me?”

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out—of all things—a fresh, sealed henna cone.

“I heard you say how much you wanted it. I may have… spent the last few days learning.”

You stare at the tube. Then at him. Then back.

“You what?!”

“I watched tutorials. Got a few lessons from the lady who sold me the bangles. Look, I might’ve accidentally stained my hands orange in the process, but…” he shrugs, sheepish. “I can try?”

You stare.

And then you laugh.

Loud and full and stunned. “You? Want to do my mehendi?”

“I figured…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I can paint on canvas, I can paint on you.”

Just then, your cousins stumble onto the terrace. Spot the henna cone from above. Spot Rafayel.

“Oh my God, look at him! He’s going to do her mehendi?!”

“I thought he was a foreigner!”

“He’s not even Desi and he’s trying! What is this, a fanfic?”

“Bhaiya, please marry her—”

Rafayel, flustered and surrounded, gets to his feet. “Okay—I take it back, this was a terrible idea—”

You’re laughing so hard you have to lean against a pillar.

But eventually, you pull him by the wrist and escape up the back stairwell, breathless and grinning.

“I wasn’t joking,” he murmurs when you’re alone again. “I really want to do your henna.”

You look at him—at his stained fingers, at the sketchbook peeking from his bag, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most sacred canvas he’s ever seen.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay?”

You hold out your hand.

He takes it like it’s made of glass.

And begins.

You sit cross-legged on the marble balcony, the air sweet with mogra and anticipation. Somewhere behind you, your cousins are whispering by the window, spying, no doubt—but for once, you don’t care.

The moonlight falls soft on your arms as you extend your hands toward him. Your skin glows under its silver wash, and for a second, Rafayel just stares.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low. He’s already kneeling in front of you, henna cone poised delicately between long fingers.

You nod.

“Positive.”

His gaze lingers on your face—eyes searching for hesitation, for teasing. There’s none. So he exhales, rests his hand lightly under your wrist, and begins.

The first line is slow.

Tentative.

You hold your breath as the cool trail touches your skin. His touch is featherlight, reverent. The henna’s earthy scent begins to bloom between you as intricate curves unfold beneath his steady hand.

You glance at his face—and your breath catches.

He looks... different.

Focused, yes, but something else flickers there too. A sort of awe. As if your skin is sacred and this—the act of decorating it—is worship.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper, half-teasing.

He smiles faintly. “I practiced on oranges and my own leg,” he murmurs. “This is... better.”

You laugh softly. “I should hope so.”

The pattern snakes up your palm in elegant spirals. Your fingers twitch once, brushing against his wrist, and his entire body stills for a second too long.

“I didn’t expect...” he starts, then stops.

“Didn’t expect what?” you ask.

“That I’d care this much about doing it right.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. You don’t press.

The air between you grows heavier as he works. The world shrinks to nothing but the warm hush of your breath and the cool glisten of henna tracing lines over your skin.

It’s too much—too quiet, too close, too everything.

So you break it.

“Did you come really come this far just for color?” you ask, softly.

His hand pauses for a moment.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I came for inspiration. I was blocked, empty. Nothing made sense on canvas. But now...”

He glances up.

“You do.”

And there it is.

The truth, plain as stars.

Your throat tightens.

“Rafayel—”

He gently lifts your other hand. Brushes his thumb over your knuckles. “May I?”

You nod, breath caught between your ribs.

He begins again, slower this time, more deliberate. Every curve of henna—a confession he isn’t ready to say out loud.

As he draws, you realize what he’s weaving into your palm. A crescent moon, delicate and shaded, blooming from a sea of waves and lotuses—an ocean of you and him.

And hidden in the swirls of your wrist, nestled between the paisleys—

A single stroke. He signs his name, woven into the intricate design.

You don’t say anything.

Not now.

Instead, you close your eyes.

You don’t need words.

The henna speaks for you.

You wake to the scent of dried henna warm on your skin. The morning sun slices through sheer curtains, dancing over the gold trim of your pillow.

You sit up slowly.

Your hands are dry now, the patterns stained into your skin like secrets.

You lift them to the light—and stare.

You had seen it forming last night, glimpses between breathless silences and the brush of his fingers. But in the full glow of morning, it’s mesmerizing.

Waves. Lotuses. The crescent moon—so delicate it looks like a smile. Everything twined with the tiniest, near-invisible strokes of text—

His name. Hidden in the curve of your wrist. Not loud, not bold. Secret. Intimate.

You run your thumb over it. Your chest aches in a way it shouldn’t.

Outside your room, the house is already alive—laughter, clinking dishes, someone shouting about roti. But here, it’s still quiet. Still yours.

You press your palm to your cheek and smile. Just a little.

You weren’t planning to wear anything that would draw attention.

But your sisters had other plans.

Somehow, you ended up in an emerald-green lehenga and so many churiyan stacked on your arms, you feel like a walking wind chime. They curled your hair, pinned your jhumkas just right, and lined your eyes with a black liner so sharp it could cut.

“You look like heartbreak—personified,” your cousin said, snapping your picture.

You didn’t say it, but you were already holding it.

Because on your hands—woven into your skin like a soft, silent rebellion—are Rafayel’s designs.

His ocean.

His name.

You weren’t going to tell anyone. You were just going to survive the event, perform the group dance, maybe eat a gulab jamun or four, and avoid thinking too hard.

But the universe had other plans.

You walk into the courtyard.

Someone sees your hands.

And the chaos begins.

“OHHH MY GODDDD!”

Your middle sister grabs your wrist like its evidence. “Yeh kisne banaya? This is NOT the henna artist’s work.”

Your aunt peeks over her shoulder. “Arey haan, this is too modern.”

Your youngest cousin squints, snatches your hand, flips it over. “Kya likha hai yahaan…? R… A… Rafay—”

You pull your hands back. Mortified. 

“RA-FAY?” she shrieks. “WHO. IS. RA-FAY?”

You freeze. For once, you have no comeback.

Your sisters are SCREAMING. Your chachis are huddled like spies in a Netflix crime doc. One of your brothers actually drops his phone and shouts “Plot twist!!”

You try to mediate the situation, but it’s too late.

You're in the spotlight now.

“You didn’t even TELL us?”

“Is he rich?”

“Is he tall?”

“Are you in love?”

“Kya kahani hai?!”

“Show us his picture!”

“NO NO, call him HERE.”

You’re backing away when you bump straight into a very solid chest.

Rafayel.

Wearing—of course—a black kurta with the sleeves rolled up and a subtle smirk playing on his mouth like he knew this would happen. Like he planned it.

Of course he did.

The entire family goes silent.

Your chachi is fuming.

Your sister whispers, “No. Freaking. Way.”

A cousin mutters, “Ladka hot hai. You’re excused.”

And Nana?

Sitting with a cup of chai, cross-legged on the divan. Watching.

He smiles. Doesn’t say a word.

Just sips.

You, somehow, find your voice. “What are you doing here?”

Rafayel’s tone is innocent. “Nana invited me.”

Nana, not your Nana, not your grandfather. Just Nana, as if—

Your grandfather raises his cup in the air like he’s won.

The rest of your family stares. You brace yourself for questions, for teasing, for death-by-curiosity.

But Rafayel just turns to you, eyes steady, and says:

“You didn’t wash it off.”

You don’t blink. “You wrote your name on me.”

“I asked permission.”

“You did not.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

Your mouth opens. But you’re short-circuiting. The lehenga’s too tight. The night’s too loud. The mehndi is still dark.

And Rafayel, without even touching you, has you unraveling.

Your aunt whispers to your mother, “Ab inki shaadi krwani hai.”

Nana nods sagely. “Larka acha hai. Artist hai, lekin acha hai.”

You look at Rafayel. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans down, voice low, just for you. “More than you know.”

The music's gone thunderous again—bass so heavy it could realign your spine. Everyone's dancing now. A blur of color and sweat and wildly offbeat choreography.

You duck out, breath catching in your throat, heat rising in your cheeks, pulse still tripping over Rafayel’s words.

You didn’t wash it off. You didn’t stop me. He said it like a fact. Like a challenge.

You need air.

The side courtyard is quiet. Just fairy lights and the faint echo of Raataan Lambiyan bleeding through the walls. You press your back to the cool stone and try to remember how to inhale like a normal human being.

“Running away again?”

His voice cuts through the quiet like silk.

You don’t open your eyes. “I’m not running.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” he asks, footsteps soft as he approaches.

“Hiding from my family. They’re about five minutes away from planning our engagement.”

He laughs, quiet and real.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You open your eyes.

He’s standing in front of you now, too close for comfort, but not close enough to touch. That maddening in-between space where the air buzzes and you don’t know whether to step forward or step back.

You go for sarcasm, because that’s safe. “Do you always move this fast?”

He shrugs. “I don’t move fast. I move when it feels like I’ll regret standing still.”

You hate how that lands. You hate how it feels true.

He takes a half-step closer. “Why does it scare you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because you’re—we're—”

We're too different. You don't say but he realizes nonetheless. 

Something flickers in his expression. He doesn’t respond.

And then—just as you’re about to turn, to leave, to end this before it spills over—

Your dupatta catches.

Snagged, pulled, stuck—right on the button of his kurta.

Classic. Cosmic. Catastrophic.

You both freeze.

His hand lifts slowly, carefully brushing over the embroidery. You feel it in your chest, not your shoulder.

“It’s delicate,” he murmurs, eyes still on the fabric. “Like you.”

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Don’t make that a metaphor.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He finally looks up. “I don’t need metaphors. You’re already the art.”

You exhale sharply, but you’re not smiling.

You’re bare.

No sarcasm. No shield. No exit.

“Why me?” you ask. “You could have anyone. You could walk into a gallery and have a dozen muses lined up.”

He leans in just enough that you forget how to stay still.

“I don’t want a muse,” he says. “I want a mirror.”

You go still.

Your heart has the audacity to lurch.

And then—just like that—he untangles the thread. Slow. Gentle. His fingers ghost over your shoulder as he frees you. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t press.

He steps back.

But you feel it like he touched your soul.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper again.

This time, he smiles like he agrees. “So are you.”

And with that, he leaves you standing there—wrapped in green, stained with his name, and completely unraveled.

You should’ve seen it coming.

It started with your sisters plotting by the sink. Then whispering way too obviously during dinner. You knew they were up to something—your family doesn’t whisper, they scheme.

So when the plans for the “pre-wedding cousin trip” were announced—beach day, whole squad, bride, groom, chaos—you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you?

The moment you climbed into the rental van and found Rafayel, already seated by the window, sipping Rooh Afza from a paper cup, like he belonged there.

“Kya— Why are you here?” you ask, switching languages without realizing, clutching the doorframe like it might save you.

He shrugs, deadpan. “Don't look at me like that. Your sisters practically kidnapped me. I'm a victim”

Your middle sister grins from the driver’s seat. “We needed an adult to supervise.”

Your eldest sister chimes in, “And someone hot for aesthetics.”

You stare at them.

They wink at you.

You climb in, praying the universe has a sense of mercy.

It does not.

Because Rafayel ends up beside you.

Because the van is packed.

Because fate is dramatic like that.

The beach is wild.

Desi playlists blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Cousins racing into the water, someone trying to fly a kite, the groom being bullied into a photoshoot, and your dupatta turning into a weapon in the sea breeze.

You try to fade into the background. Let the younger ones scream over one of Atif Aslam’s songs and the older ones debate biryani vs kadhai. You sit near a rocky patch, toes buried in the sand, finally breathing.

Rafayel appears like a ghost beside you.

Shoes off. Sleeves rolled up. A soft salt-touched breeze threading through his hair.

“Didn’t take you for a beach person,” you say.

“I like water,” he replies. “It never lies.”

You glance at him. “Is that how you paint?”

He nods. “Water remembers things the canvas forgets.”

You don't know what that means, but it sinks into you anyway.

“Do you swim?” he asks suddenly.

You raise a brow. “Do you?”

His smirk is dangerous. “Want to find out?”

Before you can answer, one of your cousins yells, “WE’RE DOING A SANDCASTLE CONTEST—COUPLES EDITION!”

Your sisters immediately point at you and Rafayel.

“THEY’RE A TEAM!”

You open your mouth. “We’re not—”

Too late.

You’re being handed a bucket, a mini shovel, and more pressure than a family dinner.

Rafayel just chuckles. “Let’s win.”

You glare. “I hate you.”

He leans close. “Puh-lease, you love me.”

You blink.

Then he grabs the shovel and starts building like he didn’t just drop an emotional grenade on you.

—

The tide creeps in slowly. Your team lost (your youngest cousin's “Shrek castle” won by sheer chaos points). Everyone’s packing up.

But you’re still standing at the edge of the water, ankle-deep, jeans rolled up, watching the waves.

You hear him before you see him.

“Come on,” Rafayel says, walking straight into the tide like a painting coming alive. “One dip won’t kill you.”

“You don’t have extra clothes.”

“I’ll dry.”

“Your shirt’s linen.”

He grins. “Then let it wrinkle.”

You stare.

He walks farther in.

The ocean wraps around him, warm and gold and endless.

“You’re insane,” you call.

He looks over his shoulder, hair damp now, smile soft and sure.

“Come anyway.”

And somehow—you do.

You step into the water.

And it feels like everything else—your name, your past, your aching chest—gets washed back to shore.

He doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t need to.

You’re already drowning.

And for the first time in weeks—you want to be.

The day of the wedding it's like there’s gold in the air.

Not just in the shimmer of embroidered sarees or the edge of the bride's red veil trailing behind her like a royal train, but in the laughter, the glint of bangles clinking like tiny bells, in the chaos of cousins running wild with stolen stage props and half-baked plans.

Music weaves through the air—old Bollywood, newer remixes, and a few chaotic mashups that only your loudest cousins know how to dance to. Your aunties are shouting across tables, bargaining over bets and rules like they're trading on the stock market.

And Rafayel?

He’s seated quietly at the edge of it all, in a crisp sherwani you still can’t believe he agreed to wear. It’s ivory, with subtle hand embroidery at the collar, and when he shifts in the golden sunlight, he glows like he belongs in an oil painting. A silent observer, sketching it all with his eyes.

But then his gaze finds you, and he forgets how to breathe.

You’re helping your niece with her bangles, bent slightly forward, the jhumkas by your ears swaying like they have their own rhythm. Your hair is pinned up in an updo. And that smile—God. You look like a moment he wants to paint into forever.

You catch him looking. He doesn’t look away.

Tera dil woh shehar hai  (Your heart is a city) 

Jis shehar me ja ke lauta na main kabhi  (A city I went to once and have never returned since) 

—

The joota chupai begins like a war. Your cousin army steals the groom’s shoes, hiding them under a sea of lehengas and fake distractions. The groom’s side retaliates. There are negotiations, ambushes, ransom demands. Rafayel watches it all unfold with mild horror and deep fascination.

“You people are intense,” he mutters when you pass him, breathless and triumphant with one stolen shoe in hand.

“We’re efficient,” you say. “You’d better watch your shoes.”

“If you want me, just ask nicely,” he retaliates.

Your breath catches at the implication—but you don’t stop walking.

—

Then comes the game.

A table is laid out with dozens of objects—glass bangles, a peacock feather, a toy gun, a spoon, a fake mustache, lipstick, a paper crown. A speaker blasts snippets of Bollywood songs and everyone rushes to pick the object that best matches the lyrics. It’s madness. It’s brilliant.

“Kala Chashma”—a cousin dives for the sunglasses.

“Bole Chudiyan”—you grab the glass bangles.

“Desi girl”—he snatches a bindi and sticks it between his brows with a flourish. The entire family howls.

Rafayel doesn’t win most rounds. But when “Ishq wala love” plays, he doesn't reach for anything. He just looks at you.

And that… is enough.

—

Later, after the crowd has dispersed for dinner and the courtyard is quieter under strings of fairy lights and the stars above, you find him sketching near the tree.

He looks up.

“You look beautiful,” he says, as if it’s a confession. “Not just tonight. Always.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“Rafayel—”

“I’ve tried not to,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I told myself this is temporary. A trip. A burst of color. A muse.”

He exhales like it hurts. “But it’s not. I love you.”

The world stills. The lights flicker. A firecracker cracks in the distance.

You close your eyes.

Because you want to believe it. God, you want it.

But what happens when the trip ends? When you go back to your studies, your deadlines, your life? He’s famous, traveling the world. You're rooted in something smaller, softer, real.

“It’s not enough,” you whisper, stepping back. “We won’t survive. Not for the long run.”

And before he can speak again—before he can soften your doubt into something brave—you slip away, heart thundering.

—

Days pass. 

The wedding is over. The chaos settles into memory.

Your room is quiet. His suitcase is still in your foyer. Neither of you reach for each other.

Nana watches you mope around, pretending not to stare at your phone every ten minutes. Watches Rafayel sketch for hours but never finish a single piece.

He huffs.

“Enough,” he mutters one morning. “I didn’t survive three bypasses and a youth of British colonial nonsense to watch two idiots destroy their own love story.”

Nana’s plan starts like most historical disasters do: with the elders whispering in corners.

You should’ve been suspicious when your aunties started wearing their fancier clothes to breakfast. Or when your second cousin first removed—who usually dresses like a teenager on laundry day—showed up in a sherwani and borrowed your brother’s perfume.

You definitely should’ve noticed when your mother gave you the look. That silent, smug “don’t-ask-just-go-wear-the-red-one” look.

But you were tired, still aching from how things ended with Rafayel, still pretending not to notice how your phone stayed silent. So you let yourself be dressed, fed, ushered into a car.

“Whose wedding are we going to, again?” you finally ask.

Your brother shrugs. “Distant cousin. Friend of a cousin. Someone’s son. I don’t know.”

You narrow your eyes. “You guys don’t not know things.”

No one answers.

The venue is decorated like a fever dream. Red and gold and ivory everywhere, fountains flowing with rose petals, dhol beats rolling thunder across the marble floors.

There’s a wedding chair up front.

Two.

One of them is empty.

The other is ocuppied by you.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, turning to your sister, “if this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” she says sweetly. “It’s a plan.”

And that’s when you see him.

Rafayel. Wearing a sherwani—how many has he bought?—looking utterly bewildered and completely beautiful.

“What sort of mating ritual is this,” he asks, blinking at your grandfather, “if I may ask?”

“An intervention,” Nana says smugly, holding the sehra. “Sit down.”

—

You are mortified. Beyond mortified.

There are aunties placing flower garlands around your neck. Cousins taking selfies. Your niece is live-streaming. Nana is pretending he’s hard of hearing when you question him.

Rafayel is frozen in place, eyes darting between you and the absurdly ornate garden. “Are we… getting married?”

You pull him aside by the wrist.

“No! God, no. It’s not real. They’re messing with us.”

“Are you sure? These rituals look too real.”

“Just—ignore it.”

He looks at you for a moment too long.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he murmurs.

Your heart does a backflip.

“What?”

“If it were real.”

You forget how to breathe.

Eventually, you manage to escape the fake-wedding-ambush with your dignity mostly intact. The others cheer like a cricket match has just ended. Nana looks annoyingly pleased with himself.

But the damage is done.

Rafayel walks you to your room that night. The air is quiet again, heavy with things unsaid. The corridor is dimly lit. Soft golden sconces cast shadows against the marble, catching on your bangles as you fidget, still breathless from the mayhem.

He leans against the wall just outside your room, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He’s always been like this—wrapped in riddles, walls so carefully constructed you never thought you’d see past them.

But tonight… tonight he looks wrecked in the way only someone in love does. Beautiful and broken. Holding himself still like the wrong word might make you vanish.

You speak first. Quietly.

“I thought I was protecting myself. Maybe even protecting you.”

His gaze flickers to you. “From what?”

“From falling too deep. From making it harder when we part ways. From hoping.”

A long silence stretches between you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, and that alone makes your throat ache.

“You’re Rafayel,” you say with a hollow laugh. “The world’s darling. Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.” 

“Things?” Rafayel raises an eyebrow. 

“People,” You acquiesce. “And I’m just… me. The girl with an entire extended family who thinks you’re my groom now.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “That was chaos.”

“That was Nana.”

He laughs, finally. It’s low and warm and you’ve missed it more than you’ll ever admit.

Then his voice drops. Soft. Bare.

“Do you really think I care about any of that?”

You blink at him.

“You think I look at you and see someone ‘lesser’? I see the girl who made me forget I was lost. Who walks into a room and makes everything brighter—even when she’s holding grief in her chest like a second heart.”

You feel your eyes sting.

“You think I planned this? You think I came to this country looking for inspiration and expected you to be it?”

His voice catches. “But there you were. With anklets that sang like wind chimes. With that laugh that makes me forget my own name. I didn’t mean to stay. But I did.”

Your fingers tremble against your bangles. 

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily. “You tore through my silence like a monsoon.”

His hand lifts, slow and reverent, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“And I haven’t been able to breathe the same since.”

You swallow thickly, wanting to believe it, wanting so badly to let it all go and just fall—into him, into the soft promise of his hands and his voice and his everything.

“We live worlds apart,” you murmur.

“Then I’ll build a bridge.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No,” he says, “it never is. But you and I? We’re worth the complication.”

The air between you is charged, your hearts beating in tandem like two instruments tuned to the same storm. You step forward, and he does too, and for a moment the distance shrinks until only choice remains.

You look up at him, eyes wide and soul trembling.

“What now?”

“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, “we try.”

“And if we fail?”

“Then at least we did it holding on to each other.”

The salt-laced wind rushes past you as you stand at the edge of the dock, bare feet grazing warm planks, the scent of sea and paint lingering on your skin. Somewhere behind you, laughter echoes—Rafayel’s, low and lazy, like sunlight stretched across a hammock.

A seagull calls overhead.

In your hand, a half-finished sketch of a bustling spice bazaar in Marrakech. On your wrist, a silver bangle you picked up in Istanbul, etched with waves. Next to you, a weather-worn travel satchel stuffed with fabrics, pigment jars, dried flowers, postcards. Places you've seen. Places you've lived. Together.

You hear footsteps.

“You’re sketching again,” he murmurs, peering over your shoulder.

“Trying to keep up with your genius,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Please. Your mango vendor has more soul than my cathedral.”

He slips his hand into yours.

Your rings clink.

Cities blurred past. Paint on his collar, your poetry scrawled in margins, nights tangled in hotel rooms with rain drumming against old windows. Bickering in markets. Singing old Bollywood songs while doing laundry in some forgotten corner of Prague.

Once, he painted you wearing bangles and jhumkas and nothing else. You framed it in the kitchen of a houseboat you rented in Kerala.

The world doesn’t feel so wide now. Not when you’ve danced in its shadows with someone who speaks in art and sarcasm and glances that set your pulse racing.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“Where next?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

You smile. “Wherever the color is.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. “Wherever you are.”

You turn to face him. Sea spray in your hair. Love in your eyes. The kind that didn’t arrive with fireworks or grand declarations. Just persistence. And softness. And staying.

Somewhere, a song plays in the distance, wafting from a small celebration down the beach.

Ae mere dil mubarak ho (Congratulations to you, my heart) 

Yahi toh pyaar hai (Only this is love) 

You both freeze.

Then you laugh. Loud and bright and free.

He groans. “That song is going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

You lean into him. “It brought you to me.”

He grins, his eyes soft with something eternal.

“No. You brought me to you.”

And just like that, with the sea behind you and the whole wide world ahead—you walk forward, fingers intertwined, hearts unafraid.