3. 𝘌𝘊𝘏𝘖𝘌𝘚

People spoke of moving on as if it were a switch.
As if love could be turned off without leaving the room dim forever.

I lay awake long after the house had gone quiet, the echoes of dinner still floating through the corridors. Laughter. Teasing. Suggestions disguised as concern. 

Just be friends.
He seems nice.
You deserve a fresh start.

I lay on my bed, staring at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan.

I reached for my phone. 
My fingers typed 0505 before my brain caught up.
A birthday.
Just not mine.

The contact was still there.

No name.
Just a dot.

I didn't open it.

Because memory didn't wait to be invited.

I was twenty again.

Abhiman's wedding had turned the house into a festival. Marigolds everywhere. Fairy lights draped carelessly like happiness had run out of time. The air buzzed with music and voices and anticipation.

I had escaped to the terrace with a plate of snacks I wasn't eating.

He found me within minutes.

"You ran away," he said, sliding in beside me and stealing a bite from my plate.

"That was mine," I protested.

He grinned. "Our plate."

I rolled my eyes, but smiled anyway.

He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. I leaned back into him without thinking, fitting there easily.

"You're glowing," he murmured near my ear.

"It's sweat," I said. "I've been running errands all day."

"Nope," he said, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "Glow."

I turned my face slightly, and he kissed me again—this time slower, lingering just enough to make my heart trip over itself.

"Behave," I whispered.

He laughed softly. "You're the one who looks illegally pretty."

I elbowed him lightly. "Flatter me more and I'll push you off this terrace."

"Worth it," he said immediately.

We stood there, his chin resting on my shoulder, my hands loosely wrapped around his arm.

"Ameena finalised her lehenga," I said. "Pastel pink."

He hummed. "Good choice."

"You haven't even seen mine yet."

"I don't need to," he said confidently. "You'll look unreal."

I turned to face him. "Bias."

"Hopelessly," he admitted, kissing my forehead this time.

Music floated up from below. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone called my name and then forgot why.

He tightened his hold slightly, swaying us gently as if there was music just for us.

"You're doing too much," he said. "Planning, coordinating, worrying."

"It's my brother's wedding," I replied. "I can't not care."

"I know love," he said softly. 

The word love didn't feel heavy when he said it.
It felt like home.

I rested my head against his chest. He kissed my hair absentmindedly, again and again, like he couldn't help it.

"You smell like jasmine," he said.

"I walked past the garlands."

"Stay there," he murmured. "You're comfortable."

I smiled into his kurta. "You're clingy."

"And you like it."

I didn't deny it.

Someone shouted for me again.

I sighed. "They'll start a search party."

He loosened his hold reluctantly but stole one last kiss—quick, playful, right at the corner of my mouth.

"Go," he said. "I'll find you later."

The memory dissolved slowly, like warmth leaving skin.

I was back in my room. Alone. Quiet.

Tonight, after polite smiles and well-meaning pressure, that memory felt heavier than grief.

Because it wasn't uncertainty I was mourning.

It was certainty.

A love that had been easy. Effortless. Full of laughter and stolen kisses and arms that knew exactly where I belonged.

When people asked me to move on, they didn't understand—

I wasn't holding on to pain.

I was holding on to love.

And some loves don't fade.

They settle into you.
Soft. Permanent.

I closed my eyes and let the ache exist.

Tomorrow, I would smile again.
Be calm. Be kind. Be firm.

But tonight, I allowed myself this—

To remember what it felt like to be loved openly, shamelessly, completely.

And to miss it. 

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