📍T O R O N T O, C A N A D A

A man was running on a treadmill, his pace steady, each stride resonating in the room. His body was glistening with sweat, the sharp contours of his muscles highlighted under the gym's dim lighting. His half-brown hair was tied loosely in a small ponytail, but the front locks rebelled, falling messily over his forehead.

Golden eyes, striking and intense, focused ahead. There was something about those eyes-familiar, like they held pieces of someone else's gaze, someone far away.

He finally stopped, breathing heavily, and grabbed a towel hanging nearby. Wiping away the sweat, he stepped off the treadmill. The gym, sleek and modern, was set up inside his sprawling house. The polished equipment and spacious interiors spoke of wealth, yet the aura of the place felt quiet and personal.

The guy exited the gym and stepped into the morning light, his bare feet touching the cool, well-maintained lawn.

"Good morning, Nanu," he greeted, his voice calm yet rich, as he approached an elderly man sitting under a large tree.

The old man looked up from his newspaper, adjusting his glasses. "Good morning, beta. You're up early today."

The guy smiled faintly, his golden eyes catching the sunlight. "Couldn't sleep."

The old man studied him for a moment, a knowing glint in his eyes, but said nothing.

The guy stretched his arms, the weight of the morning air settling on him. His presence exuded strength and control, but there was an underlying tension in the way his jaw clenched occasionally, as though something unresolved lingered just beneath the surface.

"Nanu, mai India ja raha hun," the guy said, lowering himself to sit on the grass behind the old man's chair. His voice carried both determination and a trace of vulnerability.

The elderly man folded his newspaper neatly, placing it aside before turning to look at him. His weathered hand gently rested on the younger man's head. "Tumhe jaana bhi chahiye," he said with quiet wisdom, his touch offering a silent reassurance.

The guy leaned sideways, resting his head against the old man's legs, a gesture that betrayed the weight he had been carrying. "Vo mera intezar kar rahi hai, Nanu," he murmured, his golden eyes staring off into the distance as if trying to bridge the miles that separated him from someone.

The old man's hand lightly ruffled his hair, but he said nothing, letting the younger man speak his heart.

"Vo hamesha har chij se khud bahar aa jati hai," he continued, his voice soft yet heavy with unspoken emotions. "Lekin is baar... is baar usse meri zarurat hai."

The silence between them grew, but it wasn't empty-it was filled with understanding, memories, and the gravity of what lay ahead. The old man didn't need to ask who or why; he knew. And that knowledge made his heart ache in a way only time and wisdom could comprehend.

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📍R A J A S T H A N

The wedding was a month away, and preparations were in full swing. The house bustled with activity, each corner humming with the chaos of celebration. Rishabh had returned to Toronto a few days ago; his business awaited him there. He had studied abroad and built a successful career in architecture, a field that demanded his time and creativity.

He had promised to return in ten days, just in time for the final stretch of festivities. Until then, the household remained a whirlwind of planning, colors, and voices. Every moment was steeped in anticipation, as if the air itself carried the weight of unspoken emotions and lingering thoughts.

After 20 days

Arshia stood in the kitchen, making coffee for herself. The wedding was only ten days away, and the house had filled with guests, laughter, music, and endless chatter. Dance practices echoed through the halls, and the relentless hum of celebration seemed never-ending. For an introvert like her, it was nothing short of overwhelming. The noise pressed against her temples, threatening to steal away the quiet she craved.

Rishabh appeared at the kitchen door, leaning casually against the frame.

"Jyda saar dard ho raha hai?" he asked softly.

She didn't look back. His sudden appearances no longer startled her; she was beginning to grow accustomed to them-or perhaps, she was forcing herself to. In the past ten days since he had returned, Rishabh had found reasons to drop by frequently, talking to her, offering comfort in his own unassuming way. She didn't mind; they weren't great friends, but they had become... something. Two people who shared a few words to make the chaos around them seem a little quieter.

"Hn, itna high music, aur itne logo..." she replied honestly. Lying had never been her forte.

He chuckled, stepping forward to rest his hand on the cabinet in front of her "Toh chalo kahi bahar chalte hai, jaha log na ho."

"Taiyar hone ka koi mood nhi hai mera."

The corners of his lips lifted in amusement, but he didn't push. The moment hung between them-simple, fleeting, yet oddly comforting.

2 day later.

Ananya had some shopping to do and insisted Arshia, Naina, and Aman accompany her. Rishabh, who was already heading out, joined them as well.

At the mall, Naina ran into a group of her friends and left to spend time with them. Ananya pulled Aman along to shop for her own needs, leaving Arshia and Rishabh to wander through the gown section.

Arshia moved through the racks with measured steps, her fingers brushing against fabric as her eyes scanned the designs. She paused in front of a striking red gown, her gaze lingering longer than usual. Meanwhile, Rishabh's attention never left her.

He noticed the way she was staring at the gown and finally followed her gaze. It was beautiful-elegant and bold, a statement in itself. But there was something in her eyes, a story they told that had nothing to do with the gown's beauty.

"Pasand hai tumhe yeh?" he ventured gently.

She shook her head, tearing her eyes away. "Nahi, it's just a gown. Art Nahi hai yeh."

She moved on, leaving him behind. It wasn't art-how could it be? Art was born of broken hearts and aching souls, and this was just a design.

Rishabh followed her, trying to bridge the silence. "Tumhe red colour pasand hai?" he asked, searching for something to hold onto in their conversation.

She stopped abruptly, turning to face him. Her gaze pierced his, steady and unyielding.

"No, I don't like red. I like vengeance." Her voice was soft but carried the weight of something unspoken. Her lips curved into the faintest of bitter smiles as she added, "Revenge is red-the color of blood, the color of scars that never fade."

Rishabh froze, caught off guard by the cold intensity in her tone. There was a storm behind her words, and for a moment, he glimpsed the fire she worked so hard to hide.

She took a step closer, her eyes hard as steel. "Tum mujhe dhoka dena ka sochna bhi mat," she warned, her voice steady, yet carrying a trace of vulnerability. For the first time, Arshia was beginning to accept her fate-that she had to marry him.

Had it been for Aarav, had she still clung to the hope that he would come back for her, she would have never spoken these words to Rishabh. But now, she was marrying out of spite, out of a burning need to shatter Aarav's belief that she was his and always would be.

If Aarav thought her life was tethered to his whims, she would break that illusion. And as she took this drastic step, she couldn't afford another betrayal. She couldn't risk someone else leaving her behind.

Initially, she had agreed to this marriage only on her terms. The deal was clear: Rishabh would return to Toronto after the wedding, and she would move to Mumbai to finish her studies. He had reluctantly agreed, knowing convincing Arshia to do anything against her will was next to impossible. But his patience and persistence had begun to wear down her walls. Slowly, she had started giving him a chance-not just to this arrangement, but to the possibility of a future together.

Rishabh stood frozen for a moment, her words sinking in. Finally, he gathered his courage and took a step closer. His hands reached for hers, trembling but resolute, as he held them gently. It was the first time he dared to cross the boundaries she had drawn.

"Nahi... mai..." He faltered, struggling to find the right words. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and looked into her eyes with unwavering sincerity.

"Mai tumhe kabhi dhoka nahi de sakta, Arshi," his voice softened, and yet his conviction was unmistakable. "I love you. Abhi se nahi-bachpan se."

His words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, leaving Arshia momentarily speechless.

She didn't say a word. Her expression didn't shift, not even a flicker of surprise or acknowledgment. She simply nodded, almost imperceptibly, and gently pulled her hands away from his grasp.

Without meeting his gaze, she turned and walked out of the store, her movements quiet yet deliberate. The faint sound of her footsteps faded as she disappeared through the door, leaving Rishabh standing there, the weight of his confession still hanging in the air.

He watched her retreating figure, his heart heavy but unwavering. She hadn't said anything, but the silence spoke volumes-a battle she wasn't ready to let him see, and wounds she wasn't willing to share. For now, he could only hope that someday, she might allow him to be the balm for those scars.

---

Every function was now over, and the house echoed with the remnants of celebrations. Tomorrow would be the wedding day. Today, in the morning, the mehndi had been applied, and Arshia sat staring at her hands. The intricate designs danced across her palms, and there, among the patterns, was Rishabh's name-carefully traced in deep green henna.

She looked at it, feeling a strange sense of finality. Where once she had imagined Aarav's name, dreamed of him in every detail of her life, now there was only an emptiness. No more tears for him. No more restless nights spent wondering. The hope she had once held onto had withered away like the fading mehndi, leaving behind a stark realization. Aarav had never given her a reason to believe. It was all one-sided. He had never come back for her. He had never offered any hope.

Now, as she traced the letters of Rishabh's name, a different feeling settled within her. It wasn't love, not yet. But something far more complex-a sense of duty, of reconciliation, of understanding. She had once thought that marrying him would be a betrayal, a way of giving up on the love she had for Aarav. But now, she understood that her connection with Aarav had never been about love. It had been about revenge, about him seeking justice for the death of his family, and she had been a pawn in his game.

The truth that she had long ignored was now clear-Aarav had been too blinded by his thirst for vengeance to see the consequences of his actions. He had forgotten that it wasn't just his family that had died; hers had, too. And yet, here she was-on the verge of marrying the man who had stayed by her, even when she had been consumed by the past.

Arshia closed her eyes, feeling the weight of it all, and for the first time in years, she exhaled deeply, allowing herself to just... feel.

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