Kabir’s POV
As Kabir walked out of the restaurant, the night air felt sharp against his skin, slicing through the quiet fog of memories he couldn’t shake. He’d watched Sia sit across from him, wrapped in grace and caution, her every word measured, every glance guarded.
But that wasn’t the Sia he remembered.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and it was like he could still hear her laughter — bright and fearless, ringing through the corridors of their old coaching classes when they were just kids trying to figure out the world.
Back then, she was the girl who never thought twice before speaking her mind. Bold, stubborn, and almost carelessly honest. She’d fight with him over nothing and everything — who solved the physics question faster, whose handwriting was messier. She’d tell him exactly what she thought, even if it was the last thing he wanted to hear.
There was a spark in her that no one else seemed to see — a fire that burned with every word she spoke, every challenge she took on. Her friends had seen it, of course. The way she’d roll her eyes and laugh, the way she’d call him out when he tried to act too serious.
And then… after the farewell…
Nothing.
No call, no message. Just silence, as if the world had swallowed her up and left him to wonder if he’d imagined it all.
Tonight, as he watched her smile so carefully, sit so still, he realized he didn’t know what had become of that girl. She was there, somewhere beneath the elegant silks and polite smiles — he was sure of it. But what had made her tuck that fire away?
What had taught her that silence was safer than laughter?
He wanted to know. He needed to know. Because he couldn’t believe that the girl he’d known — the one who wore her honesty like a badge of honor — had just vanished.
As he drove home, the headlights cutting through the dark, he found himself repeating a promise in his mind:
After the engagement, he would ask. He would look her in the eyes and ask her what had happened. What had made her trade in that spark for this quiet grace.
And maybe — just maybe — he could find a way to remind her that she didn’t have to be so careful with him. That she didn’t have to hide.
Because the Sia he remembered was still there, he was sure of it. And he wouldn’t let her forget it — not now, not ever.
Sia's POV
The night before the engagement, Sia sat cross-legged on her bed, the phone propped up against a cushion. The soft light of her bedside lamp cast a warm glow on her night dress, the fabric pooling around her like liquid fire. Her hair fell in gentle waves, framing her face that wore a practiced calm.
The video call was a patchwork of distant lives, an attempt to stitch together the pieces of a bond that had weathered years apart. Myra and Ishaan, once inseparable, hadn’t spoken to each other in years — not since life had pushed them into different corners of the world. Tonight, they were on separate tiles on her screen, each wrapped in their own silence.
Avira and Mihir, too, were far from those late-night canteen talks and library sessions. Careers had pulled them in different directions — Avira in a bustling city of neon signs and Mihir in a quiet town that echoed with his research. They were still friends, still each other’s comfort, but the distance was etched in the slight delay of their laughter, the hesitance in their shared memories.
Raghav’s easy jokes and Inaya’s bright laughter — even they felt like echoes of a time long gone, flickering across the digital expanse.
Sia watched them all, each face a chapter of a story that had grown over the years, each voice carrying the weight of dreams they had all once shared.
As they teased her — about tomorrow’s engagement, the wedding day that would follow — Sia smiled. She let their laughter wash over her, let their words be the balm she hadn’t known she needed.
But inside her, the ache was sharp and clear.
Because this engagement, for her, was never a story of whispered promises or soft confessions. It was a decision — a business deal wrapped in the shimmer of gold and the hush of family expectations. She was the daughter of a family that believed in legacy over love, in alliances over emotions.
And so she had said yes — to protect their name, to shield her father’s pride and her mother’s tired hopes.
To them, it was a celebration. To her, it was a duty.
Yet tonight, as she watched her friends — all of them carrying their own battles, all of them brave in their separate silences — she wondered if any of them truly understood the cost of the choices she had made.
Myra’s voice, gentle and uncertain, cut through the laughter. “Sia… it’s been so long. You’re quiet tonight. Are you really okay?”
Sia forced a smile, the kind that looked soft and sweet but never reached her eyes. “I’m okay, Myra. Just a little tired, that’s all.”
But Myra’s eyes didn’t waver. Even across the distance, she saw the truth Sia wouldn’t name.
And Ishaan, quiet as ever, didn’t say much. But his gaze was steady, a silent understanding in the way his eyes lingered on the screen — as if he, too, carried the weight of what it meant to be silent for years, to let life move on without the comfort of familiar voices.
The call drifted to wedding plans — who would dance, who would stay up all night teasing the groom, who would cry at the vidaai. But to Sia, the laughter was a distant echo, a gentle music that couldn’t fill the hollow of her chest.
Because this was her engagement — a chapter that felt more like an obligation than a promise. A day that would begin with blessings and end with signatures, the quiet paperwork of family pride.
And in that moment — in the hush that fell between the words — Sia let herself remember.
She remembered the girl she had been in college — fiery, stubborn, laughing with her whole heart. She remembered the secret wishes she had tucked away in poems and journals, dreams of love that didn’t have to be negotiated or explained.
But tonight, those dreams felt like they belonged to someone else.
When the call ended — one by one, each friend logging off with promises of sangeet dances and long conversations soon — Sia sat in the quiet of her room. She looked at her reflection in the black screen of her phone — the girl in red silk, eyes calm and composed, lips curved in a soft smile.
A perfect bride.
A perfect deal.
But in the quiet of her own heart, she whispered to the girl she used to be:
I haven’t forgotten you. I just had to let you go.
And somewhere in the distance, she hoped that tomorrow, when the rituals began and the world looked at her like a bride, she would find a way to keep that memory safe — the memory of a love that was more than just a bargain.
Because she was Sia Kashyap — a girl who had learned to smile even when her heart felt heavy, a woman who had chosen duty over desire, but still carried a flicker of hope in the soft corners of her soul.
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