Her pov
It had been three days since my father announced the swayamwar, and in those three days something inside me had come undone in a way I had never known before. The thought itself did not arrive gently; it pressed, it lingered, it refused to leave—marrying someone else, standing beside a stranger, speaking vows that would carry no truth in them for me. I had tried to sit with it, to reason with it, to tell myself that this was how things had always been done, that I was not the first and would not be the last.
But none of that quieted the unrest.
Because this was not about marriage.
It was about him.
I had written letters before without thinking, letting words spill out simply because they needed somewhere to go, because there was something comforting in knowing that even if he never answered, he had read them, had held those pieces of me in his hands. But now the clarity I had once sought felt like a burden I did not know how to carry.
What was I supposed to write now?
That I loved him?
The words felt too large, too irreversible, as though writing them would make everything real in a way I could no longer retreat from. And even if I did—what then? Would I follow it with the truth that my parents were preparing to give me away to someone else, as though love were a small, inconsequential detail that could be set aside?
My fingers tightened around the edge of the paper.
And beneath all of it, quieter but far more terrifying, was a thought I did not allow to form fully.
If my father came to know.
If he discovered that the one I had chosen in my heart was not a prince, not a noble, but a soldier—
I shut my eyes for a brief moment, forcing the thought away before it could take shape.
I would not risk it.
I could not risk him.
The door opened softly behind me, and I did not need to turn to know who it was.
Gauri.
She had been coming in at intervals throughout the morning, each time with food I had no intention of touching, each time leaving with a patience that felt undeserved. This must have been the sixth time, though I had stopped counting after the third.
Before she could speak, I said, “I won’t eat. Just take it back.”
There was a pause, the kind that carried words she had not yet spoken.
“Megha, just—”
“I said take it back,” I cut in, sharper than I intended, but without regret.
She fell silent then, though not immediately obedient. I could feel her hesitation, her quiet concern, the way she lingered for a moment longer as though hoping I would change my mind.
I did not.
Eventually, she crossed the room and placed the plate on the table instead of taking it away. The soft clink of metal against wood echoed faintly in the stillness before she turned and left without another word.
The chamber grew quiet again.
I stared at the food for a while, not because I was tempted by it, but because it gave me something to look at other than the thoughts I was trying to avoid. The steam had already begun to fade, the warmth slipping away unnoticed, much like everything else I had not realized I was losing.
And then—
Something shifted.
It was not a sound, not a movement I could name, but a presence I felt before I saw.
I lifted my gaze.
He was there.
Sitting across from me, exactly where no one had been a moment ago, as though he had always belonged to that space and I had only just noticed. There was no surprise in his posture, no urgency in his expression. Just that familiar, steady presence that had somehow become more real to me than most things I could touch.
And that smile.
Not mocking, not amused, not even particularly warm—just there. As if he understood something I was still trying to put into words.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe.
Because I knew he wasn’t truly there.
And yet—
“Of all the times to appear,” I said quietly, my voice steadier than I felt, “you choose this one.”
He did not answer, of course. He never did.
But he didn’t disappear either.
He sat there, looking at me as if he had been listening all along, as if every thought I had tried to hide had reached him anyway.
My fingers loosened slightly around the paper.
“What am I supposed to write?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. “That I finally understand what this is? That I—”
I stopped, the word catching somewhere between thought and voice.
His expression did not change, but something about it made it harder to look away.
A quiet exhale left me, heavier than I intended.
“They want me to choose,” I continued, softer now. “They think this is about preference. About duty. About what fits.”
I let out a small, humourless breath.
“They don’t even know what they’re asking me to give up.”
My gaze dropped to the paper again, though the words on it blurred, meaningless.
“And you,” I murmured, almost to myself, “don’t even know what you are to me.”
The room remained still.
He remained where he was.
Sitting across from me, as though distance had never existed, as though all the space between our worlds meant nothing in this moment.
My breath caught, but I did not look away.
“Don’t disappear,” I said, my voice softer than I intended, carrying something fragile I could not hide. “Not this time.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t vanish.
Something inside me broke then—not loudly, not suddenly, but in a way that left no part of me untouched.
“I don’t know how to say this properly,” I began, the words uneven, pulled from somewhere deeper than thought. “I keep trying to write it, but every time I do, it feels like I’m lying by leaving something out.”
My hands clenched in my lap, grounding myself in something real.
“They want me to marry someone else,” I said, and even now, saying it aloud felt unreal, like I was speaking of someone else’s life. “They’ve decided it. Everything is already moving forward, and I—”
My voice faltered.
I shook my head slightly, forcing myself to continue.
“I thought I could accept it. I thought I could be… sensible about it. That this—whatever this is—would fade if I didn’t name it.”
A quiet, broken laugh escaped me.
“It didn’t.”
My eyes burned, and this time I didn’t fight it. The tears came slowly at first, then all at once, blurring everything except him.
“I tried not to feel it,” I admitted, my voice dropping to something almost fragile. “I told myself you were just someone I wrote to, someone I didn’t even truly know.”
I looked at him then, fully, without hesitation, without retreat.
“But you’re not.”
The words settled between us, bare and unguarded.
“I love you.”
There it was.
No metaphors. No distance. No safety.
Just truth.
“And I don’t know what to do with that,” I whispered, the confession unravelling everything I had tried to hold together. “Because I can’t tell them. I can’t even write it to you without thinking of what it might cost you if they find out.”
My breath hitched slightly, the fear finally taking shape.
“You’re not who they would choose,” I said, the words trembling now. “And if they know… I don’t know what they would do. I don’t know what they might take from me—”
My voice broke, softer this time.
“Or from you.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak at all. The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty.
It felt like waiting.
He leaned forward then, just slightly—not enough to startle, but enough to close the distance that had never truly been physical.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet.
Steady.
“Look at me.”
I did.
Not because he asked, but because I needed to.
“I’m here,” he said.
No grand declaration. No attempt to match the intensity of what I had just given him.
Just that.
Something in my chest tightened, but it wasn’t fear this time.
“I know,” I whispered, though my voice still trembled. “That’s what makes this harder.”
He studied me for a moment, his expression softer now, but no less certain.
“You don’t have to decide everything today.”
I let out a shaky breath, almost a protest. “They’ve already decided for me.”
“Then don’t decide for them,” he replied, just as quietly.
The simplicity of it caught me off guard.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
“I know.”
“And if I lose you because I stayed silent—”
“You won’t.”
The certainty in his voice stilled me. Not because it erased the fear. But because it gave me something stronger to stand against it.
I searched his face, as though trying to understand how he could be so sure when everything around us felt uncertain.
“How do you know that?” I asked softly.
A faint hint of that familiar smile touched his lips—not amused, not distant.
Just… sure.
“Because you came this far,” he said. “You said it.”
My breath hitched again, quieter this time.
“And I heard you.”
That was all.
No promises he could not guarantee. No reassurances built on things beyond his control.
Just presence. Just truth.
“Will you come?” The question left me before I could soften it, before I could make it sound less like a plea.
He did not hesitate.
He nodded.
“Just write,” he said, his voice quiet, certain in a way that did not ask for belief, only offered it. “And I will come.”
A fragile hope rose too quickly, too sharply, and with it came the fear that followed just as fast.
“What if they do something to you?” I asked, the words trembling despite my effort to steady them. “What if they find out, what if—”
He looked at me then, fully, not dismissing the fear, but not yielding to it either.
“They won’t.”
There was no arrogance in it, no carelessness—just a grounded certainty that felt almost unfair in its calmness.
“And even if they do,” he added, leaning back slightly against the sofa as though the thought did not weigh on him the way it did on me, “I am a soldier. I will handle it.”
The ease in his posture, the quiet strength in his voice—it did not erase my fear, but it gave it less power than it had a moment ago.
Still, the tears did not stop.
They slipped down before I could catch them, blurring everything again. I lifted my hand quickly, brushing them away as though I could undo the vulnerability that had already revealed itself.
His voice came softer this time.
“You’ve written whatever your heart has said till now,” he murmured.
I stilled.
“Do that again.”
He leaned forward slightly, not closing the distance entirely, but enough that I could feel the steadiness of him, the presence that had somehow become my anchor without ever asking to be.
“One last time,” he said.
I nodded.
It was small, almost unnoticeable, but it carried more resolve than anything I had felt in days.
And then, as if the moment had shifted in some quiet, unseen way, he straightened and rose from where he had been sitting. Without haste, without hesitation, he walked toward me and lowered himself to the floor, kneeling just in front of me.
For a second, I forgot everything else.
He didn’t speak. He stayed there, his gaze holding mine, as if that alone was enough.
Then, reaching to the side, he picked up the plate Gauri had left behind. With an ease that felt almost out of place in the heaviness of the moment, he broke a small piece, holding it out toward me.
“For now,” he said gently, “eat.”
I stared at him for a moment, something in my chest tightening again—but softer this time, not breaking, just… full.
Slowly, I took a bite.
The simple act felt unfamiliar, as though I had forgotten what it meant to do something so ordinary. I closed my eyes as I chewed, the warmth of it grounding me in a way I had not expected. My fingers brushed against my cheek again, wiping away what remained of the tears.
And when I opened my eyes—
He was gone.
The space in front of me was empty once more, the air still, unchanged, as though he had never been there at all.
For a moment, I didn’t move.
And then—
A small hand touched my face.
I blinked, startled, my gaze lowering to find Rudra standing there, his little fingers clumsily brushing away the dampness on my cheek.
“Don’t cry,” he said softly, his voice small, earnest in a way only a child could be.
Something inside me gave way completely then.
I reached for him without thinking, pulling him into my arms, holding him closer than I intended, as though he were the only thing keeping me from falling apart entirely.
And this time—
I didn’t try to stop the tears.
They came freely, silently, soaking into his shoulder as I held on, not to hide, not to restrain, but to let them be.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t running from what I felt. I have decided clearly
I will write to him for one last time
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