The quiet of Eraya’s room was broken only by the soft click-clack of her laptop keys and the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets outside her window. A report for the NGO’s quarterly funding lay open on her screen, but the words blurred together. Her focus was fractured, pulled towards the silent, dark screen of her phone lying beside the keyboard.

He must be home by now.

The thought was a persistent whisper beneath her concentration. She scolded herself. It was irrational. Vidhart Singh Ranawat was a grown man with a driver and security; of course he would reach Jaipur safely. Yet, a tiny, stubborn part of her heart had tethered itself to the expectation of a message—a simple, digital confirmation that would somehow make the surreal day feel real, that would bridge the distance between the chaos of the hospital and the normalcy of their separate worlds.

As the clock on her wall ticked past 2 AM, a faint despair settled in. Maybe he won’t message. Maybe it was just a formality for him. She was about to shut her laptop, surrendering to the late hour and her own foolish hope, when the phone screen lit up, casting a soft blue glow on her face.

Mr. Ranawat: Eraya, I am home now.

A smile, immediate and unbidden, touched her lips. It was a simple sentence, but it felt like a kept promise. He remembered. He’d carried her concern across the miles.

She typed back, her fingers moving quickly.

Eraya: Ok. Vidhart, rest.

In Jaipur, Vidhart stood in the walk-in closet of his silent room, shrugging out of his travel-wrinkled shirt. A day spent with Eraya, followed by the long drive, had left him emotionally full yet physically drained. The soft chime of his phone made him pause. He saw her name and the two-word reply. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, then softened into a fond concern.

She’s still awake? At this hour?

He finished changing into sleep pants and a t-shirt, then settled onto the edge of his large bed. The palace around him was asleep, but his mind was vividly awake, replaying every moment of her—her laughter in the market, her ferocity in the hospital, the blush on her cheeks at the gate.

He opened the chat.

Mr. Ranawat: Eraya, it's late. Aap abhi tak jaagi hain?

Her reply came swiftly, as if she’d been waiting.

Eraya: Yes, I had a little work to do. I was just finishing it up.

He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. He could almost see her, curled up in her bed, the laptop light illuminating her stubborn, beautiful face.

Mr.Ranawat: Hmm,

he sent. Then, after a moment, added,

Eraya, aap apne baare mein bilkul nahi sochti hain na? Hamesha bas doosron ke baare mein… Aur main pakka hoon, yeh kaam bhi NGO ka hi hoga.

On her end, Eraya chuckled, the sound warm in her quiet room. He saw right through her. She finally shut her laptop, the work forgotten, and lay back against her pillows, holding the phone close. She sent a single, admitting word followed by a shy emoji.

Eraya: Haan 🫣

Vidhart’s laugh was a quiet, joyful sound in the empty room. The sight of that emoji-her virtual blush-sent a thrill through him.

Mr. Ranawat: Ok, now sleep. You can finish the rest of the work tomorrow.

Eraya: Ji…

she replied, then, her nurturing instinct overriding the late-hour awkwardness, she typed,

Eraya: Did you eat anything on your way back, Vidhart?

The question, so simple and caring, struck him with unexpected force. He leaned back against the headboard, pressing a hand to his chest. Oh, Eraya. If you start caring for me like this now… what will I do if you ever say no? How will I survive? The depth of his own fear surprised him. He took a steadying breath.

Mr. Ranawat: Ji, kha liya tha.

Eraya: Ok. So now rest, Vidhart. It was a hectic day for you.

He smiled, imagining her saying it.

Mr. Ranawat: Ji, Eraya. Jaisa aap kahein.

Eraya bit her lip, a girlish giggle escaping her. ‘Ji, Eraya.’ So formal, yet so endearing.

Eraya: Ok. Good night, Vidhart.

He made a playful pout at his phone. Ary, ab aur kya baat karoon? But she needed rest. He replied in kind.

Mr. Ranawat: Ji. Good night.

But then, a thought, impulsive and sincere, pushed through. He didn’t want the connection to sever just yet. His fingers moved over the screen again.

Mr. Ranawat: Umm, Eraya… Ever since you came to the cafe... I wanted to tell you something. But I don't know why... I forgot to say something so important.

Eraya, who had been snuggling into her blankets, frowned. Important baat? She sat up, curiosity piqued.

Eraya: Ji? What's the matter? Vidhart, Tell me.

Vidhart’s heart hammered. He typed slowly, giving weight to each word.

Mr. Ranawat: Eraya, aap aaj bahut pyari lag rahi thi. Ekdum… goddess in white.

The message appeared on her screen. Eraya’s breath caught. A wave of heat rushed from her neck to her cheeks. She stared at the words, her lips parted. She closed her eyes, shaking her head as if to dispel the sudden, intense flutter in her stomach. What did one even say to that? Flustered, she typed a rushed, flustered reply.

Eraya:  Thank you. Good night, Vidhart. Bye.

She quickly put her phone on silent and placed it face down on the nightstand, as if it had burned her.

On the other side, Vidhart read her hasty retreat and chuckled. I know, Eraya. Right now, you’re blushing. That’s why you sent three messages in one. He smiled, satisfied. He sent one final message into the void, knowing she wouldn’t reply but needing to say it anyway.

Mr. Ranawat:  Good night, Eraya. Aapka intezaar rahega Jaipur mein.

Eraya, from her pillow, saw the notification light flash. She peeked. Reading the words, a different, warmer smile spread across her face. She didn’t reply, but the thought formed clearly in her mind.
Yes, Vidhart. I will definitely come. I want to know more about you. You are different. You are… actually a very nice person.

Her gaze then drifted to her study table, where the two bags from Vidhart sat, still unopened. She had been avoiding them, treating them like parcels containing potential emotional earthquakes. But now, bolstered by the strange intimacy of their late-night texts and cradled by the darkness, curiosity won.

She padded over to the table and picked up the smaller, elegantly wrapped bag- the one he had specifically pleaded with her to accept. She brought it back to bed, sitting cross-legged under the soft glow of her bedside lamp.

With careful fingers, she untied the ribbon. Inside were two beautifully wrapped packages. Two gifts? She smiled. So, Mr. Ranawat, what did you bring?

She opened the first, smaller box. Her eyes widened. Nestled on a bed of midnight-blue velvet was a stunning pair of silver jhumkas. They were delicate, elegant, and exactly her style- not too heavy, not too flashy. But more than that, they were familiar. Her mind raced back to a small, artisan shop last week. She had seen this exact pair, the last one in stock, but before she could decide, another customer had bought them. The shopkeeper had consoled her, saying similar stock would come later. She had forgotten about it.

How… how is this possible? These are the same earrings. How could his taste match mine so precisely?

A strange, sweet shiver ran down her spine. “Thank you, Vidhart,” she whispered to the empty room, gently placing the box aside. “They’re beautiful.”

Heart beating faster, she opened the second, larger box. As she lifted the lid and pushed aside the tissue paper, she actually gasped aloud.

“It can’t be…true...”

Lying within was a gorgeous blue chiffon sari, its colour the exact shade of a twilight sky, edged with a thin, exquisite white lace border. Her hands trembled as she lifted the soft fabric. This, too, she had seen. In the same market visit, draped on a mannequin. She had stood admiring it for a full five minutes, running a finger over the lace, imagining it for a special occasion, but had ultimately walked away, prioritizing the NGO’s needs over her own desires.

Both. He got me both things I secretly loved but denied myself. Coincidence was a flimsy explanation. This was observation. This was attention to detail that was… terrifyingly thoughtful.

She carefully folded the sari back into its box, her mind reeling. She placed both gifts back in the bag and set it on the floor beside her bed, as if putting a lid on the storm of emotions they evoked. She lay down, staring at the ceiling.

God, what is happening? What should I do?

•

The next two days passed in a blur of NGO work and a strange, suspended quiet. Eraya and Vidhart didn’t message, a mutual, unspoken agreement to let the intensity of their meeting and the revelation of the gifts settle. The silence wasn’t empty; it was thick with unprocessed feeling.

Meanwhile, the wheels of tradition turned. Calls were exchanged between Mr. Sharma and Vidhart’s father. A visit was arranged.

The morning of the visit, a nervous energy buzzed in the Sharma household. While Ma was a whirlwind of preparation in the kitchen, Eraya found herself unusually restless. She wasn’t scared of Vidhart’s family, but she was deeply aware of the weight this meeting carried. It wasn’t just a formality; it was an inspection, a silent judgment of her suitability for a world she didn’t fully understand.

Tara, as always, was her anchor. “Di, don’t take so much stress! Just be your awesome self. They already loved you enough to send a proposal, right?”

In the afternoon, the Ranawat family arrived- not with fanfare, but with a quiet dignity. Vidhart’s father, Mr. Ranawat, carried an air of quiet authority. His mother, Mrs. Ranawat, was grace personified, her smile warm but her eyes keen. And Dadaji… Dadaji was a presence. His sharp, knowing eyes seemed to see the very walls of the modest Sharma home and understand the love that built them.

Conversation flowed over tea and homemade snacks. Dadaji, with a twinkle in his eye, asked Eraya about her NGO. As she spoke, her initial nerves melted away, replaced by the familiar passion for her work. Dadaji listened, nodding slowly, his gaze fixed on the spark in her eyes- a spark no palace could manufacture.

Eraya’s father spoke of their family with honest simplicity- his mother, his younger brother’s separate household. Vidhart’s father didn’t pry into the ‘why’ of the separation, his respect for privacy evident.

Mrs. Ranawat shared stories of Jaipur, of Siya’s antics, Aaradhya’s dreams, Vikrant’s mischief. She painted a picture of a home, not just a palace. It was disarming.

Later, when Eraya excused herself, the conversation in the living room turned solemn. Dadaji leaned forward, his voice low and gravelly with respect.

“When Eraya comes to meet Vidhart in Jaipur... and if she says yes to the marriage... then we will have a simple engagement the very next day. Vidhart wants it to be very simple. No fuss. He prefers privacy. Because he doesn't want it to be in the news before the wedding.”

Eraya’s father nodded, absorbing the information. Before he could speak, Mr. Ranawat interjected gently, firmly.

“But Vidharth has clearly told us... that if Eraya doesn't want to, the marriage won't happen. Only if she truly wants it... then it will. No pressure.”

The words were a gift of immense respect. Eraya’s father felt a knot of anxiety loosen. He nodded again, deeply. “ji bilkul.”

It was decided. Eraya would go to Jaipur on Friday. She had said it herself in front of everyone, a declaration of her own will: she wanted to see his world.

But later, alone in her room as dusk painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, Eraya’s brave front crumbled. She stood by her window, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The reality pressed down on her- the gifts that showed he saw her, the family that was kind yet formidable, the future that hinged on her next decision.

She clutched the windowsill, her knuckles white.

God… please give me the strength to make the right decision. I don’t want to do anything in a rush. I don’t want to live with regret. Please… let whatever happens be what’s truly best for me.

•

The Friday sun was a relentless, golden coin in the vast Rajasthani sky as the car ate up the miles between Dehradun’s green embrace and Jaipur’s arid grandeur. Inside, Eraya sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching the landscape transform outside her window—lush hills giving way to scrubland, then to the iconic, rocky terrain dotted with resilient khejri trees. Her heart was a complex knot of anticipation and stubborn independence.

The journey had been preceded by a brief, firm battle of wills over text.

Mr. Ranawat: Eraya, you don't need to come alone. I'll come, you can come with me.

Eraya:No, Vidhart. I'll come by cab. Please.

Mr. Ranawat: Eraya, please. Either I will come, or you can come with Naresh ji.

Eraya: There's no need to bother him. I'll manage.

Mr. Ranawat: No. Final. Ya main, ya Naresh ji.

She had sighed, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. His protectiveness was not smothering; it was a fortress he built around her comfort, and it was immovable. She had finally relented.

Eraya: Ok. Aap Naresh ji ko bhej dena.

Now, Naresh drove with a calm, steady expertise, and the silence in the car was companionable. After some time, he began to speak, his voice respectful but warm. He told her stories- not about royal galas or business deals, but about the man Vidhart was when the cameras weren’t rolling.

“Madam, when my daughter was born... she had a hole in her heart. The doctor said that treatment would be difficult in India. Sir found out. He didn't ask any questions. One day he just said, 'Naresh ji,  the tickets are booked. We're going to London.'”Naresh's voice thickened with emotion.
“He went with me himself. For two whole months. Leaving his work behind. His colleagues thought he was on a business trip. He didn't tell anyone. He just helped me. Without any fuss..”

He told her more. An office peon’s daughter needing a scholarship. A security guard’s mother’s surgery. In each story, Vidhart was the silent, decisive force in the background, solving problems not for gratitude, but because it was the right thing to do.

“Madam,” Naresh said finally, his eyes meeting hers briefly in the rearview mirror, “Please don't tell Sir that I told you all this. He won't like it. He believes... that if you want to help someone, you should do it without any show or fuss.”

Eraya nodded, her throat tight. “Don’t worry, Naresh ji. I won't tell.”

The revelations painted a portrait that both aligned with and deepened the man she was coming to know. The prince had a heart that operated in whispers, not declarations.

As they crossed into Jaipur district, Naresh suddenly slowed the car and pulled over to the wide shoulder of the highway. Eraya looked up from her thoughts, confused.

“What happened, Naresh ji?”

“Madam, samne dekhiye,” he said, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

Eraya followed his gaze. Her breath caught.

Leaning casually against a sleek, dark SUV parked ahead was Vidhart. He was dressed in a light, linen yellow shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tailored beige trousers. A pair of aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, but the set of his jaw, the slight smile on his lips as he watched their approach, was unmistakable. One hand was tucked in his pocket, the other held his phone loosely. He looked like a scene from a magazine, yet here he was, waiting for her on the dusty border of his kingdom.

A wave of sheer, unexpected delight washed over her. He came all the way here. She chuckled softly, shaking her head.
“Yeh yahan pe…”

“Ji, Madam,” Naresh said, his smile widening.

Vidhart pushed himself off the car and began walking towards them, his stride long and confident. Naresh got out, and the two men exchanged a nod-a silent communication of duty completed and assumed. Then Vidhart’s focus shifted entirely to her.

Eraya opened her door and stepped out, the dry Jaipur heat wrapping around her like a new cloak. She smoothed her yellow Anarkali suit, a coincidence she had noted with a secret thrill when she’d dressed that morning. Now, seeing him in the same hue, the coincidence felt like a silent, sweet conspiracy of fate.

“Vidhart, aap yahan…” she began, her smile genuine.

He stopped before her, removing his sunglasses. His eyes, dark and intent, scanned her face as if checking for signs of fatigue, and then filled with warm approval.

“Ji. Aur iske aage ka safar… aap mere saath tai karengi? Agar aapko koi problem na ho toh.” His tone was polite, but his eyes held a hopeful glint.

(Yes, And the rest of the journey... will you travel it with me? If you don't have any problem with that.)

“Ji, nahi. Koi problem nahi hai,” she said, her own heart doing a funny little skip.

He nodded, then his gaze went to the car. Before she could reach for her overnight bag on the backseat, his hand was there, lifting it out with ease.

“Vidhart, main utha lungi...”

“I know aap utha lengi,”he interrupted, his voice softening. “But mujhe achha lagega… agar main uthaunga.”

It wasn’t a command. It was a request for the privilege of caring for her. Eraya fell silent, a flush of warmth on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the desert sun.

He turned to Naresh. “Thank you. Now go home and rest.” With a final, respectful glance at Eraya, Naresh drove away, leaving them in a bubble of sudden, intimate quiet on the vast highway shoulder.

Vidhart led her to his SUV, placing her bag carefully in the back. He then walked around and opened the passenger door for her, holding it with an old-world gallantry that felt strangely natural. “Thank you,” she murmured, sliding into the cool, leather-clad interior that smelled faintly of his sandalwood cologne.

He closed the door, a simple action that felt momentous, and got into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life, a low, powerful sound. For a few minutes, they drove in a silence that was thick with unspoken things-the stories Naresh had told, the meaning of his long drive to meet her, the matching yellow of their clothes.

Then, Vidhart broke the quiet, his voice a low rumble in the confined space.

“Waise… aaj aap aur bhi pyari lag rahi hain. Yellow mein.”

Eraya looked down at her own clothes, then at his shirt sleeve. A small, shared secret sparked between them. “Thank you,” she said, the words simple but laden with the acknowledgement of their unplanned synchronicity.

“Eraya, Would you like to have dinner first, or would you prefer to go home and rest for a while??” he asked, navigating the now-familiar roads leading into the heart of Jaipur.

“Vidhart, I will... stay at a hotel. Not at your house,” she stated, her independent spirit reasserting itself.

“I know You will not stay at my house right now.,” he said patiently, as if he’d anticipated this. “But you can stay in our guest house. It's right next to our house. It has a separate entrance. It's completely private..”

“But I can stay in a hotel, it’s fine...”

“Eraya,”he said, his tone gentle but firm, slipping into a more personal address.

“Dadaji said that Eraya will stay at home, not at the hotel. So… please.”

The invocation of Dadaji’s wish was a clever, respectful move. It wasn’t his demand, but the family’s hospitality. Eraya felt her resistance melt. Staying in a hotel suddenly felt churlish against such genuine insistence. “Okay,” she acquiesced softly.

A small victory smile touched his lips. “To pehle dinner karne chalein?”

She nodded. “Ji, theek hai.”

“Ji,” he echoed, the formality now laced with a shared, playful awareness.

They looked at each other for a second, and then, simultaneously, laughed. The sound was light, freeing, and it dissolved the last remnants of travel weariness and formal tension. In that laugh, on a highway leading into a royal city, in their matching shades of yellow, Eraya felt not like a guest entering a fortress, but like a partner arriving for a conversation that was just beginning.

•

The silence that settled in the car after dinner was a living, breathing thing—not empty, but full of the shared tastes of their meal, the soft glow of Jaipur’s night lights, and the unspoken words that hovered between them. It was a comfortable, contemplative quiet, where glances held meaning and the occasional soft sigh spoke volumes. Vidhart drove with a focused calm, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze occasionally flickering to Eraya’s profile illuminated by passing streetlamps. He was storing the memory: her, here, in his city, under his care.

He finally brought the car to a smooth halt outside a beautiful, standalone cottage-style structure nestled within the sprawling estate grounds—the guest house. It was elegant but understated, with warm light spilling from its windows, promising comfort and privacy.

Turning to her, his voice was a soft rumble in the quiet cabin.

“Eraya, Now, please rest. Tomorrow morning, if you like, we can go out somewhere first. Then, if you want, you can meet everyone at home.”

Eraya nodded, her own voice gentle. “Okay.”

She moved to open her door, but his voice stopped her. “Wait, Eraya.”

She paused, confused. Vidhart swiftly exited the car, his figure a tall silhouette against the ambient light. He rounded the vehicle, the gravel crunching softly under his shoes, and opened her door with a quiet, definitive click. The gesture was so inherently chivalrous, so him, that Eraya felt a familiar warmth spread through her chest. She smiled up at him, a silent ‘thank you’ in her eyes, and stepped out.

As she turned towards the backseat for her bag, Vidhart was already there. He placed a gentle, staying hand near her arm- not touching, but a clear barrier. He met her gaze, a knowing smile on his lips. He understood her independent spirit, but tonight, he would not yield this small act of service.

“Thank you,” he murmured, as if she had granted him a favor. He retrieved her duffle bag, his movements effortless, and led the way towards the arched wooden door of the guest house.

As they approached, the door opened. A woman in her late forties, dressed in a simple, neat saree, stood there with a kind, watchful expression. This was Sarita, the caretaker.

Vidhart’s demeanour shifted slightly into one of gentle instruction. “Aunty, yeh Eraya  hain.”

Sarita folded her hands.“Namaste.”

“Namaste,”Eraya replied, returning the gesture with respect.

Sarita moved forward. “Let me take it, sir, I'll put the bag inside.”

“Nahi,nahi, aap jaaiye,” Vidhart said, his tone polite but firm. He kept hold of the bag. “Bas, agar raat ko Eraya ji ko kuch chahiye, toh aap dhyan rakhna.”

With a respectful nod and a last smile for Eraya, Sarita retreated, giving them space.

Vidhart guided Eraya inside. The interior was tastefully decorated-a blend of traditional Rajasthani jharokha work and modern comfort. It felt like a home, not a hotel. He led her to a spacious bedroom, placing her bag carefully on a low wooden table at the foot of the large bed.

He turned to face her, his hands finding their way into his pockets, a stance that was both casual and somehow intensely focused on her.

“Okay, Eraya. Now go to sleep. And if you need anything...,” he paused, his eyes holding hers with a seriousness that belied the simple offer, “Just give me a call then. Okay??”

Eraya felt the weight of his care, a protective net woven with invisible threads. She nodded. “Ji.”

A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. He took a deep breath, as if steadying himself, gave a single nod, and began to turn towards the door.
“Ummm… okay. Toh… Good night...Kal milte hain.”

Eraya nodded again, a soft “Hmmm” of agreement passing her lips.

He was halfway through the doorway when her voice, soft but clear, called him back.

“Vidhart… rukiye ek minute.”

He stopped instantly. A smile, bright and unguarded, broke across his face before he even turned around. He composed himself quickly, facing her with an expectant, almost boyish hope.
“Ji, bataiye? Kuch baat karni hai?”

Eraya couldn’t help but chuckle at his eager expression.

“Nahi… actually, wait…” She turned and went to her bag, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a small, neatly wrapped packet. She walked back and held it out to him.

Vidhart stared at it, genuine confusion etching his features. “What...what is this, Eraya?”

“Umm… aapke liye,” she said, a hint of shyness creeping into her voice.

“Eraya, iski kya zaroorat thi?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“Maine aapko gift diya, toh aap badla utaar rahi hain?” There was a trace of hurt in his tone, a fear that this was mere obligation.

She shook her head vehemently. “Nahi, nahi, Vidhart, aisa bilkul nahi hai.” She took a step closer, her expression earnest.

“Main market mein thi, mujhe yeh dikha… toh aapke liye achha laga. Jaipur aa rahi thi, socha… aapke liye le loon. Isliye.” Her explanation was simple, honest. She had seen something and thought of him.

(I was at the market, I saw this... so I thought you might like it. I was coming to Jaipur, and I thought... I'd get it for you. That's why.)

The meaning slammed into Vidhart’s chest. She thought of me. She saw something and her mind went to me. His heart swelled, a painful, joyous pressure. But a stubborn, principled part of him held firm. He wanted nothing from her that wasn’t freely given from a place of shared commitment.

“Eraya,” he said, his voice low and intense.

“Agar aap shaadi ke liye haan karengi… toh main isse accept kar loonga, as a fiancé. Aur agar aap shadi ke liye naa kregi, toh as a friend accept kar loonga. Lekin abhi nahi.”

It was a boundary, drawn from a place of deep, almost desperate respect for what he hoped their future could be.

“Please, Vidhart…” she implored, her eyes softening.

“Please, Eraya…” he countered, his own gaze unwavering, a silent battle of wills.

Then, a spark of playful cunning lit in Eraya’s eyes. She let her shoulders slump slightly, crafting a look of faux hurt. Her voice dropped to a wounded whisper.

“Vidhart… agar aapko main ek percent bhi pasand hoon… toh aap yeh abhi le lenge. Nahi toh… main samajh jaungi ki aap mujhse shaadi… bas apni family ki wajah se kar rahe hain.”

(Vidhart... if you like me even one percent... then you will take this right now. Otherwise... I will understand that you are marrying me... only because of your family.)

The words were a masterstroke. They were his own logic, his own desperate plea from outside her gate, reflected back at him with perfect precision.

Vidhart’s eyes flew wide. Before the sentence had fully left her lips, his hand shot out and snatched the packet from her grasp. “No! No, Eraya!” he said, the words tumbling out in a rushed, flustered torrent.
“Aap mujhe ek percent nahi… aap mujhe 100 percent pasand hain!”

The confession hung in the air, raw and startling in its completeness. The moment he realized what he’d blurted out, a deep, crimson blush swept from his neck to the tips of his ears. He stammered, scrambling to cover the monumental slip.

“I-I mean… main yeh shaadi… family ke dabav mein aake nahi kar raha hoon… Apni marzi se… kar raha hoon.” The correction was feeble, and they both knew it.

Eraya looked at him, her earlier pretend hurt replaced by a slow, radiant, utterly captivated smile. She simply nodded, her eyes shining with a tenderness that made his knees feel weak.

Vidhart clutched the packet to his chest like a lifeline. “Okay… ab… ab so jaiye. Sleep well.” The words were a ragged whisper.

“Good night, Vidhart.”

He nodded,unable to form more words, and stepped back through the doorway. Eraya stood at the threshold.

“Good night, Eraya,” he managed again.

She gave him one last, soft smile and gently closed the door.

Alone in the quiet corridor, Vidhart leaned back against the wall opposite her room, his eyes closed. He pressed the small, wrapped packet hard against his heart, as if he could physically imprint the feeling there. The echo of his own voice—100 percent—reverberated in his skull.

He murmured into the silent hall, his voice thick with a love that was no longer a secret, at least not to himself and the night.

“Eraya… aap baat karti hain ek percent ki… Mujhe iss duniya mein ab aapse zyada koi pasand hi nahi hai. Mujhe bas… agar ab kuch chahiye toh… aap.”

(Area... you're talking about one percent... I don't like anyone in this world more than you anymore.  All I want now is... you.)

She. The only thing he wanted, needed, was her.