The days began to blend into each other. Since that night in the kitchen, something between Harsh and Isha had shifted.
It wasn't a confession. There were no labels, no declarations of love. But the air between them had changed—as if their breaths carried a rhythm only they could hear now.
Harsh no longer flirted openly. Instead, his care showed in smaller ways. When Isha forgot to bring her scarf down on chilly mornings, it was already draped over the stair railing. When she fell asleep on the couch with a book in her hand, a soft blanket always found her. And when someone at the temple commented about her staying at the Kapoor house without "relations," Harsh's voice had cut through the silence: "She doesn't owe anyone an explanation. Least of all to people who whisper behind her back."
Isha had felt something melt inside her that day.
---
One particular afternoon, Isha found herself sitting in Harsh's room, cross-legged on his bed, helping him sort old photos for a family project. She had resisted at first, calling it unnecessary emotional labor, but he'd smirked and said, "I just need someone to tell me how terrible my haircut was at age ten."
It was innocent. Casual.
Until her fingers brushed over a photo that wasn't of him at all. A girl.
Not Rhea.
"Who's this?" she asked.
Harsh stiffened. "That was Aarohi."
Isha looked at him. The softness in his voice gave the name weight.
"She was my... fiancée," he added after a beat.
Isha blinked. "Oh. I didn't know you were engaged."
"We were. Years ago. It ended before anything happened."
She waited, giving him space.
He continued, voice low. "It was an arranged setup. She was kind. But I didn't love her, and she didn't love me. She moved abroad. We ended it maturely, but... the guilt of disappointing my family stayed."
Isha placed the photo back in the box, carefully. "You don't need to explain."
He looked at her then. Really looked.
"I want to. With you... I want to share things. Even the uncomfortable parts."
She felt her throat tighten. The intensity in his eyes was disarming.
"Then share something else," she whispered. "Something no one else knows."
He smiled. "Okay. I'll trade you. You go first."
She raised a brow. "Coward."
He leaned back, arms folded. "Fair. But still… you first."
Isha hesitated. Then said, quietly, "I haven't spoken to my father in two years."
Harsh blinked.
"Why?"
She laughed bitterly. "Because he told me that I was a burden. That my dreams were foolish, and I should marry the boy from the next village. He said I was too wild. Too modern. That I embarrassed him. So I left."
Harsh didn't speak immediately. Then he said, "You're not too much. For the right person, you'll never be too much."
Her eyes welled up before she could stop them. She turned away quickly, wiping at them.
"Hey," he said softly, reaching for her hand. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
She smiled through the sting. "It's okay. It feels... safe here. With you."
His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand.
"It is," he said. "Safe. Always."
---
That evening, the two of them were asked to help host a small family dinner. Meera had invited some close relatives, and everyone was excited to meet the girl who had captured Harsh's attention—even if unofficially.
Isha wore a sea-green saree. She had tried not to overthink it but had ultimately caved and worn light kohl and lip tint. When she stepped out of her room, Harsh was standing at the base of the stairs, adjusting his watch.
He looked up.
And stilled.
"What?" she asked, self-conscious.
He shook his head. "Nothing. Just... it's going to be really hard not to stare tonight."
Her cheeks flushed.
As they entered the living room together, she felt his hand lightly rest at her lower back—not in possession, not in dominance, but in silent assurance.
The evening went smoothly until one of the older aunties, a woman with a knack for asking intrusive questions, leaned toward Isha during dinner and said, "So, dear, when is the wedding? Or is this still one of those modern... friendship things?"
Isha blinked, caught off guard.
Before she could respond, Harsh placed his glass down and said calmly, "Whenever she says yes."
The table went silent.
Isha looked at him, eyes wide.
He didn't look away. Didn't flinch.
Auntie laughed awkwardly, muttering something about "bold times" and continued eating. But Isha couldn't eat another bite.
When dinner ended and the guests slowly left, she pulled Harsh aside into the garden.
"What was that?" she demanded.
He looked at her, serious. "What?"
"That thing you said. About whenever I say yes."
He shrugged. "It's true."
"Harsh, don't joke like that. People will assume things."
"Let them," he said, voice firmer now. "I'm tired of pretending I don't want more. Isha, I do. I want more."
Her breath caught.
"But we haven't even—"
"I know. And I'm not asking for a decision tonight. I just... needed you to know. That when you're ready, I am too."
The moonlight made his eyes look darker. Or maybe it was the depth in his voice.
She was overwhelmed. By honesty. By how safe he made feelings feel.
She stepped closer. Just a little. Their hands almost brushed.
"And if I never say yes?" she asked.
He smiled, soft but sad. "Then I'll still be glad I met you."
---
That night, Isha lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Her mind replayed every word, every look, every moment.
She was falling.
But could she afford to?
And if she did... who would she become?
Somewhere outside her window, Harsh sat on the garden bench, looking at the stars.
Two people. Two hearts. So close. And yet, still unsure where the tangled threads of them would lead.