“How do you know her? What’s your relation with her?” Tegbir kept asking Ashu the same question over and over, but she wasn’t in the mood to answer him.

“Bir, can we talk about this later? I’m really tired today,” she finally said, leaning her head back.

“Okay, as you say,” he replied softly.

Ashveen leaned onto his shoulder as the car moved through the quiet roads. Tegbir was always a little different when he was alone with her. When she was by his side, the rest of the world stopped existing for him. She was the one person who could change his entire mood, the switch that softened his personality without him even realizing it.

They were heading toward a future built with love — a love marriage everyone in both families happily agreed to. After four years of being together and six months of engagement, their bond had become something both families admired, not just because their backgrounds matched, but because anyone could see how deeply they cared for each other.

From friends to lovers, their journey wasn’t sudden. It grew slowly and beautifully, which is why they were so comfortable, so unfiltered, and so real with each other. Their comfort wasn’t forced — it was earned, built through years of trust, arguments, laughter, and moments like this, where even silence felt safe.

___________________________



“Kithe rakh dita…?”
I was turning the whole room upside down, trying to find my earring—the one I specially got made for my wedding. And look at my luck… I lost it on the day of the marriage itself. Perfect, right?

Just a few minutes ago, I got to know that day after tomorrow, my in-laws’ family is hosting our wedding reception—ours, meaning mine and Navaan’s. All the people who share business and professional relations with the family will be coming.
And of course, Navaan has already left for work. He told me earlier where he was going, but I didn’t ask anything. I don’t even know why. Maybe I didn’t want to sound clingy.

“Eileen putt, andar aa jawa?”
I heard mummy’s soft voice from the doorway. She was standing there, quietly watching me. I instantly got up from the bed and walked to her. She was holding something in her hands—something wrapped, something heavy.

“Mummy, why are you standing at the door? Tuhade ghar vich te tussi hi puchh rahe ho.”
(It’s your house, why are you asking me?)

She smiled gently.
“Kyoki ehh hun tuhadda kamra hai, puttar ji.”
(Because this is your room now.)

I made her sit on the bed. She held my hands, and for a moment… it felt like after centuries someone touched me with that softness. A mother’s touch. Whenever she touches me like that, I feel like crying—like hugging her tightly and never letting go.
But then I stopped myself.
What will she think? Is her son married to a girl who cries at every small thing?

Mummy shook her head lightly.
“Ehda nahi putt… tussi bas hukum karna, ehda tuhadda–mera nahi karna.”
(Mom, not like this. You shouldn’t feel this way. Just tell me what you need—I’m here.)

I looked away and said, “Leave it, mummy.”

She smiled again. “I have something for you, girl. I hope you’ll like it.”

“Mummy, I will obviously like it.”
My inner child was literally jumping. Mummy gave me something. I didn’t even know what was inside yet, but still…

“Open it.”

I unwrapped the package gently—and there it was. A beautiful blue dress folded perfectly, shining softly even without light. I stood up from the bed, holding that crystal-blue fabric in my hands. It looked exactly like something out of a fairy tale… just like Elsa.

“I think you got it, about the dress?” mummy said.

“Elsa.”
“Elsa,”
we both said at the same time and looked at each other—then burst into laughter. Her smile… she gets a tiny dimple on the right cheek. She looked so beautiful at that moment.

My arms hesitated before going around her. Hugging her felt like crossing some invisible line. But then I remembered what she said to me yesterday. So I leaned forward and hugged her—and she immediately hugged me back, as if she’d been waiting.

“You know, putt,” she whispered, “Navaan himself chose this dress for your reception.”

My heart actually skipped.
Tomorrow is our reception party… and this dress… this beautiful Elsa-blue dress…
I’ve always admired Elsa.
And now I get to wear something chosen by him.

After mummy left the room, the silence felt comforting for the first time since morning.
I placed the Elsa-blue dress gently on the bed, smoothing the crystal fabric.
He chose this… for me?
A warmth I wasn’t used to settled in my chest.

Everything was ready for tomorrow—jewellery, heels, hair accessories.
But one thought still circled in my mind:

Why did the earring have to disappear today?

Just when my thoughts were spiraling, my phone lit up.

📞 “Navaan calling…”

My heart did a tiny jump.
I picked up slowly.

-----------
Me:
“Hello…?”

Navaan (voice calm, a little tired):
“Khana kha lita tusi?”
(Have you eaten?)

Me:
“Hun thodi der vich kha lavaṅgī.”
(I’ll eat in a little while.)

Navaan:
“Tusi hamesha ehda kehnde ho… please eat properly.”
(You always say this… please eat properly.)

He wasn’t scolding me — his concern sounded gentle, almost protective.

I smiled without meaning to.
“Ji, theek.”

There was a soft pause.

Navaan:
“Sab theek chal reha aa ghar vich?”
(Is everything okay at home?)

I wanted to tell him about the missing earring…
about how overwhelmed I felt…
about how deeply his gesture with the dress touched me.

But instead…

Me:
“Haan ji, sab theek aa. I’m fine.”
(Yes, everything is good.)

A silence followed — not awkward, just… full.
Like he understood more than I said.

Me (softly):
“Navaan…?”

Navaan:
“Ji?”

Me:
“Thank you… for the dress.”

I heard a quiet smile in his voice.

Navaan:
“Tusi vekh lita?”
(You saw it?)

Me:
“Haan ji… bohot hi sonā. It’s beautiful.”
(Yes… it’s very beautiful.)

Another gentle pause.

Navaan:
“Tusi dasya c tuhanu elsa pasand te … menu yaad aa. Is karke choose kita.”
(You always loved Elsa… I remembered. That’s why I chose it.)

That single sentence…
It felt like he’d been paying attention from the very beginning.
More than I ever realised.

He shuffled papers on his side, sounding busy.

Navaan:
“Main ajj thoda late aaunga. Tusi wait na kari.”
(I’ll come home late today. Don’t wait for me.)

Me:
“Ji, theek.”

Then his voice softened — almost unguarded.

Navaan:
“Eileen ji…?”

My heart skipped.

Me:
“Ji?”

Navaan:
“Kal… stress na lena. Tusi bas mere naal khadhe rehna, bas.”
(Tomorrow… don’t stress. Just stand with me. That’s all I want.)

The call ended, but the softness in his words stayed with me.

(She tells him about yesterday night when they talking.)

--------------------

No one dared to come unnecessarily into my room the whole day — because my protector, Roop, had strictly told everyone:

“Koi v room vich bina zaroorat na jaave, pabbi tired ne.”

Roop stood outside like a mini security guard and inside like my personal comfort teddy.
She didn’t disturb me…
she didn’t lecture me…
she didn’t ask anything…

She just stayed with me.

Her presence felt warm, calming — the kind of warmth I didn’t know I needed until I felt it.

We both ended up lying on the bed, and within minutes she curled toward me, clinging like a tiny baby koala.
I smiled, brushing her hair gently.

I always wished for a little sister…
but God decided to make me the little sister of Tanveer instead.
So now I hold onto every small moment where someone treats me like their older one.

Roop hugged me tighter, like I belonged to her universe.

We both fell asleep so peacefully —
the kind of sleep you get after eating aloo de paronthe,
when the whole body enters that soft, warm, happy laziness…

Food coma.
Exactly that.

By evening, the entire house started insisting I should come downstairs for dinner.

But the problem?
I wasn’t hungry.
Not even a little.
But everyone's faces tell me something.

My appetite had disappeared but my brain?
Oh, that was working perfectly fine —
overthinking everything from the missing earring to tomorrow’s dress to how I would stand beside Navaan in front of all those people.

I sat quietly until Roop came bouncing inside.

---
The soft hum of the night was broken by the gentle screech of tyres outside — subtle, but enough to snap me upright as if someone had called my name.
My heart reacted before my mind did, leaping forward even though I tried to pretend I was calm.

I moved to the balcony instinctively, almost on autopilot.

His car door opened with a familiar thud.

And then he stepped out.

Navaan.

His shoulders sagged with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come only from work, but from the quiet weight a person carries all day. He loosened his tie, exhaling slowly — a man finally allowed to breathe. In the faint glow of the streetlight, he looked worn… yet strangely peaceful. A gentle kind of tired.

For a few seconds, I just watched him from the darkened balcony — unseen, or so I thought.

He lifted his eyes toward the building, maybe out of habit… or maybe searching.

And then he found me.

Our eyes met.

Only for a heartbeat.
Only long enough to steal the air from my lungs.

I froze, caught in the moment, in his gaze — steady, unreadable, familiar.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
I wasn’t supposed to let him see that I waited.
That I always waited.

I stepped back too quickly, but the damage was done.

He had already seen me.

The moment Navaan stepped into the room, he paused, his eyes taking a slow sweep over me as if checking whether I was fine. He didn’t say much — just a quiet, steady look that felt like a question in itself.
A silent Are you okay?
A silent Did you eat? Did you rest?

Then, almost instinctively, he glanced toward the table, then back at me.
I lowered my eyes.
He understood.

For a second, the room stayed still.

And then, in that calm, gentle tone he carried after long days, he said, “Mummy ne message kita si… tusi khana nahi khada.”

His voice wasn’t accusing.
It was concerned — the kind that made my stomach twist because I wasn’t prepared for that level of care.

I didn’t reply.
Maybe I couldn’t.

He didn’t wait for an answer anyway.

“Main hath dhoo ke, kapde change karke… tuhade layi khana le ke aunda,” he said simply.

For a moment, I didn’t even process the words.
It felt unreal — someone tired after a long day offering to get me food, without a sigh, without irritation, without making it feel like a favor.

Before I could react, he had already disappeared into the washroom.

Five minutes later, he returned — hair damp, face fresh, tie gone, sleeves folded neatly. The exhaustion was still there, but something about him felt calmer, lighter.

He looked at me — really looked — and then extended a hand slightly, not quite touching, just inviting.

“Chaliye,” he said softly.
“To the kitchen.”

There was something in his voice… a mix of warmth and authority, a kind of sweetness wrapped in simplicity. The kind that made refusal impossible.

Without thinking, I followed.

A little too quickly.
A little too close.
As if my footsteps were pulled toward his.

He didn’t look back, but I knew he felt it — the way I rushed to walk beside him, matching his pace almost shyly.

And in that quiet walk to the kitchen, something shifted.
Something unspoken.
Something tender.

It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t loud.

It was just him… caring.

And me… letting him.

The kitchen was warm, the soft glow of the lights making everything feel calm and cozy.
I followed Navaan quietly, keeping a careful distance as he moved around the stove, heating the food mummy had prepared.

I leaned a little too close, drawn by the way he moved, the care in every motion.

He glanced over his shoulder at me.
“Eileen , stove de naal na khade hoyo .”
(Don’t stand too close to the stove.)

I nodded and moved slightly back.
He pointed to the little kitchen chair nearby.

“Idhar beth jao, safe distance te.”
(Sit here, at a safe distance.)

I lowered myself into the chair obediently, folding my hands on my lap.
But as he stirred the dal, I felt a sudden impulse — I missed him.
I missed him more than I realized all day.

Quietly, I moved behind him.
Respectfully. Carefully.

Before he could react, I wrapped my arms lightly around his waist, hugging him from behind.
Not too tight. Not forward. Just enough to let him know I was there.

“Navaan… main tuhānū bahut miss kita.”
(Navaan… I missed you so much.)

He paused, the spoon still in his hand. Then, slowly, he set it down.
Without turning, he bent slightly, and his arms went around my shoulders, resting on my back.
Then, gently, he moved me closer, pressing a soft, secure hug from my waist.

“Hun toh late nahi ava ga.”
(Now… now I won’t be late anymore.)

I leaned lightly against him, feeling the warmth of his chest, the steady rhythm of his body.
It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic — just him holding me, steady and safe.

The kitchen hummed quietly, the faint aroma of the food blending with the warmth of the moment.
I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, letting myself feel it — the comfort, the safety, the closeness of him.

He rested his chin gently on my shoulder.
“Bas hun… safe distance te rehna, khana garm va”
(Just stay safe… the food is hot.)

I nodded softly, my hands still resting on his arms, savoring the quiet intimacy.

And for the first time that evening, the exhaustion, the worry, the stress of the day — all of it melted away.
Hugging him like this, feeling him hold me in return… it felt like home.

"Eileen khana ready ajo hun"

My thoughts broken by the NAVAAN. Yes I'm so  much delusional. I'm just only do this. DELUSION

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Thank you everyone and sorry for delay.
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