Author's Pov:

The first rays of dawn slip through the curtains, spilling pale gold into Shreya's room. Unlike Reyan, she does not wake to the jarring strike of decision, but to habit—the quiet rhythm of a life she has built with care. At twenty-six, her mornings begin early, though not with the discipline of a clock but with the needs of her family and the soft call of responsibility.

Her father is already awake, reading the newspaper in the living room. Her mother hums faintly in the kitchen, the aroma of chai drifting through the air. And her younger brother, Ashray, still sleeps in his room, no doubt tangled in dreams, refusing to surrender to the day as quickly as his sister does.

Shreya stretches, pulling her blanket aside, and smiles faintly at the sounds of her home. This is her safe place. Within these walls, she is cheerful and jolly, free to tease Ashray, to laugh openly with her mother, to share quiet conversations with her father. Here, she is more than the reserved young woman her colleagues see. Here, she breathes.

She joins her mother in the kitchen, offering to help, laughing when her mother insists she rest. She teases Ashray awake a little later, ruffling his hair until he protests, and sits with her father over tea, listening to his thoughts about the world. These small rituals, ordinary to anyone else, are everything to her.

Yet, beneath her smile, her mind hums with its own weight. Gratitude first—always gratitude. For the stability of her government job, for the roof she helped secure over their heads, for the deposits and insurances that safeguard their future. And most of all, for this family, who stood by her through years of struggle without ever letting her feel she was a burden. They gave her strength, silently, selflessly, and she carries that strength like armor.

But gratitude, no matter how deep, cannot silence worry. The future waits, with questions she is not ready to answer. Marriage. Love. Two words that feel foreign to her. She tells herself she does not need them, that she expects nothing. Respect, perhaps. Understanding. Peace. That is all she asks. If love is not in her destiny, she will accept it. She has trained herself not to expect more, not to demand anything from anyone.

Still, the fear lingers. What if her husband, whoever he may be, wants a wife unlike her? Someone carefree, trusting, modern, quick to laugh and quicker to love? Shreya is none of those things. She takes time. Too much time. Her heart is cautious, closed now, and she doubts it will ever open easily. Would she disappoint him? Would she hurt someone without meaning to?

The thought unsettles her, as it often does, but she does what she has always done—she folds her hands in prayer. She trusts God. Whatever the future holds, He knows the way. He will guide her, give her courage.

And yet, somewhere deep in a corner of her heart, a fragile wish stirs—a longing for freedom from worry, from fear, from the endless weight of expectation. To live, just once, carefree. To laugh without restraint. To let her heart rest.

She sighs softly, shaking off the thought, and rises to begin her day. Morning has arrived. Her family is awake. And Shreya, as always, steps forward with quiet strength, carrying her world in the small but steady light she brings to their home.

Outside her home, Shreya wears another face. At work she is polite, efficient, but reserved—an introvert who keeps conversations brief and interactions strictly professional. She never allows herself to get too close, especially with men. It is easier this way. Safer. People think she is simply quiet, but in truth, her restraint is armor. She knows the cost of trusting too quickly, and she refuses to pay it again.

On her way to the office, seated in the back of the car as the driver takes the familiar route, her thoughts wander where she rarely allows them to. Toward the kind of family she secretly longs for but never dares to speak of.

She imagines children—always children. She wants a son first, a boy she can raise with all the love and care she once craved from an elder brother she never had. And if her husband is a good man—a man who respects women, who is gentle and kind, who values the sacred bond between father and daughter—then, and only then, she wants a daughter too. Because she knows how pure that bond can be, how much love it carries, how much it can teach the world about trust and tenderness.

Sometimes she prays for this. A son first, a daughter later. A husband who is not perfect, but respectful, nourishing, protective in his own way. Not rude, not careless, but polite and understanding. With such a man, she believes she could build something steady, something safe.

And yet, she stops herself—again and again. "Don't dream," she scolds silently, "because if it doesn't happen, you will be the one left heartbroken." But dreams are stubborn things. Even when she closes the door, her heart leaves a window open, and a single ray of light slips through.

Her brain and her heart battle endlessly—one insisting on caution, the other whispering fragile hopes. In the end, silence always wins. Reality, cold and heavy, presses down, reminding her that expectations only wound. She has seen enough of the world to know that happiness cannot be trusted.

Still, she is grateful. Her parents' marriage has been a beacon for her—a true companionship, full of love and loyalty, with both standing by each other through every trial. She often tells herself that their bond is rare, almost impossible to find again. Better not to dream. Better to remain silent.

The car slows near a park, and her eyes drift outside. Children laugh as they run across the grass, their parents calling after them with affectionate scolding. Others walk hand in hand to school, tiny uniforms pressed neatly, water bottles bouncing at their sides. The sight tugs at her heart, both sweet and painful. She turns away, forcing herself to swallow the ache.

By the time she reaches the office, the mask is firmly in place. Work consumes her, drowning her in files, numbers, tasks. Her thoughts retreat to the quiet corners of her mind, hidden away until another unguarded moment lets them surface again. For now, she is only Shreya—the quiet, capable woman at her desk. No more, no less.

And yet, in a momentof pause, her gaze lifts to the wide office window. Beyond the glass, the citystretches endlessly, towers glittering under the morning sun. Somewhere acrossthat same skyline, in another high-rise building, Reyan Singh Mewar stares outat the very same horizon—two lives unknowingly aligned, their thoughts heavywith the same unspoken longing.

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