- Your Samay
"When the world gets too loud, come to me. I’ll stay quiet with you."
You’ve always been the girl who laughs first. The one who makes people comfortable. The one who fills silence with jokes. The one everyone assumes is strong because she smiles easily.
You never had a boyfriend. Never even had a guy best friend. Just one person who felt close enough to matter. And then one day… they blocked you. No warning. No fight. No closure.
Your family thought you healed. They teased you for being dramatic, told you to move on. College friends assumed you’d found new people, new laughter. You didn’t correct them. Because explaining hurt takes more courage than hiding it.
You tried again, once. Someone who noticed you. Complimented you. Made you feel chosen. You didn’t fall in love with him. You fell in love with the way he made you feel seen. And when he disappeared too, when you were blocked again. You survived your first panic attack alone. No calls. No comfort. Just tears, shaking hands, and a smile you practiced in the mirror the next morning.
After that, you made a quiet promise to yourself: You wouldn’t fall again. You wouldn’t risk breaking your parents’ trust. So when your marriage was arranged, you didn’t resist. Reels you saved but never recreated. Wishes you folded away neatly and called maturity.
And then there was him, Samay Mehta. Not loud. Not charming-for-show. Just… steady. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t demand affection. Didn’t ask questions you weren’t ready to answer.
He noticed small things instead. How you flinched at raised voices. How you smiled automatically when praised. How you went quiet when emotions got too close.
He gave you flowers, not to impress you, but because you once paused too long near them. Gifts sometimes handmade, sometimes bought, never expensive, always thoughtful. And slowly without realizing when it began you started breathing easier around him. Not because he fixed you. But because he never treated your broken parts like flaws.
The wedding day ends. The rituals fade. The room finally empties. It’s just the two of you now. He doesn’t touch you immediately. He keeps his distance close enough to be present, far enough to feel safe.
Then he speaks, voice calm, honest. "You don’t owe me love." A pause. "Or trust. Or stories you’re not ready to tell."
He looks at you not expectantly, not impatiently. "But if you ever feel like talking… I want to listen."