The wedding hall shimmered in yellow fairy lights strung across the high ceiling, tabla beats spilling faintly in the background. The women’s laughter from the mehndi corner mixed with the scent of mehendi cones, jasmine gajras, and chai brewed strong in steel kettles.

She stood in the corner, adjusting the dupatta on her head, her bangles clinking softly. It had been years since she had stepped into a gathering like this. Years since she had dared to wear this shade of deep green—the one he had once said made her look like the first monsoon after summer.

Her heart stilled when she caught sight of him across the hall.

Mikhail hadn’t changed. Not really. Perhaps a few strands of silver brushed through his hair now, perhaps his shoulders looked broader under the starched kurta, but his eyes—those storm-filled, gray eyes—were exactly as they had been that last evening on the railway platform.

Years ago. She remembered it clearly. The rain had come down in sheets, smudging the world into a blur. He had stood there, not begging her to stay, not even holding her hand. Just standing. Silent, jaw clenched, eyes burning. She had been the one to walk away, suitcase in hand, her mother’s tears heavy on her dupatta. Duty had pulled her away. He had let her go, as if love wasn’t enough.

And now here he was. Across the hall, his gaze finding her in a single sweep as though nothing and no one else existed.

Her lips curved, small, polite. His didn’t.

The evening carried on, but for them, time had folded back. Every laugh of hers, every tilt of his head, they felt it—the ache of what was lost, what was never quite over.

It wasn’t until later, when the hall had thinned, that he crossed to her. No crowd now, no excuse for the air between them. Just her, standing near the samovar where cups of chai steamed.

She looked up, startled by his nearness.

“Mikhail.” The word slipped out, soft. She hadn’t said his name in years, but it fit on her tongue like it had been waiting all this time.

He didn’t answer at first. Just studied her, as though memorising. The light caught the shadows under his eyes.

“You still drink chai without sugar,” he finally said, his voice low, rough, untouched by time.

She blinked, fingers tightening around her cup. “And you still notice.”

A silence settled. Heavy.

“You disappeared,” he said suddenly, the words quiet but sharp. “No letters. Nothing. Just—gone.”

Her throat tightened. “I didn’t disappear. I was taken away, Mikhail. You knew that.”

His jaw worked. “I let you go.”

“Yes,” she whispered, staring into her cup. “You did.”

Memories flickered—his hand over hers at the old library desk, the nights they’d sat on the terrace with poetry books between them, him lighting her father’s huqqa just to make him laugh, her bangles jingling while she stole glances at him. Small, stolen things that had lived longer than they should have.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. “We’ve both built lives since then. Haven’t we?”

He gave a humourless laugh, shaking his head.

“Is that what you call this? A life?” His hand flexed at his side. “I called it survival.”

Her chest ached. The weight of all that had been unsaid pressed down. She had walked away because family had demanded it, because duty had wrapped itself around her like iron chains. But never once had her heart forgotten his.

She should go. She should step away, polite, dignified. But her feet stayed rooted.

“Mikhail—” she started, softly.

His eyes caught hers, unflinching. Storms lived there still. And when he spoke, his voice broke against her like a confession he hadn’t meant to give.

“Tumhein lagta hai… main bhool gaya tha?”