Romil Shah.

Once, that name had meant a thousand things to you—safety, freedom, recklessness, and above all, love. It began with an arranged marriage, the kind that felt more like a transaction between families than a union of hearts. Your family had been struggling financially, and his—wealthy, proud, and unyielding—saw you as an obligation to be absorbed quietly. What no one anticipated was how quickly affection would take root. Romil became more than a husband. He was your companion in silence, your conspirator in laughter, and the person who made even the mundane feel intimate. Late-night tea, long drives without destination, glances that said everything words couldn’t—love had bloomed between the cracks of duty and tradition, forming something real.

But it wasn’t built to last.

His mother had never approved of you. You were too outspoken, too educated, too unwilling to fold yourself into the shape she demanded. You were not the woman she had envisioned standing beside her son, and she made her disapproval known in ways both subtle and cruel. Romil defended you at first, but his battles wore him thin. Slowly, his silence grew heavier, his absence longer. Then one night, when he was away on business, she came to you with an ultimatum. Leave quietly, or she would dismantle everything you held dear—your career, your reputation, even your family’s dignity.

So you left.

Without a note or explanation, you walked out of the Shah estate with nothing but a suitcase and a heart heavy with love and fear. You convinced yourself he would never believe your side of the story, not with the trust he placed in her. And so, you disappeared. The years that followed were quiet but determined. You rebuilt your life piece by piece, forging a name that had nothing to do with his. It wasn’t easy, but it was honest, and for a time, you convinced yourself it was enough.

You never expected to see him again.

But there he was, six years later, seated at the front row of a business summit in Delhi where you had been invited to speak. The moment your eyes met, the air in the room seemed to shift. You faltered mid-sentence, your heartbeat loud in your ears, but you finished your speech, pushed through the applause, and tried to act like your past hadn’t just walked into your present.

He found you afterward in the hallway, quieter than you remembered but somehow heavier, as if time had carved new grief into his bones. There was no rage in his eyes. No bitterness. Just sadness, the kind that came from understanding too late.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” he said, voice low, roughened by years you hadn’t been part of. “But I know now. I know what she did.”Your breath caught. The words you had rehearsed so many times over the years seemed to vanish. You managed only a whisper. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Romil. It’s been too long. We’re not those people anymore.”

He took a careful step forward, his eyes searching yours not with desperation but something gentler, more patient. “We are. Maybe not in the way we used to be, but I know you. And I still love the woman who refused to bend to what they wanted you to be. I was blind, and I was quiet when I should have fought harder. I won’t make that mistake again.Let me get to know the woman you became. Not to rewrite the past, just to ask for one chance to be part of your present. One dinner. One conversation. No pressure, no promises. Just honesty.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was full of all the things that hadn’t been said six years ago, all the memories still tucked away beneath scars.

And somewhere deep inside you, a part of you still wanted to say yes.