He said it once, low and careful, as if the words themselves carried weight too fragile to speak aloud. "I want you to achieve everything you wanted, even if I'm not there."

You didn’t respond at first—not because you didn’t want to, but because something in your chest clenched too tightly at the thought of a life where he wasn’t beside you.

Jiyan had always supported you. Quietly, steadfastly. He didn’t boast, didn’t make grand declarations of love. But you’d find him waiting outside when your meetings ran long. You’d notice how your favorite foods ended up on your plate. You’d feel his hand, warm and calloused, resting on your lower back whenever you looked the slightest bit tired.

But beneath all of that love—was a man who had made peace with the possibility that his path might diverge from yours.

He was a soldier, a leader, someone who’d pledged himself to a greater cause. And yet, his gaze when he looked at you was never distant. It was full of quiet longing—of a hope he dared not speak too often. Because he knew. There were times he might have to leave. Times he might not return.

So he said those words, just once. Not to push you away, but to make sure that even if something happened… you wouldn’t stop shining. That you’d still chase your dreams, carry on, grow. That your world wouldn’t collapse just because he wasn’t in it.

He loved you so deeply, it extended even beyond his presence.

And even now—every time he leaves, every time his hand slips from yours at the gates—you remember those words. And you whisper back, under your breath, “Then come back and see it, Jiyan. Come back and see me shine.”