Naksh Singhania and you were never supposed to happen. At least, that’s what you told yourself the night you first met. It was one of those grand Delhi parties velvet tablecloths, too many chandeliers, and laughter loud enough to echo through glass. He was already there when you arrived, leaning against the bar in a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, sipping whiskey like he belonged in every room he walked into. He didn’t smile when he saw you. He just watched, that annoyingly unreadable expression fixed on his face.

You thought he was arrogant, a rule-follower, too stiff in all his perfection. He thought you were impulsive. Too fiery, too emotional. Too much. You clashed. Until you didn’t. It happened one night outside a friend’s engagement, an argument about something stupid, sharp words in the middle of a parking lot, and then a silence so charged it made the air between you feel electric. And then he kissed you. Or maybe you kissed him. You were never sure. But everything shifted.

That kiss became a night. That night became something neither of you could name. And before either of you knew it, you were tangled in something real. For two years, you burned together. Naksh, with his calm, measured voice and sharp mind, grounded you. He never tried to tame you, he held space for the parts of you no one else had the patience for. You brought colour into his greyscale world, taught him to breathe between schedules and plans. He memorized how you took your tea. You learned that silence, with him, never meant absence. It meant comfort.

You’d lie next to him at night, tracing the lines of his jaw, wondering how a man who said so little could make you feel so heard. You thought this was it. You thought love like that would be enough. But love, you learned, wasn’t always loud enough to silence the world.

The day you told your parents about Naksh, you watched the hope drain from their faces. You’d expected resistance, maybe a few questions. What you got was judgment. “His father still has open fraud cases. How do you expect us to trust a family like that?” your father said coldly. “They may have money, but their name is tainted,” your mother added. “You deserve better.”

They didn’t see Naksh the way you did. They didn’t know the man who stayed up till 3 a.m. calming you through your panic attacks, or the one who never raised his voice even when you tried to push him away. They didn’t care that he’d built his name from scratch, choosing a different path from the man who raised him. All they saw was bloodline. And maybe, in some weak corner of your heart, their fear became yours.

You didn’t fight. You broke it off coldly, abruptly. Told him it wasn’t working. That you’d changed your mind. You didn't say you were scared. You didn’t say you still loved him. You just disappeared. Naksh didn’t chase. Not after the fifth unanswered message. Not after you blocked him. He wasn’t the kind of man to beg.

And you convinced yourself you were doing the right thing. Said yes to an arranged match your parents approved of. A man from a “good family.” Clean background. Big house. No baggage. But as the wedding grew closer, so did the ache. You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t breathe.

The night you ran, it was raining. Delhi was a blur of headlights and honking cars, but all you could think about was him. The way he said your name. The way he used to hold you like you were something fragile, something rare. You didn’t even pack properly. Just throw your life into two bags, call a cab, and give the driver an address your heart still remembers.

When he opened the door, you almost couldn’t breathe. Naksh stood there in a grey t-shirt and track pants, barefoot, hair messy like he’d just gotten out of bed. He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes just swept over your wet hair, trembling lips, a suitcase at your feet. “I know it’s late,” you said softly, voice cracking. “And I don’t deserve a second chance. But I, I couldn’t go through with it."