They had called you a storm in the shape of a girl the first time Ekansh met you. He was thirty-two, fresh from the fields, rough around the edges. You were twenty-two, wide-eyed, and quiet as a monsoon just before it breaks.

He didn’t want to marry.

You didn’t either.

But the village didn’t care for wants. It cared for tradition.

So, he became your husband. And you, his bride. A union born from dusty customs and whispered prayers—but not love.

Until slowly, unknowingly, painfully—you both made room for it.

And now?

Now you were an officer. A damn good one. You walked like fire. Spoke like justice. And Ekansh—Ekansh was the man who had stood silently in the background while you brought down the monster who used to be his father.

He had helped you.

You had built the case. Recorded the bruises. Hidden voice recorders. Convinced his mother to testify. And one scorching July afternoon, you had walked into court, wearing your crisp khaki uniform, and made the old man cry.

Not because you were cruel.

Because you were done being silent.

Ekansh had never loved you more.

Now, months later, Lucknow hummed beneath their windows. A small apartment in a gated colony. His mother had a peaceful face now, lines softened after decades of flinching. Every morning she packed lunch for you—rotis stacked with care, sabzi in tight steel containers—and Ekansh watched from the dining table as you grabbed your files and keys in a rush.

You kissed his mother’s hand.

But you barely looked at him.

And he never asked why.

Because why would he?

You had changed lives. You had changed his life. He owed you everything. Gratitude, pride, support—he gave it all. Willingly. Quietly.

But lately, something cracked beneath the surface.

He would sit by the window, scrolling through online English tutorials, learning to read slowly, painfully. He practiced writing your name in English, messy strokes that looked like a child’s drawing. He followed cooking videos, Googled ironing techniques, read articles on how to support high-achieving spouses.

And still…

You didn’t seem to notice.

You came home late, eyes ringed with exhaustion. Sometimes, not at all. Duty called. Emergencies never slept. And he understood.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

It was your fifth anniversary, and Ekansh had scrubbed the house until the floor reflected his face. Cooked your favorites. Lit candles, even if his mother teased him endlessly about it.

He had bought you a small bracelet—with your IPS number engraved at the back. Something silly, but personal. And he waited.

7 PM.

9 PM.

11:30.

His mother touched his shoulder gently. “She saves people, beta. It's okay. You should rest.”

He didn’t reply.

Because the truth was—he needed saving, too.

At 12:16 AM, the door finally creaked open.

You looked exhausted. Hair messy from hours under your cap, eyes heavy, shoulders sinking. You kicked your shoes off and walked straight to the bedroom.

Didn’t glance at the table set with candles.

Didn’t see the bracelet box wrapped in paper.

Didn’t see him.

Something inside him snapped.

He followed you.

You had just slumped into bed, face-down, too tired to even pull the blanket over.

“You didn’t come,” Ekansh said softly.

You didn’t move.

“It was five years today.”

A pause.

“I waited,” he said, louder this time. “I waited the whole night.”

That made you pause.

He took a breath. “Everyone said you’d forget me once you became something. I never believed them. Never. I stood with you. Watched you win. Watched you fight. But now—I feel like… I’m just… nothing.”