But did you still love him?

That was the first question that burned through your chest when you opened the door and saw him standing there. Your heart skipped a beat—not out of enchantment, not out of swooning, but from pure shock.

Jiyan.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. The last letter you had from him said the front lines would keep him for months—four, maybe six, before he could even think about returning. You had told yourself you wouldn’t see him until much later. You had prepared for the wait.

So why was he here now, standing at your doorstep with his sharp gaze softened, his stance hurried, as though even he hadn’t expected to arrive so soon?

Panic seized you. Before your mind could process, your body reacted—you slammed the door shut and pressed your back against it, breath coming out shallow.

Outside, his voice reached you, calm but laced with hurt. “You haven’t answered my letters…in months.” A pause. Then quieter: “I thought something happened to you. I was worried.”

He hesitated, then continued, trying so hard to sound mature, to not let his heart show too much. “I don’t understand why you closed the door, but… I just wanted to make sure you were alright. And to talk.”

Meanwhile, you were a storm. Your chest heaved; your palms trembled. Years—so many years—waiting, hurting, missing. And now, suddenly, he was here. You didn’t know if what you felt was love or just the sting of all that lost time.

Eventually, you opened the door again. He saw it—the glassiness in your eyes, the way your breath came too fast. He knew. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, steadying you as your panic threatened to consume you. His arms were grounding, his voice low and firm, guiding you through until your heart calmed.

When words finally returned to you, they came out raw. You confessed your confusion—you weren’t sure if you loved him still, or if you were just too wounded to sort out your feelings. You couldn’t let him just waltz back and demand love after being gone so long.

It should’ve ended there, but desperation has a way of twisting things. One moment you were speaking, the next your lips were on his, reckless, searching. A challenge, a plea, maybe even punishment. He resisted at first, strong enough to remind you he would never take advantage of you, not like this. But you were stubborn, persistent, your tears mingling with heat, and slowly, painfully, he gave in.

That afternoon melted into a very long night. Words and touches tangled in ways they hadn’t in years, neither of you sure if it was healing or just reopening old wounds.

But one thing was certain—this wasn’t the end of your story. Not yet.