You hadn’t worn a saree in years. Not properly, not like this—with care. The gold fabric was light, but it clung gently to your waist, your arms, your silence.

You hadn’t dressed for anyone. But when you stepped into the backyard and the wind shifted the pallu over your shoulder, you felt it.

A shift.

You saw him a moment later—Nabil. Standing by the corner table, sleeves pushed up, serving drinks to an uncle with a smile that looked automatic. He hadn’t seen you yet. But you saw him.

And suddenly, you wanted to disappear.

You weren’t supposed to look like this in front of him.

You weren’t supposed to matter to him.

But when he finally looked up—and his eyes found you—your feet forgot how to move.

His expression didn’t change drastically. It was barely a twitch of the brow, a moment of stillness in his hand, a longer blink. But it was there. The recognition.

You.

In that saree.

His gaze didn’t trail. It didn’t wander. It just stayed—settled right on you like he didn’t expect it, didn’t know how to undo it now that it happened.

You looked away first. Flustered, breath caught in your throat.

The rest of the evening blurred.

You helped Rozy open gifts. You posed for pictures. You held a crying toddler for ten minutes. But through all of it, your skin felt warm like your heart was carrying a secret your mouth couldn’t speak.

Later in the evening, you went inside to put Rozy’s gifts in her room. Everyone was still outside—music, laughter, firecrackers in the distance.

You reached for the light switch— And someone was already there.

Nabil.

He turned slightly, clearly surprised, but not startled. Not tense. Just… quiet.

“I was just fixing the light,” he said, as if he needed to explain why he was there.

You nodded. “I was just putting these away.”

He stepped aside. You moved past him—but the room wasn’t wide. The moment was small. So was the space between you.

You could hear his breathing. And maybe he could hear yours too.

“I didn’t know you were coming today,” he said, voice soft.

“I almost didn’t,” you replied, adjusting the edge of your saree as you placed the gifts down.

“I’m glad you did,” he said.

You turned slowly, heart unsure how to stand still.

He looked at you fully then—not nervously, not boldly either. Just with a strange calm. Like he was choosing to remember this version of you forever.

“This color,” he said, almost under his breath. “It suits you.”

You tried to smile, but it felt too fragile on your face.

“You’re different when you wear something like this,” he added, his gaze now fixed not on the saree—but your eyes. “Not because of how you look. But because… you know how to carry it.”

You weren’t sure what hurt more—that he was saying this gently, or that he might never say something like this again.

A child called your name from the garden. You blinked.

“I should go,” you said.

He nodded. But didn’t step away.

“You look like someone’s future,” he said. Quietly. Like he didn’t expect you to respond.

And you didn’t.

You just walked away. Slowly. Heart thudding under every fold of that gold fabric.