Rain fell in delicate whispers over Kolkata, turning the city into a poem no one had finished writing.
Rickshaws glided like ghosts through the puddled streets.
Fairy lights flickered outside cafés where half-drunk cups of cha cooled slowly on chip...
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The morning arrived like a whispered song-soft, grey, and dipped in petrichor.
The sky outside was still pale with the remnants of last night's storm, sunlight breaking gently through scattered clouds, painting golden stripes across the windows.
Inside the room, the silence was tender. The only sound was the faint ticking of the wall clock and the slow, steady breath of two people tangled in an unspeakable bond.
Ishita stirred beneath the warmth of a blanket she barely remembered pulling over herself. Her eyes fluttered open, lashes brushing her cheeks like butterfly wings. The cold air pricked at her skin, but she didn't move right away. She was listening. Feeling.
And then she saw him.
Aryan Singha, her Greek god of a husband, was curled up-half-on, half-off-the long couch by the bookshelf. One arm hung loosely over the side, the other curled beneath his head. His features were relaxed in sleep, jaw unclenched, the ever-present storm in his eyes quieted by slumber. A blanket barely covered him. His hair was messily perfect, and even now, in sleep, he looked like the most beautiful contradiction.
Ishita's chest ached.
Last night, they had danced in the rain like lovers. She had fallen asleep on his chest. They had shared food, jokes, and a warmth that didn't feel borrowed. For a moment, it felt like the world had turned its chaos down. Like it was just the two of them in the middle of nowhere-no forced marriage, no Ishani, no expectations.
But morning always has its own reality check.
She looked down at herself-still in his oversized shirt. It hung on her like a memory, soft and scented like him. Clean soap, fresh rain, and something uniquely Aryan. She clutched the fabric near her heart, smiling without meaning to.
And yet... the emptiness on the bed beside her mocked that smile.
Why did he sleep on the couch? Was it distance? Guilt? Fear? Or was it because, in the light of day, Aryan Singha remembered he was never supposed to love her?
A sigh escaped her lips. The kind that carries both peace and pain.
Gathering the blanket around her, she quietly stood and tiptoed toward him. The floor felt cold, but she ignored it. Each step toward him felt like walking through her own hesitation.
She knelt beside the couch and watched his sleeping face.
"Wake up, sleepy doctor," she whispered gently, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead.
He didn't stir at first.
So she leaned in closer, resting her chin on her arms. "Aryan," she said again, softer this time. "It's morning."
