I used to believe love was just a cruel illusion a lie invented to ruin people like me who cared too much.

​When my world shattered, I didn't scream or cry. I had this suffocating habit of keeping every tear trapped inside, letting the pain rot quietly in my chest until I couldn't breathe. Every single night, after the house went quiet, I'd drag my numb feet to the small chai tapri down the street. I'd sit on the cold wooden bench, staring into the dark, completely hollow.

​For months, I was too drowned in my own grief to truly see him.

​He was always there. Sitting on the far end of the bench, giving me space, never forcing me to speak. Between us sat two glass cups of steaming chai. Every night, he would take a quiet sip from his and gently slide the second cup toward me. And every night, paralyzed by fear, I'd get up and walk away without a word. What if he's just like the rest? What if he breaks whatever is left of me and walks away too?

​It took me months to open my eyes and realize something that made my heart ache even more his quiet, protective presence wasn't new. He hadn't just appeared when I was destroyed. He had been standing in my corner, watching over me, since we were children.

​When the weight of that realization hit me, I broke. I couldn't face him. For five whole days, I locked myself in my room, rotting in my own thoughts. But he never stopped trying. In small, unspoken ways, he kept trying to pull me out of the dark.

​On the sixth night, my feet carried me back to that bench.

​I sat down, my eyes fixed on the dusty ground, tears welling up not just for the boy who cheated on me, but for every single hurt I had buried deep inside. Before I could even raise my head, the familiar warmth settled beside me. And slowly, silently, a cup of chai slided across the bench to my side.

​I finally looked up. My vision was so blurred I could barely see his face, but I knew those eyes.

​"Pandit ji..." I choked out, my voice breaking on the night air. "What if my chaos ruins your peace? I'm... I'm a complete mess."

​Nishkarsh looked at me, and his own eyes glinted with tears, mirroring every bit of my pain. He didn't pull away. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and intertwined his pinky finger with mine holding on like a lifeline.

​He raised his other hand, and with the utmost gentleness, his palm caught a stray tear slipping down my cheek, cradling it as if it were the most precious pearl in the world.

​"Kishori ji," he murmured, his voice so soft it felt like a sacred whisper against the night. "You aren't the storm that ruins my peace. You are the prayer I repeat every single day."

​He swallowed hard, his breath trembling.

​"Shri Radha knows I'm not standing here tonight just because he left you and I finally got a chance. I'm not that selfish," he said, his eyes burning with a deep, aching devotion. "I used to pray that wherever you went, you'd be happy even if it wasn't with me. But watching you bleed like this... it's killing me. Every second I look at you, I keep thinking... if only I had given you the love you deserved sooner, that person would have never walked into your life. Maybe I should have confessed years ago."

​His pinky tightened around mine, warm and solid.

​"My father always says that true devotion is nishkam asking for nothing in return. But the day I fell for you, I lost that selflessness. My prayer became selfish. Not to claim you, Kishori ji... but just to see you laugh again. Because when your heart aches, mine tears apart in my chest."

​The suffocating silence that had followed me for months suddenly felt peaceful. Soft. Safe.

​I looked down at the steaming glass between us. My hands were shaking, but for the first time in forever, I reached out, wrapped my fingers around the warm cup, and took a sip.