Aayansh’s POV

I had learned not to count days anymore.Not since everything broke. Not since she forgave me. Not since things started feeling… possible.

Counting made me anxious. It made me want progress to look a certain way. And Ruhi had taught me that love didn’t survive expectations.

Still, that morning, I was worried.

Not because she had pulled away she hadn’t.not because we were fighting we weren’t.

I was worried because things were calm.The kind of calm that comes before a decision.

She had been quieter for a few days. Not distant. Just inward. Thoughtful. The kind of silence that wasn’t absence, but processing. I knew better now than to interrupt it.

But knowing better didn’t stop my chest from tightening.

What if she realized she didn’t want us anymore? What if healing meant leaving?

When she asked me to come over that evening, I didn’t read into it. I didn’t ask why. I just came.

She was sitting by the window when I arrived, knees drawn up, the city glowing faintly behind her. The room smelled like tea and paper and something familiar I couldn’t name.

The diary was on the table.

My stomach flipped, not excited. Fear.

Not of what was written. Of what it might mean.

She noticed me looking and spoke before I could stop myself from filling the silence with something stupid.

“I want you to read something,” she said.

I didn’t move.

Not because I didn’t want to because I didn’t want to assume this was an invitation instead of a choice she might still take back.

“Only if you’re ready,” she added.I nodded. Slowly.

She picked up the diary herself and held it out to me. Didn’t place it in my hands. Didn’t push it closer.

She waited.

I took it.

The weight of it surprised me. Not heavy, not light. Just real. Lived in.

Just as my fingers brushed the cover, she stopped me.“Not here,” Ruhi said softly.

I looked up.

“Read it when you’re home,” she added. “When you’re alone.”

There was no fear in her voice. Just intention.

I nodded immediately and closed the diary without question, We talked after that. About ordinary things. Work. A stupid client she was annoyed with. Something funny my cousin had done. I laughed when she laughed. I answered when she asked.

But my hand never loosened around the diary.

It sat against my side the whole time, warm through the fabric of my jacket, and I was acutely aware of what I was not doing, opening it, peeking, guessing.

For once, patience wasn’t a performance. It was a promise.

When I reached home, I Freshened up. Changed clothes. Sat at my desk and reached for the diary

my mom said from the door. The dinner is ready.

I froze for half a second, then placed the diary back exactly where it was.

Dinner passed in fragments. Laughter. Teasing. Someone telling an old story I’d heard a hundred times.

I smiled. I nodded.

But half of me was already upstairs, sitting on my bed with that diary in my hands.

When I finally excused myself and closed my room door behind me, the house noise faded, and the quiet hit me all at once.

I picked up the diary.Sat on the bed and opened it.

The first pages were about her father.

Not poetic. Not dramatic.

Just raw.

I miss him in ways I don’t know how to explain. Sometimes I’m angry at him for leaving me here. Sometimes I hate myself for being angry because he didn’t choose to die.

My throat tightened.

I wonder if he would have known who I’d become. I wonder if I would have been softer if he had stayed.

I stopped reading for a moment, staring at the wall, breathing carefully like I might disturb something sacred.

Then I continued.

The next entries were about her family.

About feeling watched. Managed. Protected in ways that felt like being trapped.

They loved me, I think. But love without listening feels like control.

I learned to doubt my own reactions. If I was hurt, I wondered if I was overreacting. If I was scared, I wondered if I was weak.

My chest ached.

Not because I hadn’t known this but because I had been part of it.

But still I could see the way they care for me .

Then I turned the page.

And saw my name.

Aayansh.

My breath stalled.

The first time we met, I hated him. He drenched me in mud and didn’t even look sorry enough.

A soft, disbelieving smile tugged at my mouth despite myself.

I thought he was careless. Loud. Too sure of himself. I didn’t know then that he would become the person I trusted the most.

I read slower now.

Somehow, without realizing it, I started leaning on him. He listened. He stayed. He didn’t disappear when I was quiet.

My chest felt too full.

Then the tone changed.

I thought I trusted him. But he broke my trust.

The sentence sat alone on the page.

Unforgiving. Unsoftened.

It hurt.

It was supposed to.

It wasn’t one lie. It was the way everyone decided things for me again and he let it happen.

I felt stupid for believing I was different this time. I felt small. I hated that the person I felt safest with became the one I felt most betrayed by.

My hands shook slightly as I turned the page.

I didn’t rush.

I didn’t defend myself in my head.

I let it be what it was.

Then came the pages about now.

He’s asking for forgiveness without demanding it. He listens without interrupting. He steps back without disappearing.

Sometimes I wait for him to cross the line again. Sometimes I test the silence.

He doesn’t fail.

Tears blurred my vision, but I kept reading.

I don’t know if love survives betrayal. But I know it doesn’t survive control.

Right now, I don’t need promises. I need consistency.

And then

Her confession.

Not dramatic. Not romantic.Just devastatingly honest.

I don’t choose him because he makes me feel safe anymore. I choose him because he lets me feel unsafe without trying to fix it.

I choose him because he waits.I choose him today.

I closed the diary slowly and pressed it to my chest, my head bowing forward without me realizing it.

She had given me everything.

Not forgiveness as a gift. Not love as an obligation.

But the truth. and trust.

I sat there for a long time, the room silent, the diary warm against my heart, understanding something clearly for the first time:

This wasn’t the end of our story.

It was the first chapter where she was writing. and I was finally listening.

Then i turned the page it was the last entry

I didn’t plan to write this. I don’t even know if this is the right place for it. But if this diary is for truths I don’t get to soften, then this belongs here too.

I love him.

Not in the way I used to. Not in the way that made me disappear inside someone else’s care.

I love him now with my eyes open.

I love the man who learned to step back. The one who listens without waiting to reply. The one who stays even when he’s not needed and doesn’t punish me for it.

I loved him once because he made me feel safe. Now I love him because he lets me feel unsafe, angry, unsure and still treats me with respect.

There are days I still remember the hurt. There are days the trust feels fragile. There are days I don’t know what version of myself will wake up.

And I don’t promise him certainty. I don’t promise forever. I don’t promise ease.

But this is the truth I can stand in today,I choose him.

Not because I’m afraid to be alone. Not because he saved me. Not because love demands it.

I chose him because when I am with him now, I am still myself.

If one day this changes, I will write that too. If one day I need to walk away, I will be honest about it.

But today I love him.

And for the first time, that love doesn’t cost me anything.

I didn’t finish the page in one go.

Halfway through, my vision blurred and I had to stop, press my thumb into the paper like it could anchor me. The room felt too small suddenly. Or maybe I was breathing too shallow.

I love him.

She hadn’t circled it. Hadn’t underlined it. Hadn’t softened it with explanations.

She had just written it and trusted it to stand on its own.

My chest tightened in a way I didn’t recognize. Not relief. Not triumph. Something quieter. Heavier.

Respect.

Because she hadn’t written it to reassure me. She hadn’t promised permanence. She hadn’t offered herself in exchange for safety.

She had chosen.

I read the lines again.

I don’t promise forever. I don’t promise ease.

My throat burned.

I’d spent so long believing love meant holding on tighter when things felt uncertain. And here she was, loving me without chains, without guarantees and somehow that felt more binding than anything I’d ever known.

When I reached the last line

And for the first time, that love doesn’t cost me anything.

I closed the diary.

Not because I was done. Because I couldn’t breathe with it open.

I sat there for a long time, the notebook resting against my chest like something alive. Like something that could break if I mishandled it.

She had trusted me with this.Not with her heart with her truth.

And I knew, with an aching clarity, that this wasn’t something you replied to with words. Or even gratitude.

This was something you answered with presence.

I stood up suddenly, the decision sharp and certain in my body before my mind caught up.

I picked up my car keys.

I didn’t rehearse what I would say. I didn’t plan a confession to match hers.I didn’t even know if she would want to see me.

But I knew one thing. When someone chooses you this quietly, you don’t sit still.

I held the diary carefully not as evidence, not as a trophy but as something sacred. Something borrowed.

Then I walked out of the room. Out of the house.

Into the night.

Not to claim her. Not to rush her.

Just to stand in front of her and let her see, without pressure, without promises

That I had heard her.That I had chosen her too.