Raghav POV:

It had been a long day at school. The rain had started just after my last class, and by the time I walked home, my kurta and pants were drenched. My satchel, heavy with books and students’ assignments, was equally soaked, and my sandals squelched with every step.

When I stepped into the house, the soft aroma of freshly kneaded dough greeted me. Aarti was in the kitchen, her saree pallu neatly tucked in at her waist as she worked.

I coughed lightly, and she turned to look at me. Her eyes widened when she saw the state I was in. “Raghav ji! Aap toh poore bheeg gaye!”

(Raghav ji, you’re completely drenched!)

I tried to shake the water off my hair and smiled. “Thoda baarish mein fas gaya tha, Aarti,” I said casually. (Got caught in the rain a bit, Aarti.)

She quickly wiped her hands on her saree and came toward me, her concern apparent. Without a word, she took my wrist and led me toward our room.

“Aarti, kahan le ja rahi ho?” I asked, surprised by her sudden urgency. (Aarti, where are you taking me?)

“ Aap Chaliye,” she said firmly, not turning to look back.

(Come with me.)

In our room, she let go of my hand and began searching through the almirah. Moments later, she handed me a dry kurta and pants. “Pehle kapde badal lijiye,” she instructed, her tone soft but serious.

(Change into these first.)

“Aarti, it’s just some rain,” I tried to protest.

But she frowned. “Thand lag jayegi,” she replied, avoiding my gaze.

(You’ll catch a cold.)

I chuckled lightly. “Itni fikr kab se karne lagi ho, Jaan?” I teased, hoping to ease her worried expression.

(Since when did you start worrying so much, Jaan?)

Her cheeks turned a faint pink, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she left the room, muttering something about getting a towel.

When she returned, she gestured for me to sit on the low cot. “Baithiye,” she said, holding the towel.

(Sit down.)

I sat obediently, and she began drying my hair. Her touch was firm but careful, her movements brisk.

“Aap toh bilkul school ki teacher ki tarah ho,” I teased, trying to make her smile.

(You’re behave like a schoolteacher.)

Her hands paused for a moment before she replied, “Aur aap toh bilkul bacchon ki tarah harkatein karte ho.”

(And you behave just like a child.)

Her retort surprised me, and I laughed. “Baccha? Main?” I asked, raising my brows.

(A child? Me?)

She simply shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.

When she finished, she stood up and handed me the towel. “Kapde jaldi badal lijiye,” she said softly.

(Change your clothes quickly.)

Later that evening, I sat on the floor for dinner, waiting for her to join me. She was busy serving fresh, hot rotis from the kitchen.

“Aarti, tum bhi baitho aur saath mein khao,” I said, glancing at her.

(Aarti, sit down and eat with me.)

She looked startled by my suggestion. “Nahi, Raghav ji,” she said, shaking her head. “Pehle pati khate hain, phir patni. Hamare yahan yeh reet hai.”

(No, Raghav ji. The husband eats first, then the wife. That’s our custom.)

She hesitated, but I wasn’t going to give up easily. “Aarti, ab ghar mein sirf hum dono hain. Ma aur Baba agle hafte lautenge,” I said, trying to reason with her.

(Aarti, it’s just the two of us in the house. Ma and Baba won’t return until next week.)

Nahi Raghav ji

I frowned, teasing, “Arre Aarti, yeh kya baat hai? School ke chhote-chhote bachche meri baat maan lete hain, aur yahan meri patni apne pati ki ek chhoti si baat bhi nahi maanti?”

( oh What’s this, Aarti? In school, all the little children listen to me, and here, my wife won’t even listen to little request of her husband?)

She still hesitated, and I could see the conflict in her eyes. “Lekin...” she started. (But...)

“Mujhe akela khaana pasand nahi,” I interrupted, pleading with her. “Chalo na, Aarti. Ek hafte ke liye, bas hum dono saath khaa lete hain.”

(I don’t like eating alone. Come on, Aarti. Just for a week, let’s eat together.)

She gave me a reluctant look, but I didn’t back down. I smiled at her, my most convincing smile. “Please,Jaan. Maan jao.”

(Please, Jaan. Say yes.)

Her lips quirked in a small, amused smile, and she sighed. “Theek hai,” she said finally. (Alright.)

“Yeh hui na baat!” I said triumphantly, getting up to grab her plate before she could change her mind. (That’s the spirit!)

I placed her plate beside mine and served her food, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through my chest.

“Ab chalo, khaana shuru karein,” I said, settling down beside her.

(Now come, let’s start eating.)

She glanced at me, her hesitation still visible, but I could see the faintest trace of a smile. As we ate together for the first time, I felt the walls between us start to crumble, little by little.

______________________________________

The night is calm, but there’s something about the silence that feels different tonight. The soft rustling of the bedcovers is the only sound that fills the room, and I glance over at Aarti, who lies with her back turned toward me. The distance between us, though small, feels larger than it really is.

That distance is not just physical. The silence she places between us... I am always the one who tries to erase it with small steps.

I shift on my side of the bed, glancing over at her. Her silhouette is framed by the dim light from the window. Her hair spills across the pillow, and she looks so peaceful in her stillness. But something tells me she’s not at peace.

I wonder, is she feeling close to me?

This small distance, this silence it sometimes feels too much. Tonight, it feels even more intense.

I reach out slowly, the back of my hand grazing her arm. She flinches at the contact, and my heart sinks a little.

“Jaan? ” I whisper softly, my voice barely a murmur in the quiet room. “Tum so rahi ho?”

(Jaan? Are you sleeping?)

She doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, I think she might not have heard me. But then, after a long pause, she shifts slightly, just enough to turn toward me.

I don’t want to push her. But this distance,this silence between us is harder to bear than I anticipated.

“Yahan aao,” I say, my voice steady but low, a request more than an order. “Mere paas aao, Aarti.”

(Come here. Come to me, Aarti.)

For a second, nothing changes. I hold my breath, unsure if she’ll even move.

But then, in a sudden, almost desperate movement, Aarti shifts toward me. She doesn’t just move, she rushes into my arms, her body pressing against mine as she practically crawls over to me, her arms and legs wrapping around me, her head resting on my chest.

I can’t help but smile a little at the warmth and closeness of it all. The tension I hadn’t realized I was holding melts away in an instant. She’s here, in my arms, and that’s all that matters.

“Mujhe humare beech ki doori nahi pasand,” I whisper, my lips brushing against her hair.

(I don’t like the distance between us.)

“Main nahi chahta tum mujhse door raho, Aarti. Abhi... kabhi bhi nahi.”

(I don’t want you to be away from me, Aarti. Not now... never again.)

She doesn’t say anything, but I feel her body relax in my embrace. The softness of her form against me makes everything else fade into the background.

Her arms tighten around me, her legs gently pressing against mine as she settles more comfortably in my arms. Her head shifts slightly on my chest, and I feel the steady rhythm of her breath, calming me in a way nothing else could.

I kissed her forehead with all my love.

“Tum meri zindagi ho, Aarti. Yeh kabhi mat bhoolna.”

(You are my life, Aarti. Never forget that.)

She lets out a contented sigh, and I know she’s found the same comfort in my embrace that I’ve found in hers.

I pull the blanket up over us, cocooning us in the warmth of the night, and close my eyes. With Aarti in my arms, I finally feel like everything is right in the world.