Among men, a rare few—like Kai—hold an ace up their sleeve. Their loyalty isn’t a mere promise; it’s etched into their DNA. They’re the non-cheatable ones—the keepers of fidelity’s flame.

kai’s eyes? Oh, they’re like ancient manuscripts, inked with devotion. His love isn’t divisible; it’s indivisible—a prime number in a world of fractions. He’ll love, yes—but he’ll never split his heart into shares. It’s a private stock, traded only in the currency of forever.

Sia, buckle up. You’ve boarded the rollercoaster of Kai’s heart—a ride with no safety harness, where the loops are emotional and the drops are existential. Hold on tight; it’s going to be a wild journey. Sometimes the non-cheatable ones are the most captivating. They’re like rare books in a dusty library—waiting for someone to turn their pages and discover the hidden chapters. 

Ah, I need a drink! my inner thoughts got distracted and so I called the person whom I lean on for advice if I am in a dilemma but this time I can't Ora every detail because nobody is going to agree for a contract marriage. Some secrets are best kept under lock and key.

I buzzed Ora, eager to spill the rooftop saga. Excitement crackled through the phone. Cab booked, I tapped my foot—pub-bound, heart racing. 

Mom’s urgent plea echoed through the hallway “ Sia, take Aera with you!” But I shook my head—Aera, the perpetual studious comet, wasn’t ready for rooftop dramas. With a wave, I escaped, leaving textbooks and family dynamics behind. 

As Ora and I rode to the pub, Kai’s story spilled from my lips—except the contract marriage twist.

"Ora," I insisted, "don’t you really remember him from the train? He was literally crying—I showed him to you.”

I leaned in, conspiratorial. “Ora, my brain’s like a cluttered attic. It hoards random facts, like ‘the capital of Uzbekistan’ and ‘how to fold a fitted sheet,’ but forgets faces faster than a Snapchat streak.”

Ora chuckled, sipping her beer. “And yet, you remember Kai's rooftop gaze?”

“Exactly!” I gestured dramatically. “His eyes—like two lost constellations. How could I forget?”

"So when will the date begin" Ora rolled her eyes in excitment.

“Ora,” I said, grinning, “I’ve decided to skip the dating drama altogether. 

Ora’s raised eyebrow made it clear she thought I was a few cards short of a full deck “consult a psychiatrist?” she said sipping the beer.

I scoffed “Ora, I’m not here to remember a guy—I’m here to outwit life itself!”

“But I know what your plan is, Sia,” she insisted, leaning in. Ora had a knack for reading between the lines, and it both amused and unnerved me.

“No, you don’t, Ora,” I replied, my resolve firm. “This isn’t about hearts and flowers. It’s about strategy.”

And then, as if on cue, the champagne bottles popped, and Ora declared, “Sia, congratulations!” We clinked glasses, bubbles fizzing around us.

But deep down, I wasn’t entirely sure. The contract marriage proposal hung in the air like a tantalizing secret. Was it freedom or folly? Practicality or passion? I sipped my champagne, contemplating my next move. Perhaps I’d consult the stars—they seemed less judgmental than psychiatrists. Or maybe I’d just flip a coin; heads for “go for it,” tails for “run away.”