The sound of the doorbell still echoed faintly when Elara stepped out of her room.
Elara stood halfway down the staircase, her fingers resting lightly on the railing. From where she stood, she could hear her mother’s voice — gentle, welcoming — mixing with another tone, lower, familiar in a way that made her heart tighten.

It can’t be him.

Her pulse quickened despite her denial. She forced herself to breathe slowly, one step at a time, the soft fabric of her forest-green dress brushing her knees as she descended. The sound of conversation grew clearer — her mother’s laughter, another woman’s warm replies, a man’s voice answering with the calm ease she had heard before.

The scent of lavender grew stronger as she neared the lounge.

Every part of her told her to stop and listen. Instead, she adjusted the thin bracelet on her wrist, straightened her shoulders, and walked on.

You’re overthinking, she told herself. Just walk in, greet, and sit.

At the edge of the lounge, she paused. The soft murmur of voices met her like a wave — cheerful, fluid, completely ordinary. Yet beneath it, her chest ached with something she couldn’t name.

She greeted, the words coming out steadier than she felt.

When she finally looked up, the world folded into stillness.

There he was.

Lucen.

Sitting beside his parents, eyes lifting just as hers found him.
The noise around them dimmed, as though the room itself had stepped back. For a moment, there was only recognition — a shock so quiet it barely made a sound, but deep enough to shake the calm she had built.

Elara blinked once, then again, and somehow remembered how to move. She crossed the room with quiet grace, the fabric of her dress gliding softly around her, and sat beside her mother as though nothing inside her had changed.

“Ah, there she is,” Lyra said brightly. “Come, meet everyone properly.”

Elara managed a small, polite smile, nodding toward the guests she already knew. “It’s good to see you again.”

Her words were careful, her tone even. Only her hands — folded neatly in her lap — betrayed the small tremor running through them.

Selene, radiant as always, clasped her hands together. “You look absolutely beautiful, dear. This color—” she gestured at the dress, “—it suits you so perfectly.”

Elara smiled faintly. “Thank you,” she murmured, eyes lowering to her hands.

Her pulse wouldn’t settle. Every time she tried to focus on the conversation, her mind slipped back to the fact that he was sitting only a few feet away. She could feel his gaze — steady, unintrusive, but warm enough to make her heart thud unevenly.

She didn’t look at him. Not once. But she knew.

The discussion around her flowed easily — stories, laughter, the pleasant clink of teacups. She caught fragments of sentences: how long the families had been apart, how wonderful it was to see old friendships turn into something new.

And then she heard his mother say it.

“Lyra and I were talking about how beautiful it would be if our families became one again — not just through friendship this time.”

The words landed like a quiet storm.

Elara froze, her breath catching in her chest. For a heartbeat, she thought she’d misheard, that her mother meant something else. But the look of quiet understanding on both women’s faces told her otherwise.

This was it. This was the proposal.

Her fingers curled slightly in her lap. Her mind spun, trying to assemble the pieces — why him, why this way, who suggested it first?

Of course, she told herself, this must have been their mothers’ idea — a reunion wrapped in sentiment and nostalgia. Lucen couldn’t have known. Couldn’t have asked.

She forced a soft, polite smile to her lips, hiding the chaos underneath.
If this was meant to be an arranged meeting, she would treat it as such. Calmly. Respectfully.

And yet, somewhere deep in the corner of her heart — beneath the confusion and disbelief — she felt a quiet flicker of relief. At least it wasn’t a stranger.

Across the room, Lucen sat very still, watching the delicate composure she carried like a shield.

When Elara had appeared at the doorway, he’d thought he was prepared —  The moment he saw her, all the calm he’d practised vanished.

The green of her dress drew his eyes first — the same deep shade as the umbrella she’d once carried that rainy morning, when he’d seen her laughing with her friend near that cafe. That was the first time he’d realised she wasn’t always quiet — that her stillness had corners of warmth, flashes of light.

Now, seeing her again under the soft glow of his living room lamps, that same colour made sense. Forest green — calm outside, depth within.

She was beautiful tonight. Not the effortless, distant kind, but the kind that makes silence turn aware of itself.

Lucen’s mother, Selene, was speaking — something about how graceful Elara looked, how she’d always liked her from the very first dinner. He smiled faintly, half listening, half lost in the rhythm of Elara’s breathing.

Then Selene nudged him gently with her elbow, the way only mothers can. It was subtle but unmistakable — her eyes gleaming with amused pride when she caught the direction of his gaze.

Lucen cleared his throat, looked away quickly, and reached for his teacup as if it could rescue him. The action only made his mother’s grin widen; she pretended not to notice, busying herself with pouring more tea she didn’t need.

Across the room, Elara’s mother spoke with growing excitement about the families’ bond, how everything felt destined.

Lucen glanced back at Elara, catching the smallest flicker in her expression — a softness trembling under practised calm. She was trying so hard to stay composed, but he could see it: the storm just beneath her surface.

Strange, isn’t it, he thought, how someone could understand a person who had barely spoken to him — a stranger, yet not one.

She had always been composed, quiet, measured. But right now, her calm looked fragile, stretched thin around the edges. It surprised him — the girl who could hold silence like a second skin suddenly struggling to keep it steady.
He wondered why.

And as he wondered, memory slipped in — that day of the umbrella again, when she’d smiled unguarded, free from the weight she carried now. He realised then: she wasn’t always this way. She was very careful. She opened herself only when she felt safe.

He wished she knew that with him, she already was.

Lyra’s laughter rose again, light and joyful, filling the room. Selene joined in, their voices blending like a melody from another lifetime.

Elara managed to smile, nodding when spoken to, but Lucen could see the faint tremor of her hand against her lap — a storm disguised as stillness.

He wanted to tell her it was all right. That she was safe.

He wanted to answer every question that flickered behind her eyes, to ease the storm he could almost feel from across the room.

He wanted to tell her that nothing would change — that even if life decided to tie them in this new, unexpected bond, he would still be the same, and she would still have the space to breathe exactly as she always had.

The conversation lingered on, cups refilled, laughter shared. The mothers spoke of arrangements in a tone too gentle to sound like planning, but everyone understood.

Eventually, as the evening began to quiet, the families rose from their seats. The night air that drifted in from the open windows was cool, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from Lyra’s garden.

Lyra and Selene moved toward the doorway, still talking, their voices soft with warmth. The fathers followed, lingering by the entrance, content and unhurried.

That left only the two of them, standing at opposite ends of Elara’s living room.

For a few seconds, neither spoke. The slow whir of the ceiling fan filled the space between them.
Elara’s hands brushed against the edge of her dupatta; she looked at him once, briefly — and in that single glance, there were a hundred unspoken questions.

Lucen’s lips curved into the faintest smile, a silent reassurance that he understood more than she’d said.

It was strange — how something as quiet as this could still feel so full.

She lowered her gaze again, murmured a polite goodnight, and walked her guests to the door with practised grace.
From the threshold, Lucen looked back once — the green of her dress catching the lamplight, the calm in her expression hiding the storm he could almost see.

Then he followed his parents out, the sound of their voices fading down the pathway.

When the gate closed, the house fell into stillness again. Elara leaned lightly against the doorway, her pulse still uneven, the echo of the evening circling in her chest.

Upstairs, the lights cast long shadows across her room. She sat by the window, staring out at the quiet street where their car had disappeared, the reflection of the night sky trembling faintly in the glass.

Neither of them spoke that night.
But both carried the same thought in different shapes —

Sometimes, fate doesn’t knock. It just waits for you to open the door.