Ashaas had always been surrounded by love stories — brides glowing with anticipation, grooms fumbling with vows, families uniting with laughter and tears. But for years, she had watched them from a careful distance, pouring her energy into making each event flawless while quietly believing her own love story was something that had already ended.
Then came Arjun.
She first noticed him during one of her meticulously planned weddings, crouched near the aisle with his camera, capturing details no one else seemed to see — the nervous tightening of the groom's hands, the way the bride's grandmother dabbed her eyes with a folded handkerchief. There was an attentiveness about him, a patience that made his presence feel steady, almost grounding.
Their first conversation was brief, a simple exchange about the lighting in the hall. But later, as the evening wound down, they found themselves standing together by the buffet, laughing over the chaos of a toppled dessert table. It wasn't the kind of laughter that came from politeness — it was the kind that left her cheeks aching and her heart unexpectedly light.
Over the next few weeks, Arjun and Ashaas began crossing paths more often. Sometimes it was work — her events, his photography. Other times, it was coincidence — the same coffee shop, the same park on a Sunday morning. Eventually, coincidence turned into intention. Dinners were suggested, long walks followed, and before Ashaas could place the moment it happened, he had become part of her daily rhythm.
What struck her most about Arjun wasn't grand gestures or dramatic words. It was his quiet consistency. He asked about her day and really listened. He noticed when she was tired, and when she needed encouragement. He respected her independence but was always there when she wanted company.
Still, a part of Ashaas hesitated. Love, to her, was a story she had already lived once, with Neel. Could she truly open her heart again? One evening, while they were walking along the riverside, she voiced the question she had been holding back.
"I'm not sure I know how to do this again," she admitted, her voice softer than the night breeze.
Arjun stopped, his camera slung over his shoulder, and looked at her. "You don't have to know how. We'll figure it out together. Love isn't about repeating the past. It's about writing something new."
Something shifted inside her at that moment. His words weren't a promise of perfection — they were an invitation. And for the first time in years, Ashaas felt ready to accept it.
By the time winter arrived, Arjun was no longer just a photographer who appeared at her events. He was the person she called after a long day, the one who made her laugh when she was overwhelmed, the one who held her hand as though it had always belonged in his.
And as snowflakes fell over the city, Ashaas realized this wasn't the continuation of an old story. It was the beginning of a new one — hers and Arjun's.