The house at night was never truly still.
Even in its quietest hours, Ananya could hear the sigh of wood shifting, the drip of a tap not fully closed, the faint stir of wind pushing at the window panes. But tonight, each sound seemed magnified—an alarm waiting to betray her.
She lay on her narrow bed, the blanket pulled up to her chin, eyes wide open against the darkness. The note pressed like a brand against her ribs, tucked safely under her kurta. She hadn't dared leave it on the desk, not with her father's habit of sudden inspections, not with her mother's restless tidying. Even while brushing her teeth, she had felt it there, a secret heartbeat against her chest.
For hours she had resisted the urge to unfold it. Fear kept her frozen: fear of discovery, of disappointment, of finding too few words to justify the risk he had taken. But longing gnawed through the walls she had built, growing stronger with every tick of the clock.
When the house finally surrendered to sleep—the rhythm of her father's snoring down the hall, her mother's low murmurs quieting into steady breaths—Ananya slipped out from beneath the covers.
Her bare feet touched the cold floor. She paused, listening. Nothing stirred.
She moved carefully, like a thief in her own room, sliding the bolt of her door without a sound. The faint moonlight from the half-drawn curtain guided her back to the desk. She sat, pulling the note from its hiding place, fingers trembling.
The scrap of paper was small, unevenly torn, its edges rough. But in her hands it felt sacred, heavier than any textbook, more dangerous than any locked door. She hesitated, running her thumb along the crease, her breath caught between dread and desire.
Then she unfolded it.
The ink was smudged in places, the strokes hurried and uneven, but his voice leapt from the page as clearly as if he were sitting across from her, whispering into the night.
"Ananya—They can shut every door, but they can't keep me away. You think you're trapped, but I swear to you—you're not. Not while I'm still breathing.If you can bear it, wait for me. Just a little longer. I'll find a way. I promise.—Riyan."
Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the gasp that threatened to escape. Tears blurred her vision before she could stop them.
The words were reckless, foolish even. No plan, no certainty—just stubborn defiance carved into ink. But to her, they were salvation.
She read it again, and again, until she could have recited every jagged line with her eyes closed. Each sentence carried his presence, his warmth, his infuriating confidence.
Her shoulders shook. She pressed the paper to her lips, letting silent sobs escape at last, careful not to make a sound. She wasn't crying out of fear, not tonight. It was release, the kind that came when chains cracked just enough to let light through.
For so many days she had felt herself shrinking, disappearing into the obedient shadow her parents demanded. Now, in her hands, was proof that she was still seen. Still remembered. Still loved.
She leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes, imagining his face—the way his brows furrowed when he argued with her, the half-smile he wore when he knew he had won, the softness in his eyes that belonged only to her.
The note trembled in her grip, alive with possibility.
But reality returned swiftly, heavy and cold. Her father's voice rang in her memory: "We know what you've done. You will not shame us again." If they ever found this scrap of paper, it wouldn't just be punishment. It would be war.
Ananya's gaze darted to the door. Her father could walk in at any time. Her mother could rise for water, or to check if she was studying. The thought sent a shiver through her spine.
She couldn't keep it where it was. Not in her desk, not under her pillow. Too risky.
Carefully, she folded the note again, smaller this time, until it was no bigger than a coin. She stood, toes sinking into the rug, and crossed to the corner of her room where the old wooden dressing table stood. She crouched, running her hand along the underside of the drawer until her fingers found the loose splinter she had once discovered by accident.
With a gentle tug, the panel shifted. A narrow hollow revealed itself—her only secret space in this house of vigilance.
She slid the note inside.
Her chest ached as she let it go, as though parting with him again. But the knowledge of its existence, hidden yet safe, was enough. She would return to it whenever despair threatened to swallow her whole.
Standing, she pressed her palm to the wood, sealing it shut. Her heart slowed, steadying against her ribs.
She crawled back into bed, curling beneath the blanket. For the first time in days, her body loosened against the mattress. Her eyes grew heavy, not with dread, but with something sweeter—hope.
As she drifted toward sleep, she whispered the words he had written, shaping them on her lips like a vow.
"Not while I'm still breathing."
And in the silence of the midnight room, Ananya felt less like a prisoner and more like someone waiting for a storm to break.