The night before the festival, Riyan couldn't sleep.
The ceiling of his room felt too close, the fan's slow hum mocking his restlessness. Every shadow in the corners seemed alive, whispering his own thoughts back at him: What if she can't come? What if they've locked her away again? What if this is the last chance you'll ever get?
Kabir sat cross-legged on the floor, his face half-lit by the faint glow of his phone. "You're pacing holes in the ground," he muttered.
"I can't sit still," Riyan admitted, running a hand through his hair. "This temple visit—it's the only thread left. If she's there…" His throat tightened. "I have to see her."
Kabir's eyes softened but stayed sharp. "And if she isn't?"
Riyan turned toward the window. Beyond it, the city lay dark, the night air heavy with the promise of incense, drums, and the swirl of festival colors. "Then I'll wait," he said. His jaw set. "As long as it takes."
They spoke in hushed tones, but underneath the quiet burned a reckless energy. The plan wasn't clear—how could it be? They couldn't predict her parents, her cousin, the crowd. All they had was the temple, a place where shadows could conceal, where the hum of bells could drown out a heartbeat.
Riyan's hand slid over his desk. There lay the ribbon she had once sent, folded carefully as if it were sacred. He pressed it against his palm, feeling the softness, and whispered, "Tomorrow."
The morning of the festival dawned with the clash of bells and the sharp scent of sandalwood smoke.
Ananya woke to the sound of her mother bustling in the courtyard, her cousin's voice low and commanding. The green sari had been laid neatly at the foot of her bed. It gleamed in the pale light, soft and heavy, like both a blessing and a shackle.
Her hands trembled as she dressed. The cool fabric slid over her skin, wrapping her in color that felt like both camouflage and defiance. She tucked the edge of her dupatta carefully, her breath uneven.
Her mother's voice drifted through the door. "Be quick, Ananya. We don't want to be late."
Her cousin's reply followed, sharp as a knife: "I'll keep her close."
Ananya's fingers curled into fists at her sides. The jasmine she had hidden the night before was gone—she suspected he had searched her room again. But the memory of it lingered in her hair, or maybe only in her imagination.
As she fastened the thin bangles around her wrist, her heart raced. The bells outside echoed louder now, calling the faithful to the temple. Her cousin's footsteps tapped the threshold, impatient, watching.
She lowered her gaze, obedient, but inside her chest something rebelled.
Today.
Today, she would look for him. Even if it was only for a second, even if her cousin's eyes were burning into her, she would find Riyan in that crowd.
The thought sparked like lightning through her blood, threading through her nerves until her hands steadied, her breathing calmed.
When the door opened and her cousin's shadow filled the frame, she rose gracefully, as though nothing burned inside her at all.
As the family stepped out toward the temple procession, the bells thundered louder, their sound rolling like fate across the streets. Somewhere in that crowd, Riyan waited—heart pounding, eyes searching. And Ananya, bound by watchful eyes, walked straight toward the fire.