*Best enjoyed with "Ishq De Fannyiar" playing in the background.*
The night air is cool, scented with mogra and distant smoke from firecrackers. Above, the sky is slowly shedding its cloudy veil—the moon is expected tonight.
MAHI steps out from her room, wearing a soft pastel lehenga. Not for anyone. Not even to impress.
Just… for the night. For herself.
She walks barefoot on the cold marble. Around her, excited chatter hums in the air.
WOMAN (nearby):
"Today, there's a high chance we'll see the moon!"
She hears it, but her eyes are already pulled elsewhere.
Across the courtyard, SOUMIK walks out holding a string of fairy lights in one hand and a metal basket in the other. His kurta is simple but it clings slightly at the sleeves, hinting at his quiet strength.
He doesn't seem aware of the people watching him.
But they are watching.
A trio of girl cousins, barely hiding behind a pillar, whisper and giggle. Their eyes rake over him—his arms, the stretch of his back as he reaches up to pin lights, the way his jaw tenses when he focuses.
GIRL 1:
"That body? Allah, even his kurta's struggling to keep up."
GIRL 2:
"I'd happily reincarnate as a fairy light just to feel his fingers for a second."
They giggle, but duck down when Soumik turns.
But Mahi isn't hiding.
She's standing still—her dupatta slipping gently from her shoulder, forgotten—because she sees something else.
Not his body. Not his looks.
She sees his soul.
The way he crouches to help the old caretaker untangle a wire.
The way he folds his hands respectfully to the aunties.
The way a child tugs his kurta and he lifts him without hesitation, even though he's clearly tired.
Mahi whispers to herself, so softly that even the stars might miss it:
MAHI (under breath):
"He's my moon."
---
Soumik walks across the open space, sleeves rolled up, stringing up lights with quiet focus.
Every spot he touches begins to glow—fairy lights flicker to life, lanterns sway in the breeze, warm golden tones wrapping the night in a soft, sacred hush.
Wide shot:
Soumik stands at the center of the courtyard, tying lights overhead.
Behind him, children chase each other barefoot.
Above, a few lanterns drift into the darkening sky.
Around the edges, people laugh, take selfies, adjust bangles.
But Mahi… she doesn't move.
She stands still at the edge—eyes on him, heart slowly catching up to the moment.
A recognition.
A reverence.
Flashbacks ripple through her mind, soft and fleeting like watercolor:
– Back when everyone else was busy drawing trees and animals… Soumik was sketching her. Messy, lopsided—but her.
– That one Eid when she was sick—he slipped a note through the window: "Don't worry, I saved you some kheer."
– And just last night—when the fight left her scared and breathless—he carried her again. Cracking dumb jokes the whole way, just to stop her from breaking down.
Back to the present.
Soumik ties the last string of lights.
He pauses, looks up at the sky—then turns, scanning the courtyard.
Their eyes meet.
Just for a moment.
He gives her a soft, tired smile.
Mahi doesn't smile back.
But her eyes linger.
Long after he's already looking somewhere else.
No one knows what's shifting inside her.
Not even him.
But something is.
A warmth she can't name.
A gravity she can't shake.
It aches—and glows.
Soumik moves on, wiping his hands, distracted by some uncle calling from the corner.
Mahi exhales, her breath shaky but full.
The wind stirs her dupatta, wrapping around her like a slow, invisible embrace.
The moon hasn't risen yet.
But for her—
he's already here.
---