Freedom didn't feel like fireworks.
It felt like quiet.
The morning after the verdict, Mira woke and didn't hear shouting, didn't feel pressure sitting on her chest. For a few seconds she lay still, confused by the absence of fear.
Then she remembered.
She was free.
The realization didn't make her jump out of bed. It made her breathe deeper.
Across the room, Arjun slept on his side, one hand half-curled like he was still holding something fragile. She watched him and felt a wave of gratitude so strong it hurt.
They had survived.
Not untouched.
But intact.
They moved into a small apartment two months later.
It wasn't impressive. The kitchen was narrow. The walls carried the faint memory of previous tenants. The balcony barely fit two chairs.
It was perfect.
They built routines quickly, as if afraid peace might expire if unused. Sunday laundry. Shared grocery lists. Late-night cooking disasters that ended in ordering food anyway.
Ordinary life felt luxurious.
One evening they sat on the floor surrounded by unopened boxes, eating takeout from the containers.
"We fought the world for this," Mira said, gesturing at the mess.
Arjun looked around seriously.
"I'd fight it again," he replied.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"So would I."
Not everything healed smoothly.
Her family stopped calling.
Silence replaced anger, and somehow that hurt more. Some nights Mira stared at her phone, thumb hovering over her mother's name.
She never pressed it.
Pride held one side.
Pain held the other.
Arjun didn't push her to talk. He simply sat beside her when sadness arrived, offering presence instead of solutions.
That was his quiet talent.
He didn't try to erase storms.
He stood inside them.
And love matured there — not in grand gestures, but in shared endurance.
Months passed.
The apartment filled with permanence. Books on shelves. Plants by the window. A chipped mug they refused to throw away because it was theirs.
One rainy night Mira wrapped her arms around him while he burned dinner.
"What if we ruin this?" she whispered.
He turned off the stove and faced her.
"We will," he said calmly.
"Everyone ruins things."
She blinked.
"That's comforting?"
He smiled.
"This part is: we'll ruin it together. And fix it together."
She laughed into his chest, tension dissolving.
Perfection had never been the goal.
Staying was.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside their small apartment, a life stitched itself slowly into place.
Not dramatic.
Not easy.
But chosen.
Daily.
And choice, they were learning,
is what turns love into home.