"Hey, what's your favourite colour?"
I leaned closer and whispered into Karan's ear, tugging at his arm.
"What?"
"Hurry up. Tell me."
"Black."
"Okay. Mine is red."
"Food?"
"Anything healthy."
"I like fish curry."
He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you asking all this?"
"They usually ask these questions in games like this," I said.
"You're really eager to win."
I smiled. "I'm very competitive."
"The first game is the *No Blinking Game*," the announcement echoed across the island.
Couples must look into each other's eyes. Ten couples are participating. Only four will move to the next round.
"Sorry," Karan murmured, "not the kind of game you were expecting?"
Before I could answer, the wind tangled my hair across my face. He reached up instinctively, brushing the strands away. My hair was flying everywhere.
I handed him my hairband.
He gathered my hair carefully and tied it back. Then, without thinking, he pressed a small kiss to my forehead.
My disappointment faded.
"You may start in... three... two... one..."
I looked into his eyes.
He looked into mine.
For the first time, I noticed his eyelashes - thick, almost unfairly pretty. His gaze didn't feel dominant or demanding. It felt steady.
Strange how we were changing with each other.
With Varun, intimacy had peaked out of guilt. I felt bad for him - for the love he wasn't allowed to express the way he wanted. That closeness had been heavy.
But with Karan, something softer was forming. A friendship. A quiet safety.
Around him, my inner child surfaced - the version of me that wanted to laugh loudly, compete fiercely, play without calculating consequences.
I just wanted to win.
"My eyes are watering," I whispered. "I might blink any second."
Another couple blinked before us.
"And we have our four finalists!"
I jumped.
"Yesss!" Karan lifted my arm like we had just won a championship.
The next round was announced: husbands would run a fifty-meter race carrying their wives on their shoulders.
The whistle blew.
Before I could brace myself, Karan had already lifted me. His grip was firm. Secure.
He ran with surprising intensity. Not careless. Focused.
We finished second.
Finalists.
He put me down, breathless, laughing. His hand instinctively found my waist as someone handed him local wine. He didn't let go while celebrating.
I noticed.
His hands were always there. Anchored.
I glanced around. People were cheering. But when I looked back at Karan - smiling freely, without calculation, without jealousy - I smiled brighter than I meant to.
I wish we didn't have to go back.
At home, he would become authoritative again. Possessive. Careful. Guarded.
This version of him - light, secure, uncomplicated - existed only here.
Could I offer him the same softness when we returned?
No.
Because back home, everything was measured. Timed. Divided.
One week together.
Fifteen days apart.
The cycle never changed.
It had happened with Varun too. The moment I began to connect, to feel comfortable, I had to leave. Back then, I hated Karan for it.
Now I was beginning to resent Varun the same way.
This system wasn't romantic.
It was structured longing.
But leaving it now? That would hurt too.
They treated me well. They tried. In their own ways.
My parents had played a clever game. Wrapped in customs. Protected by tradition.
And people called it culture.
"Now it's time for the last round!"
"Who won the previous round?" I asked Karan sweetly, resting my head on his shoulder.
"Them," he said, pointing.
I followed his gaze.
Then I pushed him lightly.
"They?"
"Ouch. Yes."
"You couldn't run faster than a seventy-year-old man?"
"He was an athlete."
"Karan. Seventy."
"Well... his wife isn't- I mean... you have muscles. She doesn't."
My eyes narrowed.
He wasn't entirely wrong. The old woman was delicate, almost weightless. The man, despite his age, looked disciplined and strong.
Still.
"The third round," the announcer declared, "is how well you know each other."
I straightened. "I told you."
Karan actually looked impressed.
"The first question - ladies. What is your husband's favourite colour?"
"Black," I answered immediately.
Karan nodded.
Applause followed.
The old couple clapped too - but their smiles were wider. Calmer.
"When he dresses formally, he chooses blue," the old woman began softly. "For parties, black. At home, grey. But in truth, he loves greenery. So green is his favourite."
The host laughed. "That's enough, ma'am. We understand."
I felt something shift in my chest.
Knowledge built over decades is different from memorised answers.
"For the men - what is your wife's favourite food?"
"Fish curry," Karan answered confidently.
I nodded. Easy.
"My wife likes everything she isn't supposed to eat," the old man said.
The crowd laughed.
"But when she was pregnant, she craved spicy noodles. No one here made them. Every week, I travelled to another island to buy them."
He looked at her as if the memory was sacred.
"For a month, I kept going. The officers thought I was a spy. Said it wasn't normal to leave so often."
Laughter again.
"So I learned to make them myself. Eventually, I opened a small restaurant. Her cravings made me a chef."
He squeezed her hand.
"I thought I had mastered marriage. Then her cravings changed to milk cake."
The audience burst out laughing.
I didn't.
I was watching them.
Not the story - the way they looked at each other. Like time had only deepened something, not divided it.
They had permanence.
They had one life. One partner. One continuity.
No rotations.
No measured affection.
Of course they won.
We lost.
But for the first time, losing didn't sting.
It felt like understanding.
And strangely... relief.