Chapter 2: Dreams Expanding
Marriage had not changed their love — it had deepened it.
The early months of their married life felt like a quiet melody playing in the background of everything they did. There were no dramatic fireworks, no constant excitement. Instead, there was comfort. Stability. A sense of belonging that neither Arman nor Elara had ever known before.
Their apartment slowly began to reflect who they were. The living room walls were decorated with Arman's paintings — skies in different moods, distant horizons, and one special canvas of an oak tree under golden autumn light. Elara had filled the bookshelves with novels, poetry collections, and notebooks filled with her handwritten drafts.
On Sunday mornings, sunlight streamed through the large window near their dining table. Elara would sit with a cup of coffee, reading aloud paragraphs from her latest manuscript. Arman would listen while mixing colors on his palette, occasionally glancing up to admire her passion more than her words.
"You change when you read your own writing," he told her once.
She looked up. "Change how?"
"Your voice becomes stronger. Like you believe every word completely."
Elara smiled. "Because I do."
Her dream of becoming a published author had lived inside her since childhood. She had written stories in old notebooks long before she ever met Arman. But after meeting him, her stories changed. They gained emotion, depth, vulnerability. Loving someone had given her something real to write about.
One evening, while Arman was working on a large canvas in the studio corner of their apartment, Elara's phone vibrated on the table. She almost ignored it, assuming it was another promotional email.
But something made her look.
Her heart stopped.
The subject line read: Regarding Your Manuscript Submission.
Her hands began to shake as she opened the message. She read the first sentence once. Then again. Then a third time to make sure she wasn't imagining it.
They wanted to publish her novel.
Not only publish it — they were excited about it.
She covered her mouth with one hand, tears instantly filling her eyes.
"Arman…" her voice trembled.
He turned, brush still in hand. "What happened?"
"They accepted it."
He blinked. "Accepted what?"
"My book."
The brush slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, leaving a streak of blue across the wooden surface. He didn't care. In two steps he was beside her.
"Are you serious?"
She nodded, laughing and crying at the same time. "They said it's powerful. They said it feels real."
He pulled her into his arms and lifted her off the ground.
"I told you," he whispered into her hair. "The world just needed time to catch up to your talent."
That night, they didn't cook. They ordered cheap takeout and sat on the floor, rereading the email over and over like it might disappear if they blinked.
For Elara, it wasn't just about publication. It was validation. Proof that the lonely nights of writing, the self-doubt, the endless editing — none of it had been wasted.
But success rarely comes alone.
With the publishing contract came deadlines, interviews, promotional events, and expectations. Her editor sent detailed notes asking for revisions. Certain chapters needed strengthening. Some dialogues required sharpening.
Elara threw herself into the work.
She began waking up earlier, often before sunrise. The apartment would still be quiet, the city barely awake. She loved those hours — when the world felt empty enough for her thoughts to stretch freely.
Meanwhile, Arman's own career was rising steadily.
After their wedding, several galleries had shown interest in his work. His paintings carried something rare — emotional honesty. People didn't just see colors; they felt stories in them.
One afternoon, he received a call from a well-known art curator who wanted to feature his collection in an upcoming exhibition titled Reflections of the Human Heart.
When he told Elara, she clapped her hands excitedly.
"This is huge!" she said. "Do you know how many artists would dream of that opportunity?"
He nodded, but his expression was thoughtful.
"What's wrong?" she asked.