The waterfall road into the valley, it's mist rising like silver dust that caught the sunlight in fleeting rainbows. The crowd shifted and laughed around the railing, but for Arnav, the world narrowed into a single frame.

It was her ........

She stood quietly near the edge, leaning against the rail as though she had all the time in the world. Her skin was a warm brown glow, kissed by the sun, and it seemed to belong perfectly to the earth and the wild spray of the falls.

her eyes - oh her eyes - they were not simply beautiful, they were alive. Dark, deep, and holding a softness that words could not capture as if they carried entire stories she hadn't spoken yet. Her lips were small delicate, not exaggerated, but that made Her smile as secret gift. And when she did smile - even faintly, in thought or at the sound of her cousin calling from a distance it lit her whole face.

Her nose, her features, everything about her was simple and unpolished, and yet in Arnav's eyes she was extraordinary.

Arnav had painted famous models, celebrated faces portraits that hang in galleries but never had he seen someone so complete in their imperfection, so quietly breathtaking, his painters' heart ached to capture the exact way the mist touched her skin, the way the sunlight crowned her hair, the way her beauty lived in the small, natural details.

But she never once looked at him...

When her cousin called again Ira.....

She turned with that smile that devastatingly beautiful smile and walked away, vanishing into the shifting crowd. The roar of the waterfall swallowed her absence, but Arnav's know; he had just seen the face he would spend a lifetime trying to paint. And still never get right.

Arnav returned to his studio after the waterfall, but something in him had changed. The man who once painted for exhibitions, for collectors for the applause of strangers now painted only of him self.

And always it was her.

From the very first glimpse, Ira became more than just a memory in Arnav's mind - she became an ache, the space between them felt unbearable, as if the mere act of seeing her once had awakened in him a hunger for her not only with his heart but with his entire being.

when his eyes closed at night, it wasn't her face alone that haunted him - it was the imagined warmth of her skin beneath his touch, the curve of her smile he wished to trace the trembling fingers, the softness of her presence he yearned to draw close. His body carried the restless fire of wanting, while his soul carried the deeper ache of needing her in ways he could hardly put into words.

Every fleeting thought of her left him unsettled - half in torment, half in bliss, the memory of presence was both wound and a balm. He wanted to hold her, to feel her heartbeat against his chest; to lose him self, in intimacy of a closeness he could only dream of. The longing grow until it became indistinguishable form him, part of his breath, part of his blood.

The years after first seeing Ira stretch into a torment Arnav carried alone. His nights were sleepless, his hands restless, his body aching for a touch that had never been his. He had built empire's, conquered boardrooms, and inherited a dynasty of wealth and power, but none of it quenched the fire that burned inside him. By day, the world saw a painter - eccentric reclusive, lost in colors the Arnav veer suryavanshi. By night, he was a man enslaved to longing chained to the memory of a girl ten years younger, whose smile had undone him.

He investigated her quietly, never showing himself. Through whisper, shadows, and carefully placed eyes, he come to know her world.

He knew the street she walked to school, the way she held her books against her chest the food she loved, the clothes she preferred. He was not merely watching, he was studying, devouring every detail like an addict. Likewise, he justified it with patience: she was too young, too delicate now one day when she was older when she had ripened into her own womanhood..... Then he would claim her. Until then, he would suffer.

He painted her endlessly - her eyes, her lips, her nose canvas after canvas lined his studio, but none satisfied him. Each stroke mocked him: the real Ira was always beyond reach. Sometimes in rage he tore through the canvas, splattering colors like blood.

" Tumhari ankho mai jo nasha hai, vo main kisi rang mai utar nhi sakta ".( "The intoxication in your eyes, I cannot capture it in any color").

His whisper bled into the silence. Even in his most intimate moments, when his body betrayed him in desperate release, her name fell from his lips.

"kaha ho tum, Ira....?"

"where are you, Ira..?"

" kab tum mujhe milogi...?

" when will you come to me..?"

He had everything - wealth, power, respect, yet even triumph felt hollow before her absence.

" Mere pass sab kuch hai... Par tumhari ek muskan ke samne sab bekar hai..."

" I have everything.. But before one smile of yours, all of it is worthless..."

Arnav lived in shadows of desire. Waiting for the day when she would step into the light as a woman, he could finally make her his.

Meanwhile, Ira Mehra,

Bloomed unaware of the storm she had left in another heart. She lived like spring itself - soft but restless, her laughter carrying warmth into every room. Her favorite colors were alive and bright: the reds of marigolds, the yellow of festival, the peace of white she adored chai over coffee, loved to hum under her breath while reading, and often wrote little secrets in her diary. Her friends teased her for her dreamy nature, for the way her eyes seemed lost in thoughts of a world no one else could see.

She was young, yes but not naive. There were glimmers of something older in her spirit-flashes of maturity in the way she listened, in the depth of her silence. People admired her without the knowing. To them, she was gently curious, untouched by life's heaviness. To herself, she was just a girl growing into her own skin, with quiet dreams of freedom and adventure.

Arnav could paint her a thousand times, but he would never capture the true fragrance of her life. Only Ira carried thel secret - and she lived it without knowing she was already haunting the heart of a man, who waited in fire for her.

For years, Ira had grown accustomed to the quiet surprise that appeared at her doorstep. A single rose tied with silk ribbon, a silver bookmark slipped into her college notebook. A letter written in careful handwriting, unsigned, carrying only one or two haunting lines.

" Tumhari muskan meri duniya hai."

"( your smile is my world)."

At first, she laughed with her friends, calling it her "mystery admirers game." But as the years passed, the rhythm of those gifts - never too many, never too loud - became a strange presence in her life. Not love, not fear, just a curiosity she never chased.

On the morning of her twentieth birthday, she found a gift waiting, a rare sketchbook wrapped in ivory paper tied with a silver pen. The note beneath it read....

" Intezar lamba hai, par main hu".

"(The wait is long, but I am here)".

She smiled softly tucking it away before anyone else could notice.

That evening her home was filled with laughter, light, and music. Relatives poured her with cheer, and Ira's face glowed in the warm fire of attention. But amid the laughter, her parents Mr. Mehra and Mrs. Mehra exchange proud glances before making an announcement that froze Arnav's world in place.

" We are considering Ira's engagement". Her father said warmly. " With our family's friends son kabir Malhotra. You all know him - he has been like family since childhood".

The boy stepped forward, smiling, taking Ira's hand with easy familiarity. The room filled with claps and teasing. Ira blushed, stammering, embarrassed. She didn't protest. To everyone else, they were look good together, but to Arnav, she looked like she belonged to another man.

Inside his car parked down the street, his hands trembled against the steering wheel. For four years he had waited, silently, patiently, sending pieces of his soul to her doorstep. He had believed that when she bloomed into womanhood, she would be his to claim. And now - this.

"Nhi.... Ira, tum meri ho"...

"(no...Ira, you are main)".

"Char saal..... Or ab kisi or ko du tumhe?

Kabhi nhi".

"Four years... and now give you to someone

else? Never".

The rose meant for birthday. Lying on the passenger seat, felt like a cruel mocking. His breath came ragged, his patience unraveling thread by thread.

That night, his studio became a battlefield. The canvas in front of him swallowed his rage, his longing, his despair. He painted her face her eyes, her lips - again and again - but every stroke was ruined, consumed by shadows and fire. His hands shook as the paint smeared, his whisper filling the silence.

"Maine intezar Kiya hai.....ab or nhi..

tumhe khone nhi dunga....."

"(I've waited ......no more... I will not lose you)".

The painting stood unfinished, now and furious. Just like the man before it.

For the first time in years, Arnav Veer Suryavanshi's love no longer felt like devotion it felt like possession. And in that dangerous shift, the sweetness of longing curdled into an ache that demanded to claim, not cherish.