The edge of waiting

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.

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