“Are you joking?” I asked, my brows arching high, my heart suddenly galloping beneath my dress. But Jeremy didn’t answer. He simply raised one infuriating eyebrow—smug, amused, devastating—and stepped onto the yacht with the grace of someone who had clearly done this before. As if he owned the sea, and maybe the moonlight too.

Then, without a word, he turned and extended his hand.

Steady. Sure.

The kind of hand you didn’t reach for unless you were prepared to fall.

I hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then—
I slipped my fingers into his.

A spark. Not lightning. Not fire.
Something gentler. Deeper. Like coming home to warmth after years of cold.

“Welcome aboard,” he said, his voice the same familiar timbre that had once read love poems into my bones.

I stepped on. Slowly. Breath held. Mind spiraling.

Golden fairy lights wrapped the railing, their glow tender and quiet. A table sat in the center of the deck—small, intimate, glowing with flickering candles and linen so white it felt like moonlight made real.

My breath caught.
“Candlelight dinner?” I asked, my voice softer now, barely a whisper against the wind.

He glanced at the setup, then at me.
“More like fairy light dinner,” he corrected with that half-smile that always landed somewhere between teasing and reverent. Then, with a little bow, he pulled out a chair.

I sat slowly, still stunned. Still trying to memorize the moment fast enough to keep it forever.
“What did I do in my past life to deserve you?” I murmured, wondering if I was asking him or the universe itself.

Jeremy leaned forward, his elbows resting lazily on the table, that dangerous glint still in his eyes.
“Probably committed some delightful sins,” he replied, his voice sinfully smooth.

I laughed—really laughed. The kind that came from the lungs, not just the lips. The kind that untied knots.

Then came the waiter.

My eyes widened as he lifted the dome from the plate.

“Dosa?” I asked, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Seriously?”

Jeremy raised both hands in mock defense. “Hey—it’s comfort food. Don’t knock it till you taste it.” He leaned in, softer this time. “Besides… if I knew dinner on a yacht was on your bucket list, I would’ve checked it off sooner.”

The laughter died in my throat. A hush settled where delight had been.
A new kind of ache bloomed behind my ribs.
Warm. Quiet. Grateful.

“Who told you?” I asked, voice barely above the rustle of waves.

“No one,” he said casually, as if it didn’t matter.

My brows knitted. “Then how—”

He lifted his glass to his lips, took a measured sip, and placed it down with the ease of a man who had played this scene a thousand times in his mind.
“Seven years ago, you left your diary at my apartment,” he said, finally. Then shrugged. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

My eyes widened.
“Jer!” I gasped, grabbing a spoon and tossing it at him—light enough not to hurt, but hard enough to send a message.
“That was private!”

He caught it mid-air, of course. Then leaned back like he’d just won a game only he knew they were playing.
“So was my heart,” he said, shrugging with exaggerated flair. “But you opened that too.”

And there it was again—laughter. Loud and real and unexpected. It escaped me before I could stop it, lifting something heavy off my chest I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying.

And beneath the stars, with dosa and fairy lights, I felt the shift.

This wasn’t a grand gesture.

It was a quiet reclamation.

A rewrite.

Maybe even… the first page of a sequel.

The evening settles around us like silk—quiet, soft, full of the kind of hush that comes after laughter. Our dinner, which had started with fairy lights and dosa, slowly unraveled into stories only we knew how to tell.

College memories. Stolen glances across lecture halls. Late-night chai runs. Inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. His voice dipped lower with each memory, and I caught myself smiling so much it hurt. Somewhere far in the distance, the city glittered like it was eavesdropping on us, and the gentle sway of the sea cradled us like a lullaby.

Later, we walked the shore. Shoes in hand. Sand cold and wet between our toes. He carried the quiet easily; I carried the moment like glass in my palms.

Back at the hotel, I curled into him, my face tucked into his shoulder, his breath steady at my temple. And then, in the kind of silence that begs to be broken, I murmured,
“Jer, I think we should tell everyone at work that we’re dating.”

His fingers threaded through my hair, slow and soothing.
“Are you sure?”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see it.
“Yeah. I just want to avoid any misunderstandings.”

He paused, then kissed my forehead like punctuation.
“Buttercup, no one could come between us.”

Still, the thought lingered like a weight on my chest. I sat up slightly, chewing the corner of my lip.
“Still… it feels like the right time.”

He looked at me then—not just with his eyes, but with something deeper. Something that said he saw all of me.
“Okay. Tomorrow then.”

I leaned in, kissed his cheek, let my lips linger a second longer than necessary.
“Thank you.”

His voice dipped low against the dark.
“Good night, my chaos.”

And just like that, the night wrapped around us again. Not just two people in love. But two people choosing each other—deliberately, gently, against the noise of the world.

 “I demand a refund,” I assert to Ava, my voice trembling with suppressed anger. “And why is that?” she retorts, her tone laced with condescension. “Because I worked for this too, I paid for it. But you took all the credit,” I defend myself, my voice growing stronger. “Don’t act like a spoiled rich kid, Aiza. You were there with us, everyone knows you were involved in the charity function, which means you also contributed. There’s no reason to refund your money,” Ava dismisses me, her words stinging. “She’s right, Aiza. You were there with us for the entire event, everyone acknowledges your contribution,” Glyn chimes in, siding with her best friend.

“Do you seriously think they see me as a contributor? No, this is where you’re wrong. Throughout the ceremony, you treated me like I was your secretary or something. While you and Glyn were introducing yourselves, where was I?” I challenge, my frustration evident. “It’s your fault you went to the restroom,” Ava retorts dismissively. “I had to go at that moment, and you know why,” I counter, my voice barely a whisper.

“Oh really? Well, you’re still not getting your money back,” Ava declares, her tone final. I stare at her, my heart pounding. “You have to give me my money back,” I insist, my voice shaking. “Don’t you dare threaten me, Aiza. You think you can use your illness as a weapon and we’ll fall into your trap? Never. You’re just an immature brat who fakes an illness to get attention. YOU’RE AN ATTENTION SEEKER,” Ava accuses, her words echoing in my ears.

The words pierced through the darkness like shattered glass—harsh, brittle, echoing louder than they should’ve.

Attention seeker.

I gasped awake, lungs pulling in air like I’d been drowning. My hands clutched at the sheets, damp with sweat. The room was dim, early blue light brushing the edges of the curtains. My heart hammered, loud enough I was sure it would wake someone. But the bed beside me was empty.

I reached out instinctively, fingertips brushing the cool, unclaimed side of the mattress.

Gone.

The clock on the nightstand blinked: 6:00 a.m. The world was still wrapped in silence, slow and soft, untouched by the chaos tangled in my dream.

I sat up, breath shallow. The lingering weight of Ava’s voice still pressed against my chest—every syllable sharp, every accusation curling like smoke in my lungs.

It was just a dream. Just memory reshaped by fear.

But it felt like bruises.

My eyes swept the room once more. No sign of Jeremy. Not in the doorway. Not on the couch. Maybe the shower. Maybe grabbing coffee.

I exhaled shakily, pulling my knees close, arms wrapped tight like they could hold me together.

The ache didn’t pass.

I moved to the bathroom, switching on the light with trembling fingers. The mirror greeted me with the mess I felt inside—red, puffy eyes, dark circles blooming like shadowed petals.

Am I an attention seeker?
Am I immature?
Why can’t I stand up for myself?

The questions felt too loud for 6 a.m.

I stepped into the shower, clothes and all, letting the hot water cascade over me, hoping it would drown out the voices still echoing:

You’re just trying to impress everyone.
You can’t even stand up for yourself.
You’re still a mama’s baby.
You’ll never be enough.
YOU ARE AN ATTENTION SEEKER.

The bathroom door creaked open.

“Aiza?”

His voice. Low. Alarmed. Gentle.

Jeremy.

I sank to the floor. My body folded like paper. And then—his arms were around me. A towel wrapped around my shoulders, his warmth surrounding my trembling limbs.

He didn’t ask me to stand. He just sat on the cold tile with me, holding me like the world could wait.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, brushing a soaked strand from my face. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m not,” I whispered. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. You should leave… like everyone else did.”

My fists hit his chest. Not out of anger, but desperation. “Go. I’m a mess. I’m immature. An attention seeker. You don’t need to fix me.”

He caught my hands and pressed them to his heart.

Then, so gently—like sunlight landing on glass—he leaned in and kissed my forehead.

Not to hush me. Not to distract me.

Just to remind me I was still here. That I mattered.

His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “Aiza... don’t you ever say that again.”

I met his eyes—wet, wide, unwavering.

“I’m with you not because you’re perfect. I’m with you because you’re real. Raw. Brave. You survived things people wouldn’t talk about, and still—you choose love. You choose kindness. You choose to try.”

My throat tightened.

“You are not ‘too much’ or ‘not enough.’ You are exactly who you’re meant to be.”

I buried my face in his chest, and he cradled me like he’d never let go.

“And for the record,” he added, voice softer now, “you’re not broken. You’re becoming. And I’m lucky—so damn lucky—to witness that.”

When I finally looked up, he smiled.

“Wait here,” he said, standing and opening the wardrobe. He pulled out a black abaya-style dress with subtle embroidery along the sleeves.

“Wear this,” he murmured, handing it to me like it was spun from silk and stardust. “I’ll be back in ten.”

The dress slipped over me like a second skin—soft, elegant, grounding. I ran a hand over the threadwork, breathed in.

When the door opened again, Jeremy stood there in a crisp white kurta pajama, radiating calm and clarity.

His eyes lingered on me. “You look like peace personified.”

I tried to smile. This time, it stayed.

He offered me his hand.

And I took it.

We didn’t talk much in the cab. We didn’t need to.

I leaned into him, my head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers brushed slow circles on my knuckles, grounding me back into the moment.

“Where are we going?” I asked, voice hushed.

He smiled, a secret blooming in his eyes. “Somewhere your soul might remember.”

The cab slowed.

My breath caught in my throat.

The Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque.

White marble domes stretched toward heaven, kissed by the golden spill of morning light. It looked less like a structure and more like a prayer turned solid.

Jeremy didn’t speak. He just opened the door, held out his hand, and together we stepped into silence.

The courtyard felt like sacred air.

Every echo, every footstep felt part of a larger rhythm. A rhythm that pulsed through the earth and the sky and the space between us.

We walked side by side. No rush. No noise.

The past hadn’t vanished. But for once, it didn’t own me.

It hovered like smoke, but it didn’t choke.

I found myself standing at the edge of the central fountain, marble beneath my feet. Jeremy stood beside me, looking out, not speaking.

“I know what they said hurt,” he said quietly. “But Aiza… no one who sees your light would ever mistake it for noise.”

Tears welled up again—but not the drowning kind.

These were softer. Like spring rain instead of storms.

He reached for my hand. And I let him.

Because maybe… this was healing. Not erasing the pain, but outgrowing it.

One safe moment at a time.