28. TOGETHER
AAROHI:
The moment the plane lands, my heart feels like it forgets how to beat normally. I hold the armrest as the wheels touch the ground, a soft jolt passing through my body. Outside the small window, everything looks white. Not dull white. Bright. Clean. Endless.
Snow. When the doors open, cold air rushes in, sharp and new. I inhale without realizing it, and the breath feels different in my chest, lighter, almost painful, like my lungs aren't used to something so pure. Kashmir.
I step down carefully, my foot still sensitive, but the cold numbs it slightly. I pull my shawl tighter around myself, eyes darting everywhere. Mountains rise in the distance, massive and unreal, their peaks dusted thick with snow like someone has brushed them gently with white paint.
The roads gleam, wet and pale, lined with snow pushed to the sides. Even the air feels quieter here. I've never seen anything like this. For a moment, I forget fear. Forget rules. Forget him.
Then I feel his presence beside me again, solid and unmoving, and reality slips back into place. We get into the car waiting outside. It's warm inside, the windows fogging slightly as we pull onto the road toward the hotel.
The drive feels long. I'm exhausted. The journey, the emotions, the early morning, it all settles heavily in my bones.
My head tilts slightly against the seat, eyes closing for just a second.
What if he doesn't like it. The thought snaps me awake instantly.
I straighten, forcing my eyes open. He's quiet beside me, looking straight ahead. His face is unreadable, like always.
I keep my eyes open, watching the snow covered trees blur past. After a while, my eyelids droop again. I jerk awake. Then again. Sleep pulls at me insistently, and I fight it each time, afraid irrationally that sleeping might be another mistake.
Another rule I don't know. By the time the car slows and stops, my body feels heavy, my thoughts slow. "We're here," he says. The hotel stands tall against the mountains, lights glowing warmly against the cold.
It looks like something from a picture book.
Inside, everything smells of wood and warmth.
The staff greet us quietly, respectfully.
No one stares. No one asks questions. We're led upstairs.
When the door opens, I stop just inside the threshold.
There's no separate room. No second bed.
It's a couple's room. A large bed dominates the space, draped in white and soft beige.
Rose petals scatter lightly across the sheets. Warm lights glow from the corners. A small kitchen sits to one side, neat and modern. A sofa rests near the window, facing the mountains. It's beautiful. And terrifying.
My chest tightens. I stand there, unsure what to do with my hands, my feet, my body.
He steps inside without comment, sets his bag down, loosens his jacket.
I want to sit. My legs ache. My back feels like it might give out.
But what if he doesn't like it. What if sitting before he tells me to is wrong. So I stand.
Near the sofa. Close enough to touch it.
Not close enough to claim it. My head feels light.
I glance at the kitchen, trying to distract myself.
"You want coffee?" I ask softly. "I can make it if you want.
" He turns toward me immediately. His eyes narrow, not in anger, but concern.
"You're already tired," he says. "Don't push yourself. "
The words surprise me. "Rest a little first," he adds. "Breakfast, lunch, dinner, they'll come from the hotel. You don't have to make anything." I nod, unsure how to respond.
"Sit," he says. I lower myself onto the sofa carefully, my body sinking into the cushions with a relief so intense it almost makes me dizzy. The warmth of the room, the silence, the exhaustion, it all crashes over me at once.
I tell myself to stay awake. Just for a moment.
Just until he finishes whatever he's doing.
But my eyes close anyway. And this time.
I don't wake myself up. I wake when the light has changed.
Not bright like morning. Not dark like night.
Evening. For a few seconds, I don't remember where I am.
The ceiling is unfamiliar. The air feels colder.
My body feels heavy, wrapped in warmth I didn't consciously choose.
Then memory returns slowly. Kashmir. The hotel.
The journey. Veeransh. I sit up abruptly.
Cold bites into my skin immediately. I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing my palms together.
My saree feels thin against the chill here.
I glance around the room. He's not here.
The room is quiet except for one sound. Water. The shower. My heart jumps slightly. He's in the bathroom. I don't know why that thought makes my chest tighten.
I stand carefully, my foot protesting faintly, and move toward the window. The balcony doors are closed, but beyond the glass, I can see white. Snow. I hesitate only a second before sliding the door open.
Cold air rushes in instantly, sharp and alive. I step out, the stone floor icy beneath my feet even through my sandals. The view steals my breath. Mountains stretch endlessly before me, massive and silent, their peaks covered in thick snow glowing faintly under the dim sky.
Below, roads wind like pale ribbons, bordered by snowbanks. Tiny lights flicker far away, as if the world is whispering instead of speaking. I pull my saree pallu tighter around myself, covering my shoulders, but the cold slips through anyway.
Still, I don't go back inside. I've never seen something so vast. So quiet. So untouched. Hunger creeps in slowly, first as a dull ache, then sharper. I realize I haven't eaten properly since morning.
I move to the sofa on the balcony and sit carefully, curling in on myself, trying to preserve warmth. My teeth chatter slightly. The shower stops behind me. A few moments later, the balcony door slides open again.
"What are you doing out here?" His voice is firm, edged with something sharper when it meets the cold. I look up at him. He's changed, dark trousers, a sweater pulled over his shoulders, hair still slightly damp.
He looks grounded. Solid. Like he belongs everywhere he stands. "I was just seeing the view," I say softly. "It's my first time in Kashmir." He doesn't respond immediately.
His eyes move over me, my bare arms, the way I'm curled into myself, the faint tremor I can't fully control. "Come inside," he says. "It's cold." I nod and begin to stand.
As I do, my saree pallu slips under my foot. The world tilts. I gasp, arms flailing uselessly. Strong hands catch me instantly. His grip is firm, unyielding, one arm around my waist, the other steadying my shoulder.
I collide against his chest, breath knocked from my lungs. For a second, everything stops. The cold. The mountains. The sound of my heart pounding too loudly in my ears.
"Don't wear a saree if you can't handle it," he says sharply. But his hands don't let go immediately. "Sorry," I whisper, mortified. He releases me and knocks once on the door frame before stepping back inside.
Dinner has arrived. The dining table is set neatly, warm light reflecting off polished cutlery. The smell of food makes my stomach twist painfully. A staff member finishes arranging the dishes silently and leaves.
I stare at the table. Soup. Something creamy and unfamiliar.
Main courses I don't recognize. Dessert plated delicately like art.
I've never seen food like this up close.
Veeransh pulls out a chair for me. I sit slowly.
He serves food onto my plate himself. "Eat," he says.
I pick up the spoon hesitantly and taste the soup.
Warmth spreads through my chest immediately. I eat slowly, carefully, afraid of doing something wrong. The flavors are different, rich, comforting in a way I didn't expect.
"We'll go out tomorrow morning," he says casually.
"Arrange your things before sleep." "Okay," I reply.
Halfway through the meal, his phone vibrates.
He glances at it. Suhana's name flashes on the screen.
He ignores the call. I hesitate. "She might.
" "Eat first," he says, cutting me off. I nod and continue eating.
After dinner, he looks at me again. "Where's your medicine?" My heart sinks. "It's over," I admit quietly. His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't say anything.
"Go change," he says instead. I head to the bathroom, lock the door, and lean against it for a moment, breathing deeply. I change into a silk night gown, light pink, soft against my skin, with a shirt and lower over it, modest and comfortable.
I wash my face gently. When I look in the mirror, I notice my sindoor has smudged slightly from washing.
I place my bangles neatly on the dressing table, along with the mangalsutra.
I tie my hair back into a loose braid. When I step out, my eyes go immediately to the bed.
King size. Wide. There's no other bed. No couch suitable for sleeping. No mattress.
My heart starts racing again. I glance at him.
"You sleep on the bed," I say quickly. "I can sleep on the floor.
" He looks at me as if I've said something ridiculous.
"No." "It's okay," I insist. "I don't mind.
" He watches me search the room anxiously for an extra bedsheet, a blanket, anything. There's nothing.
"You don't sleep on the floor," he says firmly.
"And this is a king size bed. Designed for two people.
" "But I." "Go to bed," he cuts in. "I'll join after a phone call.
" My words die in my throat. I nod. I move to the bed hesitantly and lie down on the far left side, as close to the edge as possible.
I pull the blanket around myself, stiff and awkward.
My body feels tense, every muscle alert. This is the first time. The silence feels loud. I stare at the ceiling, heart beating unevenly, wondering how I ended up here.
In a place so beautiful. In a room so warm. And yet feeling more unsure than ever. I close my eyes slowly. Not to sleep. Just to breathe.