Epilogue （Kiara） #2
There were balloons. Fairy lights strung like fireflies across the night sky. A table full of gifts. Like actual wrapped gifts—the kind I always begged for as a kid, because they were the only distraction from the fact that Mom died today.
My breath hitched. My legs wobbled. My eyes blurred.
I tried to grab something—anything—to keep myself steady, but before I could collapse into the moment…
I felt a warm hand steadying me. Manav.
He hugged me from behind, arms around my waist, chin resting gently on my shoulder. He didn’t say anything. Just let me feel it. The lights. The air. The magic.
I know you’re not supposed to cry on your birthday. I tried not to. I tried so damn hard to be normal. But grief doesn’t care about dates. And nostalgia doesn’t read calendars.
The tears came. And they didn’t stop.
Manav turned me into his arms, and I just clung to him. One hand holding me tight, the other stroking my hair like I was glass he couldn’t afford to shatter. My sobs were ugly and messy, and I didn’t know if they were from sadness or joy or relief. Maybe all three.
He didn’t say a word. Just kissed my temple between every shaky breath, wiping away the tears without asking me to stop.
After what felt like both forever and only a second, he whispered, “Is it too much?”
I looked at him through blurred lashes, his eyes just as red, just as soft. I smiled through my wet face. Pressed a kiss to his lips. And in that moment, with fairy lights twinkling above us and grief tangled in love’s arms—I knew.
This wasn’t just a birthday.
This was healing. This was home.
I was still sniffly. Still snuggled against Manav’s chest like some overcooked potato with feelings.
But I didn’t expect what came next. Manav slowly pulled away from the hug and reached into his hoodie pocket.
Now, when a man reaches into his pocket on a rooftop lit by fairy lights after you’ve ugly cried into his chest, two things can happen:
1. He pulls out a tissue.
2. He proposes.
My heart went into a full-blown salsa routine.
But instead of a ring box…
He pulled out…
A cheeseball.
“You brought a cheeseball… up here?” I blinked.
He nodded solemnly. “The last of the batch. I was going to use a ring,” he shrugged. “But you’re not exactly a diamond girl. You’re a cheeseball girl. And I figured… You deserve a proposal that feels like you.”
My jaw dropped.
I blinked. My voice cracked. “You mean—chaotic, salty, and kind of falling apart?”
He smirked. “Exactly. Also addictive. Once I had you, I couldn’t stop.”
I burst out laughing and crying at the same time.
He continued, now pulling out a tiny velvet box from his back pocket—but holding it like it was a supporting character to the cheeseball.
“This is for the photos,” he said, opening it to reveal a breathtakingly simple gold band with tiny engraving inside.
I squinted. “What does it say?”
He leaned closer. “It says: ‘Cheeseball for Life.’”
My knees gave up. I had to clutch his arm to stay standing.
“Kiara Randhawa,” he said, slowly going down on one knee—yes, on the terrace gravel like the dramatic idiot he is—“Will you marry me?”
Tears. Again. This man had no respect for waterproof mascara.
I fell to my knees with him. Wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered, “Yes, Manav Oberoi. I’ll marry you.”
He kissed me like the stars were jealous. Like the world had paused. And I swear, the cheeseball fell from his hand, rolled off the terrace railing—and someone below yelled,
“WHO THREW FOOD FROM THE SKY?!”
We broke into laughter, kissing through tears and jokes and the kind of joy that felt infinite.
And as he slipped the ring onto my finger and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, he whispered,
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Oberoi.”
There should be a law against people being this happy.
I was still laughing into Manav’s hoodie when the door to the terrace slammed open like a hurricane with eyebrows.
“WHO THREW FOOD FROM THE SKY?” Kartik yelled, brandishing a flashlight, “A cheeseball just hit my head. Someone’s going to jail.”
Behind him, Meeta was waddling up the stairs, hand on her belly, clearly winded. “What… what happened?”
Then came Myra—eyes wide, mascara slightly smudged, cheesecake in one hand and a Nerf gun in the other. I don’t know why. I don’t ask anymore.
Roy was last. Suspicious. Dramatic. Sibling-y.
“Okay, what did I miss?” he asked. “Because I left for five minutes and suddenly the group chat is blowing up with emojis and Meeta’s voice notes saying ‘SHE SAID YES’ on repeat.”
Manav straightened, helped me up with all the tenderness in the world… and casually said: “I proposed.”
Dead silence.
Then chaos.
“PROPOSED WHAT?” Kartik panicked.
“Like marriage?” Myra blinked, pointing the Nerf gun at us like it might clarify the moment.
“YES,” I said, holding up my ring finger.
“They all screamed.
Literally. Screamed.
Meeta started crying and was somehow eating at the same time. “I’m already hormonal, and now this? Do you people want me to give birth now?”
Myra threw her cheesecake into the air like it was rice at a wedding. “WHY DIDN’T YOU WAIT FOR US TO HIDE IN THE BUSHES AND RECORD IT?! I WAS READY WITH A DRONE!”
Kartik… was still holding his flashlight like a mic. “How could you propose without me giving an awkward toast?”
Roy? Oh, Roy just shook his head and walked over, patting Manav on the back.
The group let out a collective gasp of approval. Then everyone rushed in for a chaotic group hug, squeezing us until my ribs cried for help, and someone stepped on my foot.
I looked up through the blur of laughter and limbs and floating balloons, and found Manav’s eyes across the huddle. Calm. Steady. Mine.
He mouthed, “Drunk on love?”
I mouthed back, “Wasted.”