Chapter 11 Nightlight Confessions
Nightlight Confessions
SITARA
I am hyperaware of the fact that Dhruv Singhania is lying right next to me.
Not touching. Not crowding. Just… there.
It’s ridiculous, really, how loudly my mind insists on announcing it, as if I might somehow forget. As if the steady rise and fall of his chest inches away from me, the warmth seeping through the mattress, the faint scent of soap and something unmistakably him isn’t enough of a reminder.
I stare at the ceiling, counting invisible cracks that aren’t really there, and catalogue facts instead—small, domestic facts I never thought I’d know about him.
Fact one: Dhruv sleeps without a pillow.
Fact two: He likes the night light on.
That one surprised me the most.
He had hesitated before admitting it, voice dropping into something almost shy. Not embarrassed exactly, just… careful. As if he were handing me something fragile and hoping I wouldn’t laugh.
“I don’t like the dark,” he’d whispered, barely audible.
The Dhruv Singhania, who negotiates with ministers, who walks into rooms like he owns the air inside them, afraid of the dark.
It had made something twist painfully inside my chest.
I’d wanted to tell him that it was okay. That fear doesn’t make you weak. That the dark can feel endless when you’ve spent too long alone in it. But the words had stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat, and all I’d managed was a nod and a soft, “It’s fine.”
So here we are. Night light on. Shadows softened. Reality muted.
I turn slightly on my side, careful not to disturb the careful space he’s left between us. He lies on his back, one arm tucked under his head, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like he’s tracing his own thoughts.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
The question is gentle, unassuming, like he’s afraid of startling me.
“It’s been a day,” he continues after a beat. “And… I hope you’re doing okay, Sitara. I meant it when I said you’re not alone.”
Something warm settles in my chest. I turn to face him properly now, my hands tucked under my head as I study his profile. The night light casts soft shadows along his jaw, his lashes darker against his skin.
“Thank you,” I say honestly. “But I feel… fine.”
The word feels strange, like trying on a dress that fits better than expected.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve known you for a while,” I add, a small smile tugging at my lips, “and I kind of like the fact that you can’t harm me in any way. Because my brother would eat you alive.”
I chuckle softly, the sound easing some of the tightness in my chest.
He turns his head then, fully facing me, mirroring my position, brows drawing together slightly. “I don’t need threats from anyone to remember I need to respect my wife.”
His jaw clenches as he says it.
My wife.
He says it so casually. Like it’s already woven into him. Like it doesn’t carry the weight of five days that turned my life inside out.
I blink, suddenly overwhelmed by how much that phrase does to me. My wife. I swallow and look away for a second, staring at the faint glow of the night light.
“I still can’t process everything that’s happened,” I admit. “It’s been… five days.”
Only five days, and yet it feels like an entirely different lifetime.
“I mean—” I exhale a shaky laugh. “Going through all those rituals, sitting there pretending I was okay, and then ending up abandoned on the biggest day of my life…”
The word tastes bitter even now.
“And then you showing up like some knight in shining armor,” I add, my laugh sharper this time, almost brutal. “God, I must have looked so weak. So pathetic.”
I don’t look at him when I say it. I don’t want to see pity in his eyes.
But instead, I hear him smile.
“You are not a damsel in distress needing a knight in shining armor, princess,” he says gently. “And I don’t regret anything.”
I glance at him, surprised by the firmness beneath the softness.
“And honestly, even if you regret it,” he adds, a faint hint of humor returning, “I’d say it’s pretty late now.” His smile dims just a little at the edges, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes.
“I don’t regret it,” I say immediately, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.
Because that part is true. Completely, undeniably true.
“But…” I hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric beneath me. “I want you to promise me something. Would you?”
He studies me for a second, expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Yes. I promise.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You won’t even ask what you’re promising?”
He smiles, easy and certain. “Whatever it is, I promise.”
It should annoy me—the way he agrees so readily, so confidently—but instead it feels… comforting. Like standing near something solid.
I sigh, unable to help the smile that creeps onto my face. “You’re impossible.”
“Efficient,” he corrects lightly.
I roll my eyes. “I want you to tell me if you ever decide this isn’t for you. Instead of just bottling it up and living through it.”
The air shifts. He moves, and I don’t even realize it at first—just suddenly he’s closer, close enough that our breaths mingle, close enough that my heart betrays me by skipping a beat.
I stay very still.
“So listen carefully,” he says, voice lower now, deliberate. “I will say this very slowly so your brain can make a note of it and store it very carefully.”
His eyes glint in the dim light, sharp and sincere all at once. “I, Dhruv Singhania, never do anything worth regretting,” he continues. “If I do something, I see it through.”
My breath catches.
“I agree this was sudden,” he says, gaze never leaving mine. “None of us thought this would ever happen. But it did. And yes, we may face issues—I’m not denying that.”
His voice softens, but the conviction doesn’t waver.
“But I want to work on them. I won’t give up unless you want me to.”
He lifts a finger slightly, pointing it at me, not accusatory—just certain.
“So you promise me,” he says, “that you’ll tell me if this isn’t something you want. Until then… let’s try.”
There’s something final in his tone, something grounding. Not pressure. Not expectation.
Choice.
A lump forms at the back of my throat, sudden and overwhelming. For a moment, words abandon me entirely. All I can do is nod, my vision blurring just a little, and offer him a small, honest smile.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for far longer than tonight.
We lie there in silence after that—not awkward, not tense. Just quiet.
And for the first time since everything shattered and rearranged itself around me, the quiet doesn’t feel lonely.
It feels… safe.