EPILOUGE
AUTHOR'S POV:
Some love stories begin with destiny.
Some begin with choice.
And some begin with damage.
Veeransh and Aarohi were never written like poetry in the beginning. There were no gentle starts waiting for them. No easy promises. No perfect timing. Their story began with force, anger, fear, misunderstandings, and wounds that existed long before they met each other.
Aarohi came into the Sarkar mansion carrying a lifetime of silence inside her. She had learned very young that pain could stay for years if nobody cared enough to notice it. She had spent most of her life surviving love instead of receiving it.
And Veeransh was not a hero when this story started. He was a man raised among power, responsibility, emotional distance, and expectations heavy enough to harden even soft hearts.
He made mistakes. He hurt her. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes unknowingly. But the thing that changed everything was simple. He stayed. When Aarohi cried, he stayed. When she got sick, he stayed. When she pushed him away, he stayed.
When she carried their children, he became afraid for her before himself. And somewhere between caring for her medicines, feeding her when she refused to eat, holding her during storms, and panicking every time she looked tired love happened.
Not dramatic. Not sudden. Quietly. Like sunrise entering a dark room little by little.
There are people who love loudly. And there are people who love through presence.
Veeransh became the second kind. The kind who remembered her cravings.
The kind who stayed awake during her fever.
The kind who learned softness because of one woman.
And Aarohi became the proof that wounded hearts can still love deeply if given safety instead of fear. Their story was never about perfection. It was about healing. About two damaged people slowly becoming home for each other.
Distance could not break them. Fear could not break them. Because by the time life tried separating them, they had already rooted themselves too deeply into each other's souls.
And then came Aarav and Aarika. Two tiny heartbeats that completed what life once tried destroying. The little boy who slept dramatically like his father. The little girl who smiled softly like her mother.
And suddenly the Sarkar mansion, once cold and heavy with silence, became filled with lullabies, sleepy cries at midnight, scattered toys, soft laughter, and tiny footsteps echoing through hallways.
Veeransh still looked at Aarohi like she was the center of his world. And Aarohi still found peace only beside him. Years later, if someone asked Aarohi what love looked like, she would probably not describe flowers or grand confessions.
She would describe: A man checking if she ate. A hand reaching for hers in sleep. Someone sitting beside her hospital bed for hours. Someone crying because he almost lost her. Someone choosing her again and again after every storm.
Because sometimes love is not found in perfect beginnings. Sometimes love is found in the person who stays after seeing every broken part of you. And if someone asked Veeransh what home meant he would never mention the mansion. Not the wealth. Not the legacy. Not the Sarkar name.
Home, for him, was simpler.
A sleepy woman beside him.
Two babies between them.
And a life he once never believed he deserved. In the end, their story was never about a forced marriage. It was about two lonely people unknowingly saving each other. And perhaps that is the purest form of love there is.