29
The streets of Edinburgh were slowly settling into evening calm when they made their way back to the hotel.
The sky was painted a dusky purple, with clouds still hanging low, and the lamps along the cobbled streets flickered on one by one, casting a warm golden hue over the damp stones.
Vaani walked with her arms folded, her cheeks flushed from both the cold and the long day.
Dhruv walked beside her, steady and unhurried, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely swinging.
The air carried the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a stall they passed and the soft chatter of tourists still lingering near souvenir shops.
But neither of them spoke much on the way back.
Vaani, tired but happy, was quietly replaying the day's highlights in her mind—the castle, the little candid picture Dhruv had taken of her, and finally, the dessert in the café.
Dhruv, meanwhile, seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, his silence measured, comfortable.
By the time they reached their hotel, the lobby was quieter than in the morning, a couple checking in at the desk and a staff member wheeling luggage toward the elevator. They took the lift up to their floor, the soft hum of its movement the only sound between them.
Once inside the room, the two of them moved easily around each other, slipping out of their coats, setting their things aside.
Vaani changed into a loose sweatshirt and pajama pants, her hair tied up in a messy bun, while Dhruv pulled on a clean T-shirt and joggers.
The cozy hotel room, with its warm lighting and soft carpet, felt like a little cocoon against the chill outside.
As she flopped down onto the bed with a sigh, Dhruv glanced at her. "Do you want to eat dinner?" he asked, voice casual, hands in his pockets.
She immediately shook her head, pressing a palm against her stomach. "I'm really stuffed. I've been eating the whole way—don't think I can fit in another bite."
He hummed lightly, tilting his head. "Hmm. And do you want me to order something anyway?"
She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you hungry?"
He paused, considering. "Not really. But maybe I'll get a little food."
"Then do that," she said, her voice softer now, almost indulgent, like she was encouraging a child to have a snack.
With a small nod, Dhruv moved toward the desk, picking up the hotel's tablet menu and scrolling through it with practiced ease. He selected something light for himself—a soup and a small sandwich—before setting it aside.
Meanwhile, Vaani had settled herself into the bed, propped against the headboard with a pillow, her phone in hand.
The TV was on, tuned to a British news channel, the anchor's voice clear and crisp as they discussed politics.
Dhruv sat at the edge of the other bed, his eyes on the screen, listening intently.
But Vaani wasn't watching. Instead, she was flicking through her camera roll, editing and posting stories on Instagram. A boomerang of the foggy castle, a picture of the dessert, a short video clip of the street musicians they'd passed. She added little captions, emojis, tags.
The knock at the door came softly, and Dhruv rose without a word to answer it.
The server wheeled in a small trolley, the aroma of warm soup and toasted bread filling the hotel room.
Dhruv signed for it, thanked the server with a brief nod, and rolled the tray closer to his bed.
Vaani sat cross-legged on her bed, her phone still in hand, watching him with quiet curiosity.
He didn't make a fuss about it—simple gave her a simple look at her to ask if she wanted to share, to which she casually shook her head.
He just unwrapped the cutlery, lifted the bowl of soup carefully, and began to eat.
The steam curled up against his face, softening his sharp features for a fleeting moment, but his expression stayed neutral, composed.
He dipped the spoon, blew lightly, and took slow, steady sips.
The television filled the silence. The news anchor's voice bounced from one subject to another—politics, weather, a new cultural festival coming up in Glasgow. Occasionally the sound of the spoon tapping against the edge of the bowl punctuated the background noise.
Vaani leaned back against her pillow, her sweatshirt sleeves pulled over her hands.
She scrolled idly through her phone, but her eyes kept lifting toward him.
Dhruv was... silent. Not just now, but generally.
Even during their walk earlier, he had spoken only when necessary, answering her questions in short, clear sentences.
At the café too—she had been the one to chatter about the castle and the streets, while he had listened, only occasionally chuckling or adding a word or two.
And now, sitting across from her, he ate his dinner in absolute quiet.
Vaani's brows knit slightly. Why doesn't he talk? she wondered. Was he simply reserved? Was he tired? Or was he just not interested in conversations, in filling the space with words the way she often did?
Her own family was nothing like this—Vedant, Vihaan, her parents—everyone spoke over each other at the dinner table.
Laughter, debates, arguments about what to watch on TV—it was noisy, lively, full.
And here she was, watching her new husband quietly eat soup as if silence was the most natural thing in the world.
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes studying him more carefully.
His movements were efficient, precise. He broke the bread into neat pieces, dipped it into the soup, and ate without spilling so much as a crumb.
There was a rhythm to it, an almost practiced stillness.
He didn't fidget, didn't glance at his phone, didn't hum or sigh. He just... ate.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, not exactly. But it was strange. Strange enough that Vaani began to wonder if this was who he really was—someone who didn't feel the need to talk unless there was something worth saying.
Her gaze lingered on him, thoughtful. Maybe it's just how he is. Maybe he's the kind of person who doesn't waste words.
Still, a small ache of curiosity tugged at her. But doesn't he ever want to share what he's thinking? Doesn't he ever want to just... talk, about nothing?
The sound of the spoon scraping lightly against the bottom of the bowl broke her thoughts.
He was nearly finished now. Dhruv lifted the last bite of bread to his mouth, chewed slowly, and set the spoon neatly down beside the bowl.
He reached for his glass of water, took a sip, and leaned back against the headboard, his attention already shifting back to the news.
Vaani blinked. She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn't realized she'd been staring. Quickly, she dropped her gaze back to her phone, pretending to scroll. Her heart fluttered with a sudden embarrassment, as if she'd been caught peering into a part of him she wasn't supposed to see.
But even as she looked away, the thoughts lingered. She wondered what it would take to make him talk more. Was it just time? Would he open up slowly, in days or weeks or months? Or was this it—was this the man she'd married? Quiet, thoughtful, steady, but... not talkative.
Her thumb moved absently across her screen, but she wasn't reading. Instead, she kept listening—to the quiet clink of cutlery as he pushed the tray aside, to the faint creak of the mattress as he adjusted his position, to the steady, measured rhythm of his breathing.
He wasn't unhappy, she realized. There was no tension in his body, no frustration in his silence. If anything, he seemed completely at ease. Comfortable in the quiet.
The realization made her smile faintly, though she didn't know why. Maybe because it reminded her of something her grandmother once told her—that some people carry silence the way others carry laughter, and that both could be steadying in their own way.
Still, as the news shifted to another segment and the glow of the television painted both their faces in pale blue light, she wondered quietly: Will I ever get used to this? To sitting across from someone who doesn't feel the need to talk at all?
She tucked her knees up under her chin, the blanket pooled around her legs. For a moment, she considered saying something just to break the silence, maybe asking him about the soup, or about the news on the TV. But when she glanced at him again, she stopped herself.
Dhruv's expression was calm, his eyes steady on the screen. Not cold, not distant—just quietly present.
And so, she said nothing. She leaned back against the pillow, her phone resting on her lap, and let the silence stretch between them.
It wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It was... oddly steadying, like the hum of the heater or the soft patter of rain against the window. She realized then that maybe, just maybe, silence wasn't always a gap that needed filling.
Sometimes, it was simply the space where two people could sit side by side, each lost in their own thoughts, without needing to explain or justify a thing.
~·~
The room had grown quieter as the evening slipped deeper into night.
The muted hum of the television was long gone, the tray with Dhruv's dinner had been wheeled away, and all that remained was the faint whistle of the wind outside and the occasional sound of a car passing down below on the cobbled street.
The soft yellow light of the bedside lamp stretched across the room, warm and muted, as both of them readied themselves for bed.
Vaani tucked her phone into her bag, brushing away the strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail, while Dhruv adjusted the duvet, folding it back evenly as though it were some quiet ritual.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't heavy—it felt like the pause between breaths. Finally, Dhruv, standing by his side of the bed, turned to her.
"Which side do you want?" His voice was calm, low.
Vaani blinked at him, caught off guard by the question. She looked at the bed—one side against the wall, the other open to the window, both looking equally comfortable. "Um... any side is fine," she said casually, sliding her hand across the blanket.
Dhruv paused. His eyes lingered on her face for a fraction longer than usual, and then the corners of his lips curved, just faintly. "Vaani," he said, his tone edged with the smallest trace of amusement, "for a team lead, you surely don't make any decisions."
Her lips parted, half-surprised, half-amused, and her brows furrowed. "Yeah," she added softly, sitting on the edge of the bed now, her arms crossing instinctively. "As a team lead, I constantly do make decisions. That's all I do all day."
Her voice had softened by the end, honest and unfiltered, and it made Dhruv pause.
He hadn't expected her to admit that so simply.
He studied her for a moment longer, her slightly slouched shoulders, the honesty oozing out in the way she avoided eye contact right after saying it — as if saying 'make the decision for me, please'.
Without another word, he nodded once and said simply, "I'll take this side." He stepped toward the wall side and lowered himself onto the bed.
Vaani, caught between relief and amusement, smiled a little as she moved to the other side, slipping under the blanket. The mattress dipped softly beneath her, the sheets cool against her skin.
They didn't say much else. Dhruv leaned back against his pillow, reaching to switch off the lamp. The room fell into darkness, broken only by the faint bluish glow of the city lights seeping in from the window.
Vaani shifted once or twice, tucking the blanket closer, and soon enough her breathing evened out. Within minutes, she had fallen into sleep, her face turned toward the faint light spilling from the rain-streaked glass.
Dhruv lay still. He stared up at the ceiling first, letting the quiet seep into him, but sleep didn't come as easily. His mind was restless—not loud, not chaotic, but steady and turning, like a machine that refused to switch off.
He turned his head slightly, his eyes drawn to the window.
Outside, the world had begun to change. Raindrops pattered against the glass, soft at first, then steadier, their rhythm constant and grounding.
The street below glistened faintly under the dim yellow of the streetlights, slick with the sudden downpour.
He shifted his arm under his head and watched, the faint smile tugging at his lips unbidden.
The rain had always calmed him. In the US, back when he was buried in coursework or work deadlines, it had been the one thing that anchored him—the quiet music of rain against the window, reminding him that the world outside was larger than his own thoughts.
And now, in this foreign city, lying beside a woman who had fallen asleep so quickly and easily in his presence, the rain felt like an old friend returning.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Vaani. Her hair had fanned slightly over the pillow, her features softened by sleep. She looked at ease, unbothered, as though even in this strangeness—the new city, the new marriage—she had found her own way of resting.
Dhruv's chest rose slowly as he inhaled, his thoughts quieting in the rhythm of the rain. He didn't close his eyes yet. Instead, he let himself linger in that quiet moment—the sky heavy with clouds, the window streaked with water, and the soft, steady sound of another's breathing filling the room.
For once, the silence didn't feel like something he carried alone.
The rain outside kept up its rhythm, soft and steady, the sound echoing faintly through the old hotel windows.
Dhruv lay on his side now, one arm tucked under his pillow, eyes still open though Vaani had been asleep for a while.
He had thought the rain might lull him, but his mind still had energy—alert in a way that travel often made him feel, like he hadn't quite synced with the new place yet.
Just then, his phone buzzed lightly on the nightstand. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. He reached over without much thought, pulling the phone into his hand and unlocking it with a swipe. A notification from Aarav lit up the screen.
It was a reel—Aarav's style, some random, probably funny or sarcastic clip he'd thought Dhruv would enjoy.
Dhruv plugged in his AirPods, opened the reel, and sure enough, it was some mix of absurd comedy and an old Bollywood song mashed together.
He snorted softly under his breath, shaking his head.
Aarav always sent him these at odd hours, and somehow they always landed well.
He typed back a reply, something short but enough to let his friend know he'd seen it. Aarav responded almost instantly with a laughing emoji and a follow-up meme, but Dhruv didn't open it yet.
Instead, his thumb hovered, almost absently, before shifting toward the top bar where a new notification blinked—Instagram.
Vaani's profile picture.
She'd been posting stories, it seemed. Out of instinct more than curiosity, Dhruv tapped.
The screen filled with light, and then—her perspective.
The first story was a photo of the rain-slicked streets of Edinburgh, captured with a kind of warmth.
The frame had caught the light just right: the amber glow of the streetlamps reflecting off the wet cobblestones, the shadows soft and deliberate.
It wasn't just a casual snap—it looked thoughtful, aesthetic in a way that surprised him.
He tapped through.
The next was a picture of the dessert they had shared earlier in the café.
The spoon clinking against the chocolate glaze, the motion looping endlessly.
She had added a small caption with a smiling emoji and a heart, and for a moment Dhruv found himself replaying the sound of her chatter while she ate most of it without realizing.
He couldn't help the small huff of a chuckle that slipped out of him.
Another story—her selfies at the castle, the background sweeping and grand, her smile natural, her hair slightly messy from the breeze. Then one of the candid shots he'd taken for her—she had posted it too, adding a soft filter, making the colors pop. She'd written "new favorite place ???" on it.
And then came the castle panoramas, little clips of her panning her phone across the courtyard, over the stone walls, the view of Edinburgh from above. She had captured the feel of the place, almost like a travel blogger, each clip layered with background music that matched the mood.
Dhruv stared at the screen longer than he intended. His thumb didn't move, lingering on the last story.
"Damn," he whispered under his breath. He hadn't expected this.
He had known—vaguely—that she liked traveling.
He remembered it from before, when he had glanced at her profile once, before the wedding.
Not in depth, just skimming: pictures of cities, food, street corners, the kind of details only someone who enjoyed the act of being somewhere else would bother capturing.
He'd thought it was nice, but at the time it had been abstract—just another fact about someone he hardly knew.
But now, seeing her stories tonight, it was different. These weren't just pretty images. They were... her. Her way of seeing the world, of making something as simple as a dessert or a street corner feel memorable.
It reminded him suddenly of how, during the day, she'd kept pausing to take pictures while he walked ahead. How he'd teased her lightly, offering to take a photo when she had hesitated. How embarrassed she had looked when she realized she wanted her own moment captured.
Now, scrolling through, he could see what it all came together as—her vision of their day.
And it was good. Really good.
He leaned back against the pillow, his phone still in his hand, the blue-white glow casting faint shadows across his face. For a long while, he just let himself scroll back and forth through the stories, tapping to replay the castle one again, then going back to the dessert boomerang.
Then, almost without realizing, he tapped on her profile.
The grid opened—rows and rows of travel pictures, cafes, street markets, bookshops, sunsets. Little captions under each post, some short, some long, some just an emoji or two. A collection of places and moments stitched together.
He felt the memory come back—how before the wedding, he had looked at this same grid once, quickly, maybe in the middle of the night when someone had forwarded him her name. At the time, it had meant little. Now, it felt like something he was piecing together slowly, like a puzzle.
His eyes flicked to the top of the screen. Her bio was simple: a quote about journeys, a little plane emoji. He noticed how many highlights she had organized neatly—London, Bath, Glasgow, Manchester. Neat circles holding pieces of her life.
He exhaled, a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
It was strange—how much you could learn about someone from something as simple as a social feed. Or maybe not learn, exactly, but glimpse. A different side, the one they curated, the one they chose to show.
And for some reason, seeing hers made something in his chest soften.
He let the phone rest against his chest for a second. Then, slowly, he turned his head to the side.
Vaani was still fast asleep. Her breathing was steady, her face turned slightly toward him now. The faint light from the streetlamps outside caught the edge of her features, softening her in a way that was almost too gentle to look at for long.
His gaze lingered on her left hand again, where the faint glint of the ring showed beneath the blanket. For the first time, he thought about how all of this—the stories, the trips, the quiet moments—were now his to witness, not from afar, not through a screen, but right here, beside him.
His phone buzzed again—another meme from Aarav—but this time he didn't open it. He locked the screen, slid the phone onto the nightstand, and let his hand rest back against the sheets.
The rain was still steady, the window streaked, the sky heavy.
Dhruv let his eyes close finally, his last thought lingering on the images he'd just seen. The way she saw the world was... beautiful.
And for once, without thinking about various different thoughts, he allowed sleep to come.
??