Chapter 15 The Quiet Things I Decide to Love Loudly
The Quiet Things I Decide to Love Loudly
DHRUV
She’s asleep.
The room is quiet in that way that only exists after a long day—when exhaustion settles into the walls and even the air feels softer.
The lamp beside the bed casts a warm, steady glow, enough to keep the darkness at bay without intruding on her sleep.
My laptop rests open on my lap, its screen dimmed, a dozen tabs still staring back at me like proof of a private resolve.
I glance at her again.
She’s curled slightly toward me, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely against her waist. Her breathing is slow, even.
Peaceful. The crease between her brows—the one she doesn’t even realize she carries when she’s anxious—is gone.
In sleep, she looks lighter. Younger. Like the world hasn’t been asking things of her all day.
When I saw that pout earlier—small, almost involuntary, like she hadn’t meant to show it—I knew I was done for.
Not “done for” in the dramatic, cinematic way. Not like fireworks or thunder or declarations shouted into the sky.
Just… done.
Because that pout wasn’t about the chocolate. It wasn’t even about the Kinder Joy. It was about adjustment. About quiet sacrifice. About her learning, yet again, how to give something up without complaint.
And I hated that.
I shift slightly, careful not to jostle her, and bring my attention back to the laptop. The words on the screen blur together for a moment, not because they’re difficult, but because my thoughts keep drifting back to her.
PCOD.
Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.
A condition so common that millions of women live with it—and yet somehow so invisible that most of them are expected to just deal with it quietly.
I scroll through article after article. Medical journals. First-hand accounts. Nutrition guides. Forums where women talk to each other in fragments of honesty they don’t offer the rest of the world.
Irregular cycles. Hormonal fluctuations. Fatigue. Cravings. Mood swings. Body image issues. Pain.
Sometimes hell, one woman had written plainly.
I clench my jaw.
I don’t like the idea of her life being made harder by something she never asked for. I don’t like the idea of her learning to compromise with herself when she’s already spent so many years doing exactly that.
And I especially don’t like the idea of her losing the small joys—the ridiculous ones, the childish ones, the things that make her eyes light up—for the sake of being “healthy.”
No.
I won’t let that happen if I can help it.
I open another tab, jot down notes, bookmark recipes. PCOD-friendly sweets. Alternatives that don’t spike insulin levels. Dark chocolate, yes, but also dates, nut butters, and controlled sugars. I pause, then type something else into the search bar.
Kinder Joy homemade PCOD-friendly alternative.
I snort softly to myself.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about running a kingdom, it’s this: if something doesn’t exist yet, you make it.
Tomorrow, I’ll meet the head chef. Not a suggestion. Not a casual discussion. A full meeting. We’ll figure it out together. Ingredients, proportions, trial batches if we have to.
It matters to me that she doesn’t feel robbed.
That she doesn’t feel like her body is something she has to fight against or punish.
I close my laptop gently and set it aside on the table. The quiet returns, thicker now, more intimate.
I turn onto my side, facing her.
Up close, I notice the details I always do—the faint scar near her eyebrow she once told me she got from falling off a bicycle as a child, the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lips part slightly when she’s deeply asleep.
She looks… safe.
And something in my chest loosens at the sight.
I lift my hand and, slowly, carefully, brush a stray strand of hair away from her face. My fingers barely graze her skin. She doesn’t stir.
Good.
I let my hand linger for a moment longer than necessary, not because I’m afraid she’ll wake up, but because I want to memorize this.
I remember her when I first met her—years ago, loud and unapologetic, making jokes about her own body before anyone else could. It had unsettled me back then, not because of the humor, but because of the armor beneath it.
She had laughed first so no one else could laugh louder.
Devraj once mentioned, almost in passing, that she goes to therapy. He’d said it with pride, not pity. As if it were proof of her strength rather than something she needed to be “fixed.”
I see it now.
The difference.
The way she doesn’t tear herself down the way she used to. The way her humor has softened, turned kinder, aimed outward instead of inward.
I’m glad therapy is helping.
I’m glad she’s choosing herself.
And I’m proud of her—quietly, fiercely, in a way that doesn’t need applause.
I shift closer, careful to keep my movements slow. She murmurs something under her breath, a sound so soft it barely exists, and instinctively my hand stills.
She settles again.
I lie there beside her, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe, and think about all the things I haven’t said yet.
About how this marriage started in chaos and urgency and how, somehow, it’s already teaching me patience.
About how loving her doesn’t feel like losing control—it feels like choosing it differently.
About how tomorrow I’ll sit across from a chef and discuss chocolate like it’s a matter of state, and I won’t even feel ridiculous about it.
Because this—she—is important to me.
I turn my head back toward her, my fingers hovering just above her waist, resisting the urge to pull her closer.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to do it right.
I whisper nothing. I promise nothing out loud.
But inside, the vow is already there, steady and unshakeable.
I will learn everything I need to learn.
I will adjust, adapt, create, protect.
I will not let her feel alone in this.
And as sleep finally pulls at me too, I let myself rest beside her, knowing that some of the most important decisions of my life are being made in moments just like this—quiet, unseen, and full of love she hasn’t yet realized I’m ready to give.