EPILOGUE
What Stayed
SITARA
I am standing in the bathroom, barefoot on cool marble, staring at a thin plastic stick like it might suddenly decide to laugh at me.
The light is too bright. Or maybe everything feels too sharp because my heart is beating so loudly I’m sure the palace can hear it.
Two years. Of medicines lined up in neat rows. Of doctors’ voices that were kind but careful. Of Dhruv’s hand always in mine, steady even when I wasn’t. Of hope arriving quietly and leaving just as quietly, month after month.
I told myself I was prepared.
I told myself I would be calm.
I am neither.
The word pregnant stares back at me, unapologetic. No faint lines. No room for doubt. Just there. Real. Solid. Undeniable.
My breath leaves me in a shaky rush, and I sit down on the edge of the tub because my knees forget how to hold me.
I press my palm against my stomach, familiar, the same body I spent years arguing with. The same body people told me was too much. The same body I once believed was broken beyond repair.
“Hey,” I whisper, not even sure who I’m talking to. “You’re… you’re really here?”
My throat burns.
I don’t cry immediately. That comes later. First there’s this strange stillness, like the world has paused to let me catch up.
I think of Dhruv. Of the way he never once treated my PCOD like a flaw.
The way he learned the names of medicines faster than I did.
The way he never let disappointment touch his voice when tests came back negative.
The way he would pull me into his chest on those nights, kiss my hair, and say, We’re okay, princess. We already have everything.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
We weren’t trying because we were missing something. We were trying because we wanted to share what we already had.
I stand up slowly, still holding the stick like it might disappear if I don’t. I catch my reflection in the mirror—older, softer, surer. There are faint lines near my eyes now. Laugh lines. Love lines. Proof of living.
I smile.
“I did it,” I tell my reflection, voice trembling. “We did it.”
The bathroom door creaks open behind me. “Sitara?” Dhruv’s voice, familiar as breath. “You’ve been in there a while. Are you—”
I turn and he stops mid-sentence. He always knows. I don’t know how, but he always does. His eyes move from my face to my hands. To the way I’m holding that little white stick like it’s sacred.
He takes one step toward me. Then another. Slow. Careful. Like I might vanish. “Princess,” he says softly. “What is it?”
I hold it out.
For a second, he just stares. Then he takes it from me, reads it once. Twice. His jaw tightens, not with fear—but with effort. Like he’s holding something enormous inside his chest.
He looks up at me.
I nod, because if I try to speak, I’ll break.
The sound he makes isn’t a laugh or a sob. It’s something in between. Raw. Unfiltered. Human. He crosses the space between us in two strides and pulls me into his arms, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other pressed flat against my lower back.
I feel him shake.
“You’re sure?” he whispers, forehead against mine. “I don’t—I mean—”
I smile through tears. “I checked three times.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like prayer.
His hand slides down, tentative, reverent, resting over my stomach. He doesn’t press. Just rests there, like he’s afraid to disturb something holy. “You’re…?” he starts, then stops, eyes shining.
“Yes,” I whisper. “We are.” His lips tremble when he smiles.
He sinks down in front of me, still holding my waist, resting his forehead against my stomach now. I thread my fingers through his hair, just like I’ve done a thousand times, but this feels different. Bigger. Fuller.
“I love you,” he says into my skin, voice thick. “I love you so much it hurts.”
I laugh softly, tears finally spilling. “You say that about everything.”
“It also heals me,” he murmurs.
I think of the girl I was two years ago. When we decided we wanted to have a baby, my body became the obstacle. We tried almost everything, but nothing worked. I wish I could tell her this. That one day, she would stand here, in a quiet bathroom, holding proof that her body was never the enemy.
Dhruv stands up again and cups my face, wiping my tears with his thumbs like he always does. “You know,” he says gently, “whatever happens next—we don’t rush. We don’t perform. We don’t let anyone else decide how this looks.”
I nod. “I know.”
“You’re still you,” he adds. “And I’m still me. This doesn’t change that.”
I smile. “It adds to it.”
He kisses my forehead, lingering. Then my cheeks. Then my lips—soft, grounding, familiar.
Later, we sit on the bed together, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me like a promise he’s been keeping for years.
It’s been six years of choosing each other. And now this—this quiet miracle—nestled between us.
I place my hand over his, still resting on my stomach, and smile.
“I think,” I say softly, “we’re going to be okay.”
Dhruv kisses my temple, voice steady, certain.
“We already are, princess.”