The mornings had changed.
No longer hidden behind drawn curtains or whispered across hallway walls, Maholi's presence in Abir's life had become a quiet, undeniable truth.
Not flaunted.Not denied.Just... there.
But the world always had opinions.
"New face with the superstar—classic.""She got there on her knees, not her skills.""She's not even industry pretty…"
Maholi read none of them.
But she felt every word—in the eyes that lingered too long, in the camera shutters that clicked like judgments, in the brittle politeness on set, laced with something colder beneath.
It was like moving through a house where every room whispered your flaws.
Abir, by contrast, belonged to that spotlight like it was stitched into his skin. Smooth. Confident. Untouchable.
And maybe that's what made her hesitate.
One evening, as twilight painted the windows lavender, she sat on the couch with her script spread open, its edges worn from edits, its words honest.
"I want to prove I belong," she said softly, not looking at him. "Not just as your something. But as me."
Across the room, Abir stared at his laptop. Headlines blinked back at him:
'Abir Roy's Mystery Girlfriend: Just a Muse or More?'
He shut the screen without a word and crossed to her.
"You will," he said simply.
"But how?" Her voice cracked just slightly. "They say I got this assistant job because of you. That I'm just your pet project."
He crouched before her, hands resting on her knees, his eyes steady.
"They said I'd fail too, remember?" he said. "That I was just another rich kid playing pretend."
She looked at him, raw and vulnerable. "Yeah, but… you were born for this. I'm not even sure I belong in your world."
He shook his head gently.
"Then change the world," he whispered. "Make one where you belong. And I'll build it with you."
That night, she did something brave.
She emailed her first short script to an indie director she admired—a woman who once told her, "Stories don't need permission."
That week, Maholi stayed late on set—discussing costumes, rewriting scenes, giving voice to women who were too often written as decoration.
She pitched bolder ideas.She argued for deeper arcs.She turned background girls into main characters.
People started calling her "sharp.""Bold.""Disruptive."
They meant it as a warning.
She wore it as a badge.
And Abir watched her. Not just with pride—but with awe. This wasn't the girl who had once stumbled into his world.
This was a woman shaping it.
At night, they were still tangled in sheets, messy in their love—whispering dreams against skin, laughing until sleep blurred the edges.
But during the day… she stood taller.
And he admired her more for it.
One morning, tucked inside her laptop case, she found a note in his handwriting:
"Don't dim your fire to fit their frames.Burn louder.I'll be the one cheering from the front row."— A.
She smiled, biting her lip.
But fame is fickle.And shadows creep in fast.
A gossip site ran a headline accusing her of leveraging Abir to land a lead role.
Another claimed she stormed out of a party in a fit of jealous rage.
Abir was furious.Maholi stayed silent.
On a cool evening, she paced the balcony, city lights flickering below like restless thoughts.
"They're scared of you," Abir said, arms crossed as he watched her. "That's why they try to shrink you."
She paused.
"And what if I am shrinking?" she whispered. "A little more each day. Just to fit."
He moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her against his chest like he could protect her from the world.
"Then I'll hold the pieces that fall," he said quietly. "Until you feel whole again."
She leaned into him. Said nothing.
Because sometimes love wasn't loud.It was steady.And warm.And there.
They didn't always have answers.But they had each other.
And for now—that was enough.