I didn't hear him enter. I only saw him when I turned, and there he was—Amish, standing quietly, snow clinging to his coat, that crooked, tired smile just barely there. I froze. My breath caught. My knees gave way, and then I ran.
I wrapped my arms around him, as if the world itself might collapse around us, as if I might lose him again the second I let go. My face pressed against his chest. His heartbeat thudded under my cheek, steady and alive, a rhythm I'd forgotten I could feel.
"Amish…" I whispered, but no words could carry what my arms said.
He held me like he never wanted to let go. Neither of us spoke. Just trembling fingers, shaky breaths, and a kiss pressed to my forehead like a prayer whispered too late.
Later, in the kitchen, I cooked his favorite dish, but I couldn't focus. He kept sneaking up behind me, brushing his lips against my neck. I tried to scold him. He laughed, spun me around, and kissed me until the pot hissed and boiled over.
In the bathroom, water poured over us like the sky itself wept with relief. My palms pressed to his chest, his hands traced the small of my back. Shadows danced across tiles, memories reborn in every movement.
In the bedroom, I whispered, "Don't leave again."
He held my hands, eyes burning with exhaustion and relief. "Even if I do… death won't dare keep me."
The next morning, rain fell softly. I watched him step barefoot into the garden, shirtless, embracing the drops. He turned to me, and I ran into his arms. We danced, spinning through the wet grass, laughing, our hearts beating as one beneath the monsoon sky. For the first time in weeks, I felt… clean, whole, alive.
Two days later, fate reminded me it wasn't done. Amish collapsed. Fever, chills, fatigue. Hospital reports confirmed it: malaria. Panic clawed at my chest, but I didn't let it show. I stayed by his side, feeding him, bathing his forehead, whispering words I never dared before.
"I love you more than I knew," I said one night, voice breaking. "I thought I lost you once… and I nearly lost myself too."
He smiled weakly, reaching for my trembling hands. "Even death," he whispered, "…can't separate us."
Hours passed. Rain pelted the windows like time had slowed. His breaths were shallow, skin burning. I held his face in my hands, looking deep into his eyes.
"I think…" he whispered faintly. "…I might die. Maybe… death will finally separate us."
"No," I said firmly, voice steady despite the storm outside and inside me. "Not to me. Not after everything we've lived through."
I brushed a tear from his temple, my thumb lingering on his skin. "Our love isn't a tragedy waiting to happen. It's a promise already fulfilled. And if death dares to come for us—he'll leave empty-handed."
I pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Even death," I whispered, "can't separate us."
But guilt gnawed at me. Aakrit's hand, his eyes, that night I didn't resist. It wasn't love—it was loneliness and weakness. Amish had never stopped loving me. Never wavered. My heart belonged to him alone.
I began pulling away from Aakrit quietly—avoiding eye contact, skipping briefings where he led, ignoring messages. He noticed. Days later, he cornered me at a café. "Why are you pushing me away?" he asked.
I met his gaze, tears threatening. "I'm not pushing you away," I said softly. "I'm going back where I belong."
"So that's it?" he pressed. "Choosing him just because he returned?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I'm choosing him because I never stopped loving him. What happened between us… was a mistake. A sin I will regret quietly for the rest of my life."
He said nothing. Pain shadowed his eyes, but I didn't flinch. I owed Amish honesty, not secrecy. "You're a good man, Aakrit. But I was never yours. And you were never mine."
I stood, leaving the café, the door closing behind me like a clean break. Outside, rain fell again. This time, it didn't feel heavy. It felt like forgiveness.