[UnSpokenPages19]

By the time the sun had fully set and the warm, golden hues of the evening rituals began to illuminate the hall, many of the women had taken a break from the exhausting day to change into fresh, glamorous evening outfits.
I stepped back into the central hall after helping the workers unload another heavy shipment of silver gift boxes from the rear entrance. Wiping a thin film of sweat from the back of my neck, my eyes scanned the brightly lit room.
And then I saw her.
I almost failed to recognize Pooja entirely.
She had changed out of her navy silk saree and stepped into a mesmerizing, deep maroon ghagra-choli. The rich velvet-toned fabric was embroidered with intricate, delicate golden threadwork that shimmered like liquid fire beneath the warm spotlights of the mandap. A matching maroon chiffon dupatta rested with practiced grace over her right shoulder, pinned neatly at the collarbone yet dbanging naturally across her front before cascading down her back.
The outfit suited her with an almost dangerous perfection.
The fitted, short-sleeved choli (blouse) was tailored tightly across her bust and ribcage, accentuating the firm, supple figure she had quietly regained over the past year. Months of unbearable grief had once left her looking hollowed out, thin, and drained, but now there was a striking, quiet vitality pulsating through her.
The short sleeves of the choli left her smooth, bare arms completely exposed from the shoulder down—the soft skin of her biceps and delicate wrists glowing against the rich maroon fabric. The short hemline of the cropped choli left a tempting, bare strip of her midriff exposed—a smooth, fair expanse of skin that rose and fell with every calm breath she took. The embroidered waistband of the high-waisted ghagra rested snugly against her narrow waist, flared out in wide, dramatic folds that swished enticingly around her hips with every step she took.
Her dark hair, which had been woven into a tight braid throughout the afternoon, was now partially untied, cascading over her shoulders and down her back in loose, voluminous dark waves, with only the top section pinned back securely. Long, delicate gold jhumkas dangled from her ears, swaying against her smooth neck each time she tilted her head to answer a relative. A tiny, glittering red bindi sat right between her dark eyebrows, drawing attention to her clear, glowing eyes.
She wasn't dressed to provoke or impress anyone in particular—she was simply dressed for a family wedding. Yet, as she moved gracefully between the guests, it was physically impossible not to stare.
More than one elderly aunt smiled approvingly as she passed by, admiring her quiet transformation.
"Look at Pooja," a younger cousin whispered to her sister, nudging her elbow. "She looks absolutely breathtaking in that maroon ghagra."
"It's just so good to see her smiling again," another aunt added softly, her eyes glistening. "Truly smiling."
Even Abhi's mother stopped her in the middle of the aisle, taking Pooja’s chin in her hand with deep maternal satisfaction. "This is how you should look, beti. Full of life."
Pooja only lowered her gaze with a shy, blushing smile, ducking her head slightly to hide her dimples as she continued carrying a silver platter of sweets to the elders, seemingly unaware of the hypnotic spell she was casting over the entire room.
Inside the central circle near the altar, the priest cleared his throat and one of the senior uncles looked around the bustling hall, scratching his head.
"Where's Aashu?" the uncle called out loudly over the chatter. "We need him to arrange the brass lamps for the main evening aarti."
Several relatives paused, glancing around the massive, crowded room in confusion.
"Did anyone see where he went?" another cousin asked.
Before anyone else could even open their mouth to answer... Pooja replied almost instinctively, her voice ringing out smooth and clear across the room.
"He went outside."
The entire circle of relatives turned their heads toward her in mild surprise.
Pooja, catching herself, continued naturally without missing a beat, though a faint rose-colored blush crept up her neck. "The caterer needed help unloading the final heavy gift boxes from the delivery truck. Aashu went to handle it."
"Oh," the uncle nodded, satisfied. "Right. Fine then, we'll start the chanting first."
The family conversation moved on immediately, returning to the evening rituals.
Only Pooja remained completely still for a brief, frozen moment near the edge of the stage. She frowned ever so slightly, her fingers unconsciously tightening against the soft fabric of her maroon dupatta.
How had she known exactly where I was? In a hall of two hundred people, without even looking around or asking anyone, her mind had kept continuous, precise track of my location.
A faint, private, impossibly sweet smile touched her lips before she quietly shook the dangerous thought away and returned to her family duties.
By ten o'clock at night, the lavish dinner spread had ended, the formal wedding rituals were officially concluded, and the atmosphere in the hall underwent a dramatic, electric shift. The serious, traditional solemnity dissolved into pure, uninhibited joy.
Someone plugged a smartphone into the massive venue speakers and cranked the volume all the way up. Within seconds, the heavy, thumping bass of wedding dance tracks reverberated through the floorboards, and the younger cousins immediately swarmed and claimed the center of the hall as their makeshift dance floor.
By then, many of the women had slipped away to change into lighter, far more comfortable attire meant for late-night dancing.
When Pooja returned to the floor, my breath caught in my throat all over again.
She was wearing a rich, deep wine-coloured Anarkali suit crafted from delicate, flowing georgette fabric. Intricate golden threadwork shimmered softly along the neckline and hem beneath the flashing disco lights. The fitted bodice hugged her bust, waist, and torso like a glove before flowing down into an exquisite, voluminous flare that twirled effortlessly with every step she took.
A light, translucent chiffon dupatta rested casually over her right shoulder, frequently slipping down her smooth, golden arm whenever she threw her head back to laugh, forcing her to repeatedly tuck it back into place. The deep, intoxicating wine colour offered a stark, mesmerizing contrast against her fair, supple skin.
Her hair was now completely untied, falling in thick, soft, dark waves over her shoulders and down her back. Every time she moved, her hair swished across the open neckline of her dress, exposing the smooth stretch of her collarbones and the delicate curve of her throat. She wore minimal makeup—just a touch of lip gloss and eyeliner—yet there was an undeniable freshness, a radiant, youthful glow in her face that hadn't been present for a whole year.
It wasn't merely the rich outfit that drew every eye in the room to her. It was the raw, unadulterated happiness she was no longer trying to suppress or hide.
As she crossed the floor to watch the cousins, several relatives looked at her with pure delight.
"Pooja tai looks so beautiful tonight," one of the younger girls squealed, clapping her hands.
An elder aunt nodded with profound contentment. "It's just so wonderful to see her enjoying herself again, without that shadow over her."
Pooja offered a shy, glowing smile and tried to slip quietly to the side to watch from the safety of the wall.
She didn't get far.
Rani, the bride, spotted her instantly, bounded off the stage, and grabbed Pooja firmly by both hands.
"Come on!" Rani shrieked over the blaring music, pulling her toward the center of the dance floor. "You're dancing with us!"
Pooja pulled back, shaking her head frantically while laughing. "No! No way, Rani! I'm not dancing!"
"You said that exact same line at my engagement too!" Rani yelled back, tugging harder. "And you escaped then! No excuses tonight!"
"Rani, please, I don't even know the steps!" Pooja protested, her voice laced with helpless laughter.
"Nobody knows the steps!" Rani shouted back.
Within seconds, three other female cousins surrounded her, grabbing her arms and spinning her into the middle of the energetic circle. She protested for nearly thirty seconds, her cheeks glowing red, before she finally let out a loud, ringing laugh and gave in completely to the music.
Right at that moment, two male cousins sneaked up behind me and grabbed my arms, dragging me forward.
"Aashu! Your turn, man!"
I tried to plant my feet firmly on the floor, holding up my hands. "No, no, guys, I don't dance! I have two left feet!"
"You're dancing today!" Abhi bellowed from the center, grabbing my shoulder and yanking me into the circle. "No one gets a free pass tonight!"
Soon, nearly half the extended family—young, old, kids, and adults—were jumping around together in the middle of the hall.
It was pure, magnificent chaos. Nobody knew the actual choreographies. Nobody cared. Someone was dancing three beats ahead of the fast song; someone else was doing slow, traditional folk moves to a high-speed hip-hop track. Even the tiny toddlers had formed their own adorable, chaotic circle in the corner, falling over each other. At one point, half the elders began clapping to an entirely different, out-of-sync rhythm altogether.
In the middle of this hilarious, chaotic frenzy, I happened to look across the circle.
At that exact fraction of a second, Pooja looked up too. Our eyes met through the swirling crowd.
She took one look at my awkward, stiff attempt at dancing, then looked at the uncle beside her doing an absurd bird-dance, and then looked back at me.
For a second, neither of us could keep a straight face.
We both burst into uncontrollable, breathless laughter at exactly the same moment.
It wasn't because either of us danced well—it was precisely because neither of us, nor anyone else in that room, had a single clue what they were doing.
Standing there in the middle of the flashing lights, watching her laugh—really laugh, with her head tilted back, her dark waves sweeping across her bare neck, her deep wine Anarkali flaring around her hips—a wave of pure, intense emotion washed over my chest.
For the first time since her husband's tragic death... she laughed without hesitation. She laughed without lowering her eyes in guilt. She laughed without looking around the room to see if people were judging her for moving on.
She was just completely, beautifully alive in that moment.
And somehow, amidst the blaring music, the sweat, and the flashing golden lights... seeing that genuine, uninhibited smile light up her face felt like the single happiest, most profound moment of the entire wedding.
The frantic rhythm of the wedding had finally begun to slow down to a gentle, weary thrum. Inside the main venue, small circles of elderly relatives were still chatting lazily over steaming cups of night tea, tired children were chasing one another with dwindling energy between rows of empty chairs, and the DJ had dialed the heavy bass down to a soft, background instrumental melody.
The main, exhausting ceremonies of the day were officially over.
After spending nearly fourteen hours dbangd in the formal folds of her heavy navy silk saree, Pooja had quietly slipped away to change into something far more comfortable before helping the older women clear away the remaining flower platters. She was now wearing that deep, intoxicating wine-coloured Anarkali suit—its soft, lightweight georgette fabric dbanging with an effortless, sensuous ease over her figure.
The intricate golden embroidery running around the neckline framed her collarbones beautifully. The fitted bodice hugged her bust and waist before flowing down into a gentle, sweeping flare that whispered against her legs as she walked. Her translucent chiffon dupatta rested loosely over her right shoulder, slipping now and then to reveal the smooth curve of her neck and shoulder. Most of her heavy morning jewelry was gone; only small gold jhumkas remained, swinging subtly against her smooth jaw, while a few glass bangles on her delicate wrists chimed softly with every movement.
She had completely untied her long hair, letting the dark, lustrous waves fall naturally over her shoulders and down her back after the exhausting heat of the day. A few loose, silky strands framed her face. Although tiredness was subtly visible in the dark circles beneath her eyes, there was a deep, unshakeable peacefulness in her expression—a calm that hadn't existed in her eyes for a very long, painful time.
She no longer carried the heavy, suffocating weight of isolated grief on her shoulders. She simply looked like herself again: breathtaking, real, and intensely alive.
Needing a few quiet moments away from the relentless hum of the crowd, I stepped outside into the cool night air. The atmosphere outside was pleasantly crisp, carrying the rich, sweet scent of wet earth from the rain that had fallen earlier that afternoon. Strings of warm fairy lights stretched across the grand entrance archway, glowing softly against the dark, starry sky.
I stood near the stone pathway, resting my hands in my pockets. A minute later, the soft, rhythmic rustle of fabric and the faint chime of glass bangles sounded behind me.
"Pooja?" I murmured, turning my head.
A faint, mesmerizing smile touched her lips as she stepped into the soft glow of the hanging lights. "I thought I'd find you out here."
I let out a soft laugh, taking in the alluring sight of her in the cool night breeze. "You escaped too?"
She nodded gently, her dark waves shifting over her exposed shoulder. "I needed five minutes where nobody was asking me to fetch a dish or find an uncle."
I chuckled softly. "I was honestly wondering how you still had the energy to smile so warmly after the marathon you ran today."
"I don't," she exhaled softly, her chest rising and falling beneath the fitted wine bodice as she leaned slightly against the stone railing beside me. "I'm completely pretending."
We both broke into a quiet, intimate laugh that hung softly in the cool night air.
For a long while, neither of us said anything. We simply stood side by side, watching the final streams of guests arriving to say goodbye or departing into the dark roads. The loud sounds from inside the hall felt distant, muffled, almost irrelevant.
After a long, comfortable silence, her soft voice cut through the quiet. "I'd almost forgotten what weddings felt like..."
I glanced toward the brightly lit entrance of the hall. "They're absolutely exhausting."
"They really are," she agreed. A tiny, breathy laugh escaped her before fading into a quiet sigh. Her dark, luminous eyes remained fixed on the glowing fairy lights. "I... I almost didn't come today, Aashu."
I turned my whole body toward her, looking at the profile of her face in the soft light. "Why?"
She took a slow, deep breath, her bare golden shoulder lifting slightly with the motion. "I wasn't sure I was ready."
Another heavy, electric silence followed her confession.
"For so long..." she continued, her voice dropping into a raspy, delicate whisper that vibrated right through me, "...every celebration, every loud crowd, every dress... it all just reminded me of everything I'd lost."
She looked down at her hands resting on the stone ledge. "I kept thinking... if I dressed up... if I laughed out loud... people would think I'd forgotten him."
I didn't answer immediately. The depth of her honesty felt precious, fragile. Instead of staying under the bright lights of the entrance, we began walking slowly, side by side, along the shaded stone pathway leading toward the garden behind the hall.
"You know..." I said softly, my voice low and steady beside her, "I don't think remembering someone means you have to stop living your own life."
She lowered her eyes, watching her feet move beneath the flowing hem of her wine Anarkali. "I know that here," she murmured, lightly tapping her temple. "But sometimes... knowing something... and actually believing it in your heart... aren't the same thing at all."
I nodded, feeling the quiet heat radiating from her frame as we walked close together. "I understand."
She stopped walking and looked up at me—really looked at me—for the first time since we had stepped outside into the dark.
"I'm glad you kept coming every Sunday, Aashu," she said softly.
The sudden, quiet gravity of her words caught me completely by surprise. My breath hitched in my chest. "I... I never thought twice about it, Pooja. It was just what I did."
"I did think about it," she said, a faint, bittersweet smile touching her lips. "There were Sundays over the past year when I didn't feel like speaking to a single human soul. When I just wanted to hide in the dark." She paused, her dark eyes glittering under the moonlight. "But somehow... no matter how bad things felt... I always knew you'd come through that gate."
Neither of us spoke for several long, breathless moments. Only the sound of our faint footsteps against the gravel broke the profound silence surrounding us.
Then, she stopped walking completely, standing right under the shadow of a tall banyan tree.
"So many people helped us right after the tragedy..." She tried to continue, but her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. "They all had their own lives, their own routines. Slowly... they stopped coming by." She raised her eyes, locking them onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse race. "You didn't."
For a moment, standing beneath the rustling leaves with the scent of wet earth and her warm skin filling my senses, I genuinely didn't know what to say. "I never felt like I was doing anything special, Pooja."
"You were," she whispered fiercely.
Before I could formulate another word, she reached out her hand almost absent-mindedly.
Her soft, slender fingers reached across the narrow space between us and gently, delicately grasped my palm.
It wasn't a tight, desperate grip. It wasn't possessive or demanding. It was just enough pressure to feel the soft, velvety texture of her skin against my calloused palm—just enough to feel the living, breathing warmth of another human being standing right there in the dark.
I looked down at our joined hands in sheer, electric surprise.
She seemed to realize the breathtaking intimacy of what she had just done only a fraction of a second later. Her fingers hesitated against mine, trembling slightly.
But she didn't let go.
Instead, she slowly lifted her eyes back to mine.
For three or four entirely quiet, agonizingly beautiful seconds... we simply looked into each other's eyes. No words passed between us. No promises were made. No complex explanations were given. We were just two people who, through months of quiet Sundays, understood far more about each other's hearts than either of us could ever express out loud.
Finally, she drew a slow, trembling breath, her chest swelling against the wine fabric of her suit.
"I'm sorry..." she murmured softly, her blush deepening in the moonlight.
I offered her a gentle, reassuring smile, my thumb lightly brushing against the back of her hand before I stepped back. "There was no need to apologize. Come on... if we're gone out here any longer... your mother will literally send a search party into the dark."
She let out a soft, beautiful laugh that chased away the lingering emotion in her eyes. "They probably already have!"
Reluctantly, slowly, her warm fingers slipped away from mine, leaving a lingering, burning sensation on my skin where her palm had rested.
Side by side, maintaining a subtle, charged distance, we walked slowly back toward the brightly lit entrance of the hall. By the time the loud wedding music drifted back to our ears and our family members came back into view near the stage, our hands had fully separated.
But somehow... deep in the quiet sanctuary of my chest, I knew that the invisible distance between us had  us had just become infinitely, permanently smaller.
Act II: The Goodbye at the Gate
It was well past midnight when the final cleanup was underway and I finally began walking toward my motorcycle parked near the outer gate.
The sprawling wedding hall had grown eerily quiet. Most of the two hundred guests had already departed in cars and tempos, while the few remaining close relatives slowly gathered their bags to make their way home.
Abhi walked up to me, slapping my shoulder warmly and shaking my hand. "Drive carefully, brother. The village roads are dark tonight."
"I will, don't worry," I replied, hooking my helmet over the handlebars.
His mother hurried over, thrusting a ornate cardboard box tied with a gold ribbon into my hands. "You can't possibly leave empty-handed after working like a mule all day! Take these sweets home for your family."
"I wouldn't dare refuse you, Aunty," I smiled, stashing the box securely into my side bag. Everyone nearby chuckled softly.
Standing near the tall iron gate, holding her little daughter’s hand, was Pooja.
She was still wearing that same gorgeous wine-coloured Anarkali suit she had changed into after the evening rituals. The long, exhausting day's excitement had left a few soft, loose strands of hair straying around her flushed face and long neck. The subtle ambient light above the entrance gate reflected gently off the golden embroidery along her bodice, casting a soft, romantic glow over her fair skin.
She stepped forward as I approached the bike.
"Good night, Aashu," she said softly, her voice carrying a sweet, quiet weight that seemed meant only for me.
"Good night, Pooja," I replied, my gaze lingering on her soft eyes.
"Ride safely," she added, her fingers tightening gently around her daughter's shoulder.
"I will."
I swung my leg over the heavy bike, kicked the stand up, and turned the key. The engine roared to life, shattering the quiet midnight atmosphere.
I slowly rolled down the narrow, dark lane leading away from the marriage hall. As I reached the end of the lane, just before making the sharp turn onto the main highway, I instinctively looked once into my left rear-view mirror.
Most of the family members had already turned their backs and gone inside the lit hall to gather the last of the luggage.
Only Pooja remained standing alone at the gate, framed by the warm golden lights.
As she saw me look back, she lifted her arm in one last, slow, graceful wave, her glass bangles catching the light.
I smiled to myself in the dark, raised my hand from the handlebar, and waved back before turning onto the open main road.
At the time... as the cold wind rushed against my face and the dark fields blurred past... I truly thought it was just another ordinary goodbye at the end of a long family wedding.
I had no idea that those quiet seconds under the banyan tree, and that single wave at the gate, would become the exact moments I would remember—and ache for—the most for the rest of my life.

It was well past one in the morning by the time I finally unlocked the heavy wooden door to my quiet apartment. The air inside felt cool, still, and completely detached from the chaotic, blaring music and crowded energy of the wedding venue I had left behind.
Every muscle in my legs and back ached from the hours of physical effort—moving heavy furniture, loading boxes, carrying water, and chasing after lost items. Yet, despite the deep physical fatigue weighing down my limbs, my mind was buzzing, strangely wide awake, pulsing with a persistent, electric static.
I placed the ornate cardboard box of wedding sweets—the one Abhi’s mother had thrust into my hands—on the kitchen dining table. The faint scent of cardamom and ghee drifted out, mixing with the cool air of the room.
I stripped off my heavy, sweat-dampened navy silk kurta, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. Standing in the soft moonlight filtering through the bedroom window, I pulled on a loose, worn cotton t-shirt and a pair of dark gray lounge shorts.
I fell backward onto the mattress. The cool bedsheets felt heavenly against my hot, exhausted skin. I closed my eyes, letting out a long, heavy exhale into the darkness, expecting sleep to take me immediately.
Then, the sudden, sharp vibration of my phone on the nightstand shattered the quiet.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
I reached out blindly, my hand closing around the cool glass screen. I squinted against the sudden glare, fully assuming it was Abhi checking to see if I had navigated the dark village highway safely, or perhaps asking about a missing set of keys.
Instead... the illuminated screen read a single name that made my heart give a hard, violent thump against my ribs.
Pooja
For five or six long seconds, I didn't even move. I simply stared at her name lit up on the dark display, my breath catching in my throat. We had never texted late at night. Our communication had always been bounded by the structured, predictable rhythm of Sunday family visits.
My thumb swiped across the glass to open the message.
It was a photo. A high-resolution candid image taken earlier that evening near the illuminated entrance archway.
I zoomed in slightly. In the center of the frame stood the family group, but my eyes went instantly to her. She was captured mid-laugh in that deep wine-coloured Anarkali suit, her dark waves tumbling freely over her bare collarbones, her eyes sparkling beneath the hanging fairy lights, her hand resting delicately near her neck. And right beside her, caught in the edge of the frame, was me—looking down at her with an expression so intensely focused, so unguardedly tender, that it made my pulse race just seeing it captured on screen.
Below the photograph was a short, simple message.
"Thank you... for today."
Nothing more. No grand declarations. Just four simple words resting on the dark screen.
A slow, helpless smile spread across my face as I lay in the dark room, the image of her face burning bright in my mind. I tapped the screen, my thumbs moving over the keyboard.
"You don't have to thank me, Pooja."
I hit send.
I stared at the screen, expecting the interaction to end there. But almost immediately, beneath my message, three small animated dots appeared.
She was typing.
I held my breath, watching those three dots pulse on the screen.
Then... they vanished.
A second passed. Two seconds. I thought she had discarded her thought, intimidated by the late hour or the sudden intimacy. But then the three dots flickered back to life, dancing furiously across the display.
Finally, the dots disappeared, replaced by two separate, short messages.
"Still..." "I'm glad you came."
I stared at those words for a long moment, the quiet weight behind them echoing through the dark bedroom. My mind flashed back to the shaded stone pathway under the banyan tree, the cool night breeze, the lingering scent of her skin, and the unbelievable, velvety softness of her fingers holding mine in the dark.
I typed back, my fingers moving deliberately over the glass.
"Me too."
That should have been the end of the conversation. By all normal standards of our past relationship—polite, reserved, guarded—that was the natural place to stop. It was nearly 1:30 AM.
It wasn't the end.
A few moments later, another soft chime echoed through the quiet room, lighting up my face.
"Good night, Aashu."
I smiled into the darkness, a deep, intoxicating warmth spreading all the way down to my chest.
"Good night, Pooja."
What I couldn't see, as I lay on my back staring at the glowing ceiling of my bedroom, was what was happening on the other side of town in her quiet house.
Miles away, in the quiet solitude of her upstairs bedroom, Pooja was lying on her side on her wide, lonely mattress. The house was completely silent; her daughter Ananya was fast asleep in the adjacent room, exhausted from the day's celebrations.
Pooja had long stripped off the heavy, glamorous wine-coloured Anarkali suit, washing away the layers of makeup and the frantic dust of the wedding hall. She was now dressed in her private, late-night comfort—an oversized, faded vintage grey cotton t-shirt and a pair of short, loose black cotton lounge shorts.
The thin, worn fabric of the oversized t-shirt dbangd loosely over her soft frame. Because she had discarded her bra after the suffocating, tight confines of her traditional blouse, the soft, natural swell of her bust was completely unconstrained beneath the light grey cotton, rising and falling gently with every slow breath she took. The stretched collar of the loose shirt slipped casually off her left shoulder, leaving her bare collarbone and the smooth, warm expanse of her shoulder exposed to the cool room air.
Whenever she shifted her weight on the bed, the hem of the t-shirt rode up slightly over her midriff, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her bare, smooth stomach—a velvety expanse of warm skin resting beneath her navel.
Her black shorts were cut high on her legs, leaving the entire length of her fair, smooth thighs completely exposed against the dark bedsheet. Months of regaining her health and natural vitality had given her legs a supple, soft fullness—a breathtaking expanse of golden skin stretching from her hips down to her knees. Her bare legs glistened faintly in the dim glow of her bedside lamp.
Her thick, dark hair was completely untied, spread out like a dark halo over the white pillowcase, loose strands clinging softly to her flushed, bare neck.
She lay on her side, one long, smooth leg pulled up slightly toward her chest, the short hem of her lounge shorts riding up higher against her thigh. She was holding her phone close to her face, her thumb gently tracing the smooth glass screen right over my name.
Her chest heaved softly beneath the loose grey cotton as she read my final message over and over.
"Good night, Pooja."
A soft, private breath escaped her parted lips. A rosy, lingering blush burned along her smooth neck and spread across her cheeks—a blush that had nothing to do with the heat of the wedding hall and everything to do with the quiet, electric thrill coursing through her veins.
For the first time in nearly a year, she didn't feel the suffocating, cold phantom of grief lingering in the dark corners of her room. She didn't feel hollowed out or invisible. Feeling the lingering ghost of my calloused palm against hers, remembering the deep, raspy tone of my voice when I told her the rose suited her, her body felt alive, warm, and hyper-sensitive to the cool air brushing against her bare skin.
She slowly pressed the phone to her chest, right over her beating heart, letting her eyes close as a genuine, peaceful smile touched her lips.
Neither of us fully realized the magnitude of what had transpired in those few minutes past midnight. We didn't voice it, nor did we analyze it.
But from that quiet, secret night onward... our conversations no longer waited for Sunday.