Nysa's POV

It was one of those late-night conversations — the kind that starts light and ends up peeling layers you didn’t even know you had.

We were talking about random things — med school chaos, hostel food, how prostho submissions never end — when, out of nowhere, he said it.

“I don’t really believe in God.”

I paused.

He said it so casually. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But to me — it did.

Not because I was super religious.

Not because I thought he had to believe.

But because suddenly, I wanted to know why.

“What do you mean?” I asked, softly.

“I don’t know… Maybe I just don’t feel anything when I enter a mandir,” he said. “Maybe I just believe more in science. In skill. In effort.”

I bit my lip. Thought for a moment. Then smiled a little.

“Okay,” I said. “Then our next meeting… will be in a mandir.”

He laughed.

“Mandir?”

“Yeah. You, me, and God. Let’s see who convinces you first.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re weird.”

“I know,” I said. “But seriously. Just once. Come with me. No rituals, no aartis. Just… silence. You stand there. Let the quiet do its thing.”

He didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no either.

That was enough.

It had been three days since she texted him.

The reply came.

He said “sure.”

But there was no confirmation. No plan. No promise.

Just… a floating maybe.

Naysa paced the room for the third time in fifteen minutes, chewing on her thumbnail and glancing at her phone every few seconds.

Sanya, her roommate, finally looked up from her book.

“Do you want to talk or just walk holes in the floor?”

Naysa stopped. Sighed. Sat down at the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she mumbled.

“You're waiting for a boy for goint to the temple with you".

She smiled a little. Then it dropped.

“But what if he doesn’t come, Sanya?”

Silence.

“And worse,” Naysa continued, voice breaking, “what if he does come and says something so cruel, so distant, so... unbothered — that it makes me hate him?”

Her eyes welled up.

“Like what if everything I imagined — those conversations, that softness, the way he listened that day — what if none of it was real to him? What if I was just background noise?”

Sanya closed her book, scooted closer, and pulled Naysa into a hug.

“It’s okay to feel like this.”

“But it’s stupid.”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s honest.”

Naysa clutched the pillow. Her voice turned into a whisper.

“I just… I don’t want to lose this version of him. The one I built in my head — the one I talked to under streetlights and over texts. What if meeting him again ruins it?”

Sanya smiled gently. “Then maybe… that version needed to go.”

Naysa frowned.

“Look,” Sanya continued, “you don’t need him to be perfect. You just need to be real with yourself. If he shows up and he’s not what you hoped — that’s not your failure. That’s just life showing you truth.”

“And if he doesn’t show up?”

“Then you loved someone with your full heart. That’s never shameful.”

Naysa wiped her eyes.

“What if it hurts?”

“It will,” Sanya said. “But you’ll live. You’ll cry, stalk his profile, write poetry in your phone notes at 2AM, and still get up the next day and go to class. Because you’re you. You’ve been through worse.”

A long pause.

Naysa smiled faintly.

“I really hope he comes.”

“I know,” Sanya whispered. “But even if he doesn’t, Naysa… you already did more than most ever do.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You chose to feel. You showed up. You loved. That’s the rarest kind of courage.”

Naysa stared at the table again.

And somehow, for the first time in days, her heart didn’t feel as heavy.

It still ached — but gently now.

Like a wound that was beginning to understand its own shape.

The mirror was unforgiving.

No matter what she wore, it didn’t feel right.

The pink kurti made her look too hopeful.

The white one made her look pale.

The green suit? Too much.

She tried doing her hair differently, lining her eyes the way he once complimented someone else for.

But every time she looked at her reflection, something inside her whispered:

"It’s not enough."

"You’re not enough."

She sat down in front of her dressing table and sighed.

Sanya noticed.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

“I’m not going,” Naysa said, tugging her earrings off.

“What?”

“I said I’m not going.” Her voice cracked. “I look… I don’t know. Not pretty. Not graceful. Not the kind of girl who—”

“—gets chosen?” Sanya finished gently.

Naysa’s eyes filled up.

Sanya didn’t say anything for a moment. She just sat beside her, picked up the bindi Naysa had dropped on the table, and quietly placed it back in the box.

“You don’t have to go for him,” she said. “You can go… for you.”

“But what if he comes and sees me like this?” Naysa whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like someone who tried so hard and still fell short.”

Sanya tilted her head. “And what if he doesn’t come at all?”

Naysa blinked.

Sanya continued, “You know that temple you chose? You’ve always wanted to visit it. Remember the story you told me? How you read about that mandir in your childhood and imagined going there ”

Naysa noded slowly.

“Then go,” Sanya said. “Go for that girl. That little Naysa. Go for the prayer you want to whisper into the silence. Go for the aarti you love. Let him be a side story. Or none at all.”

“But what if—”

“No more ‘what ifs’ today,” Sanya interrupted gently. “Go to your temple. Let it be your moment. And if he comes, great. If he doesn’t… come back and tell me how the bells sounded. How the light looked when they waved the diya.”

Naysa looked down at her dupatta — the one she had almost crumpled in frustration.

Her eyes welled up again, but this time it wasn’t all sadness. It was clarity.

“I just hate that I care so much,” she whispered.

“You care,” Sanya said, holding her hand. “Because you have a real heart. Don’t hate that. It’s the best part of you.”

Naysa finally smiled. A small, trembling smile.

And then she stood up.

The temple wasn’t about him.

Not anymore.

It was about her. Her faith. Her healing.

And if he came… well, he’d come.

But if not… the aarti would still sing.

I saw him before he saw me.

He was early.

I was late.

As always.

But it didn’t matter — because for the first time, he waited.

He stood quietly near the steps of the temple, his hands folded behind his back, eyes scanning the still surface of the temple as the temple bells echoed faintly in the distance.

And we were — by pure, absurd coincidence — wearing the same color.

White

That soft, sky-like shade that made people look… calmer. Maybe even lighter.

He turned. Our eyes met.

There was no dramatic pause, no cinematic gasp.

Just a half-smile from him and an awkward “Hey” from me, trying not to look like I noticed the matching kurta-shirt coincidence.

We walked slowly, side by side, until we found a quiet corner by the Gomti. The temple shimmered in the background. Kids threw marigolds into the river. Pandits chanted. And for a moment, it didn’t feel like two strangers catching up — it felt like we were exactly where we were meant to be.

We talked.

Not the polite, curated type.

The real kind.

The raw kind.

I don’t even remember how the topic shifted, but suddenly, I was saying things I’d never said out loud to anyone not even in my darkest night".

“I don’t know why,” I whispered, staring at the river, “but some part of my heart still hates my parents for leaving me. For choosing their dreams. And then, when I finally adjusted to life with my grandparents, when it started feeling like home… they came back. And suddenly, I was expected to forget everything. To be grateful. To just… accept it.”

I didn’t cry.

Not really.

But something cracked quietly inside me, like an old door finally opening.

He didn’t say “I understand.” He didn’t offer pity.

He just looked at the river too.

And nodded, like he’d been there — not in the same story, but in the same ache.

Then, as if we both needed lighter air, the conversation shifted.

Food.

More specifically: non-veg food.

I told him I don’t eat it.

He raised an eyebrow.

“But why? Genuinely. Give me one logical reason why someone shouldn’t eat non-veg,” he challenged, sipping his water like it was a debate podium.

I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. Tried again.

“I just… don’t like the idea of it,” I said. Weak.

He smirked.

“Nope. Not good enough. See, this is the problem. Everyone avoids the real debate. Emotions over logic.”

I frowned. “So you like arguing with people just because they feel irritated?”

He laughed. A short, unapologetic laugh.

“Yeah, kind of. It’s fun watching people lose ground when they can’t defend what they believe.”

“That's not funny. That’s rude.”

“Depends,” he shrugged, “on how thick your skin is.”

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled anyway.

Because despite how much I wanted to win that argument — I liked that he wasn’t scared to disagree.

I liked that he listened, even when he smirked.

I liked that he made me think.

Two hours passed by like fifteen minutes.

And when we stood to leave, the sky was streaked with a golden orange, as if the sunset itself was holding back a bit longer — just to give us more time.

We climbed the temple steps together. The crowd had already gathered, the evening wind lifting the smell of incense into the sky. The priest was singing with closed eyes, his voice full of surrender, and people around us swayed slowly, eyes glistening in the fading orange light.

He stood beside me.

Silent. Hands in his pockets at first.

But slowly, very slowly… he folded them.

And for a second, I dared to look sideways — not at the deity, but at him.

He was praying. Not really.

But he wasn’t mocking it either.

He was just there — open, watching, receiving.

That moment… it felt like the world had paused its arguments.

Like maybe, just maybe, belief wasn't about gods at all — but about presence.

I didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

The bells rang louder, the fire from the diya circled through the air, and I closed my eyes.

And I prayed.

Not for him to love me.

Not for anything to happen.

Just… for this to be enough.