Ho chaandni jab tak raat deta hai har koi saath

Tum magar andheron mein na chhodna mera haath..

Na koi hai na koi tha zindage mein tumhaare siva

Tum dena saath mera o humnawaaz

Jab koi baat bigad jaaye jab koi mushkil pad jaaye

Tum dena saath mera o humnawaa

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I liked the idea of posting daily, or whenever you guys hit the vote target. I'm super excited now. Let's finish this story soon. The faster you vote, the faster I update.

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NUPUR

It has been a week since his mother passed away.

I still remember the day when I entered into her room to give her breakfast and I found her numb. Not breathing at all. And I broke down right there.

I still remember the tears that filled Abhisar’s eyes when he received the news of Maa ji’s passing away.

His hands shook as he clutched mine, and for a moment, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. I knew what the loss meant to him.

She wasn’t his real mother, but she was always there.

And Abhisar—he loved her with a devotion I’ve rarely seen. I saw it in the way he always looked after her, the way he went out of his way to make sure she had everything she needed, even when she was too proud to ask.

And yet, in all of this, his grief isn't what weighs the most on his mind.

It's his Bhaiya’s, Abhigyan Bhaiya’s, who has truly been broken by her loss.

Abhisar doesn’t say it, but I see it in his eyes. Whenever Bhaiya’s name comes up, his brows furrow, and that quiet storm rages behind his calm demeanor.

He fears for him, worries about how his brother will survive this heartbreak. It’s as if Abhisar has placed his own grief aside to carry the weight of Bhaiya's pain.

Every night, we go to bed like we always have, side by side on the simple wooden bed we’ve shared since the day we married.

He still wraps his arm around me, pulls me close, and whispers a soft goodnight in my ear, but I feel the distance between us. His body is here, warm and familiar, but his mind—his heart—are somewhere else. I know that grief is a slow healer, but sometimes, I wonder if Abhisar will ever return to me, truly return.

During the day, he works as hard as ever, tending to his business, managing the household duties with the same precision he always has.

If an outsider looked at him, they wouldn’t see the change.

But I do.

I see the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore, the way his laughter—when it comes at all—sounds hollow, as if he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else that he’s fine. He still talks to me, tells me about his day, asks about mine, but the conversations feel forced, as if we’re playing roles in a play neither of us can quit.

I don’t know how long it will take for him to heal, and the truth is, I’m afraid to ask.

What if he doesn’t?

What if this wound festers inside him, consuming the warmth that once lived in his heart?

But all I can do is wait, give him time, and hope that one day, the man I married—the man who made me feel as though the whole world was at our feet—will come back to me.

Sometimes, at night, when the village is silent and even the crickets have stopped their song, I wake up to find him staring at the ceiling.

His hand still rests on my waist, but he isn’t really here.

His thoughts are miles away, perhaps with his Maa ji, or maybe with Bhaiya and bhabhi, who I know weighs heavily on his mind.

I wonder what it is that keeps him up, what thoughts haunt him in the darkness.

Does he wish he could have done more? Does he wish he could take some of Bhaiya's pain away, or is he mourning his own loss, quietly, in the only way he knows how?

In the mornings, before the sun rises, I often find him sitting by the courtyard, gazing out at the fields.

He sits there, cross-legged on the ground, sipping his tea in silence. I watch him from a distance, not wanting to disturb his moment of solitude.

I know that this is his way of coping, of dealing with a grief too heavy to carry in front of others. I wish I could ease his burden, but I also know that this is something he must face on his own.

It’s in moments like these that I remind myself that love is not always about fixing things.

Sometimes, love is about waiting. About standing by someone’s side as they walk through their own storms. I wish I could reach inside him, pull out the sorrow, and replace it with joy. But that isn’t how it works.

So, I wait. I wait for Abhisar to heal, and in the meantime, I will be here, loving him as quietly and as patiently as I can.

I glanced up from the chulha where I was stirring a pot of dal. I saw Abhisar walking towards the house, his head slightly bowed, hands deep in his pockets.

He gave me a brief smile as he entered, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Aagaye aap, itni jaldi,” I asked softly, my voice filled with concern.

He paused, looking at me for a moment before answering.

“Haan.. kuch kaam nahi tha jyada Hume Aaj,” he replied and walked inside our bedroom, though I knew it wasn’t the truth.

I could feel the sadness lingering between us, like a shadow neither could escape.

And so, I continued to wait.