Author Pov

Author Pov

Sunlight slipped through the curtains, spilling softly across the sleeping girl's face. Swara groaned and tugged the comforter over her head, shielding herself from the morning like it was an unwelcome intruder.

A woman in her late forties stepped into the room. The faint rustle of her light silk saree announced her presence. Prena paused by the bed, a fond smile curving her lips at the sight before her—one leg tangled in the sheets, the comforter half-draped on the floor, and one arm stretched out carelessly. Exactly how her daughter had slept since childhood.

She gently pulled the comforter away from Swara's face, earning another sleepy groan. Bending down, she pressed a feather-light kiss to her daughter's forehead, her lips lingering just a second longer.

"Happy birthday, Swara," she whispered.

As if the words themselves were magic, a small smile bloomed on Swara's lips. Her eyes fluttered open, soft and drowsy, and she smiled at her mother.

"How do you always manage to wish me first?" she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep as she sat up, rubbing her eyes like a child who refused to grow up—at least for the morning.

"Because I'm your mother," Prena replied, folding the comforter neatly, "and I love you the most."

"Mom, at least let me sleep a little more," Swara pouted, collapsing back onto the bed. "Have some mercy on this birthday girl."

"Swara, get up. Stop sulking like a small kid," Prena scolded lightly, shaking her head. "You're eighteen now."

Swara made a bored face and sat up again. Even on her birthday, she was getting scolded. Definitely not fair.

"Now go and get ready quickly," Prena added. "You have to go to the mandir."

"Me?" Swara asked, surprise flickering across her face. "You won't come with me?"

"I would have," Prena said gently, guilt shadowing her eyes, "but I have an important meeting today. I can't join you this time, bacha."

"It's okay, Mom," Swara replied with a reassuring smile.

Even though a quiet disappointment settled in her heart, she understood. Her mother carried the weight of both the house and the company on her shoulders—and Swara had learned long ago not to complain about the responsibilities Prena never ran away from.

Swara slipped out of bed and padded into the washroom, humming softly to herself. As she brushed her teeth, she vibed to Hindi songs playing in her head, her sleep slowly melting away. Soon after, she stepped under a warm shower, letting the water cascade over her. She took her time—washing her hair, rinsing away every trace of sleep. By the time she turned the tap off, her body felt loose, relaxed, lighter.

She emerged from the washroom with a towel wrapped around her slim frame, the fabric falling to her mid-thigh. Standing before the mirror, she began drying her hair, the soft hum of the dryer filling the room. She connected her phone to the speaker and played her playlist, the familiar beats instantly lifting her mood.

Aaja zara sarak le...
Gir le zara behak le...
Saiyyan zara chhalak le haye
Aake moh se lipat le

The song flowed through the room, playful and teasing. Swara smiled, swaying to the rhythm, her movements carefree and full of life. She sang along, dancing energetically, letting the music take over—because today, she didn't have to rush.

Tedha zeher hai yeh iss se naa kar chhedkhani
Life ki naughty kahaani
Yeh halkat jawani, yeh halkat jawani
Meetha yeh namkeen paani
Yeh halkat jawani, yeh halkat jawani
Life ki naughty kahaani
Yeh halkat jawani, yeh halkat jawani

When the song faded, she walked to her wardrobe and skimmed through her dresses before pulling out a light yellow anarkali. She slipped into it, the fabric settling perfectly against her.

"I'm looking good," she murmured to her reflection.

The soft yellow hugged her curves in all the right places, complementing her warm skin tone effortlessly. She paired it with silver jhumkas and matching bangles, the faint chime adding music of its own. Draping the dupatta lightly around her neck, she left her hair open, did minimal makeup, and slipped into her sandals.

She paused for a moment, staring at her reflection—quietly satisfied with what she saw. With a small, confident smile, Swara stepped out of her room.

As she walked downstairs, the soft clink of her bangles echoed faintly. Halfway down, her eyes landed on her brother. Aryan stood near the staircase, leaning against the wall, his brows drawn together as his fingers flew furiously over his phone. There was a tension in his posture—something sharp, restrained.

Swara slowed her steps and walked up to him, lightly tapping his shoulder.

"Everything okay, bhai?" she asked, concern slipping into her voice the moment she noticed the anger simmering in his eyes.

Aryan looked up.

The instant his gaze met hers, something shifted. The tightness in his expression eased, the storm in his eyes settling. He slipped his phone into his pocket without another glance at it, as if nothing on that screen mattered anymore. All his attention turned to her.

"Happy birthday, my little sherni," he murmured, leaning down to place a tender kiss on the crown of her head.

"Thank you, bhai," Swara smiled—but the smile barely lasted a second before it transformed into a pout.

"Don't call me that," she said, looking away with an exaggerated huff. "I know you say it just to tease me."

Aryan chuckled softly.

But behind that smile, his mind drifted back—back to an incident from a year ago.

Swara had been in eleventh grade then, new to the university campus he attended as well. Fresh-faced, quiet, and observant—she had always been that way. That day, she had been walking across the campus when a senior stopped her. Like most freshers, she was an easy target—or so he thought.

He had tried to rag her. Ordered her around. Smirked when she hesitated.

And then—he made the mistake of telling her to dance in front of everyone.

Aryan still remembered the shock on that boy's face.

Because Swara—sweet, shy Swara—had raised her hand and slapped him. Hard.

The sound had echoed louder than anyone expected.

Before he could even process it, she had launched into him—her voice trembling with anger, not fear. She called him immature. Told him he had zero sense, zero manners. Asked him who gave him the right to humiliate someone just because they were new. She told him she was shy, introverted, and that if he had even an ounce of decency, he would have thought before opening his mouth. Before telling her to dance in front of everyone.

Then she walked away.

But not before turning back and slapping him again—muttering a string of curses under her breath, calling him senseless, useless, and utterly pathetic.

Later that evening, Aryan had found out the truth.

The boy was his classmate.

A friend.

The rage Aryan had felt that day still burned fresh in his chest. Pride tangled with protectiveness. His little sister had never needed saving—she had claws of her own.

He looked at Swara now, standing beside him in her soft yellow anarkali, pouting like a child.

Sherni, indeed.

And no matter how grown she became, Aryaan knew one thing for sure—

Anyone who dared cross her would have to deal with both of them.

Aryan ruffled her hair lightly before walking ahead, a familiar gesture that had followed Swara since childhood. She shot him an annoyed glare, lips pressed into a pout—but the softness in her eyes and the smile she failed to hide gave her away. Rolling her eyes, she followed him anyway.

For Swara, Aryan was more than just her brother. He was the only man she had ever truly trusted without hesitation. Her first best friend. Her safe place. Someone whose mere presence could calm the storms inside her. Her childhood had taught her to fear men, to build walls thick enough that no one could cross them—except two.

Aryan... and him.

The car ride to the Shiv mandir was filled with loud music and louder laughter. They sang off-key, argued over lyrics, and drummed on the dashboard like carefree kids. For those few minutes, Swara allowed herself to forget the heaviness pressing against her chest—the fear, the longing, the unspoken words.

Aryan parked the car near the mandir, and they stepped out together. The air felt different there—quieter, heavier with faith. As they began climbing the stairs, his phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the calm.

"Aru, you go ahead," Aryan said softly. "I'll come after taking this call."

She nodded and moved forward, unaware that her heart was already bracing itself for solitude.

Swara climbed the stairs barefoot, the rough dust sticking to her soles. Normally, she would have flinched at the discomfort—but today, she didn't care. It felt right somehow, like a small penance. Her anklets chimed with each step, a delicate sound that echoed her racing heartbeat.

With every stair, her thoughts grew heavier.

By the time she reached the top, the world felt distant.

The mandir's serenity wrapped around her like a slow, deep breath. The faint scent of incense, the soft murmurs of prayers, the distant ringing of bells—it all blurred together. Swara pulled her dupatta over her head, a reflex born from reverence and vulnerability, and stood before the idol of Lord Shiva.

She closed her eyes and folded her hands.

Bholenath... you already know what's in my heart, she began silently. I don't even know when it started... but it keeps growing. Stronger. Deeper. More frightening.

Her throat tightened.

I try to stop it. I tell myself it's wrong, useless, foolish... but every day, it only grows more passionate. More alive.

Her mind drifted to him—his voice, his presence, the way her heart betrayed her every time he was near.

Should I tell him? she asked. Everyone says he's leaving for London tomorrow. What if this is my last chance?

The thought struck like a blow.

What if I never see him again? What if this feeling stays trapped inside me forever?

Her chest felt unbearably tight, like she couldn't breathe properly.

I don't want to lose him, Bholenath, she pleaded. I've already lost so much. Please... don't let me lose him too. Help your child today.

She stood there silently after that—eyes closed, hands folded, heart laid bare at the feet of the one she trusted the most.

Because for the first time in her life, Swara wasn't asking for strength.

She was asking for courage.

She slowly opened her eyes.

The weight on her chest felt a little lighter—like her heart had finally been heard, even if no answer had come yet. She passed the puja ki thaal to the priest along with the prasaad, watching quietly as he completed the rituals. When it was time, she reached up and rang the bell above her head, standing on her toes, the soft clang echoing through the mandir—sharp, pure, final.

Swara folded her hands once more, whispering a last silent prayer, then let them fall slowly to her sides.

Aryan must be waiting, she thought.

She turned around—

And froze.

Her foot slipped back instinctively as she gasped, nearly colliding with the person standing far too close. Her breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes widened.

Vihaan Singhania.

Aryan's best friend.

Him.

Her brown eyes lifted and collided with his deep blue ones—and in that exact second, her heart betrayed her completely. It flipped, stumbled, raced—the same uncontrollable reaction that only ever happened around him.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as his gaze stayed locked on her face—steady, intense, unreadable. He was taller than her, towering just enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. The proximity made her painfully aware of everything—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his presence, the way the air between them felt charged.

Too charged.

She was the first to look away.

Her lashes fluttered as she dropped her gaze, her heart refusing to slow down. Yet even without looking, she could feel his eyes on her—heavy, unyielding, like he was seeing far more than she wanted him to.

"A-aap yahan?" she stammered, her voice soft and unsure, not daring to meet his gaze again.

[ you here?]

"Ji... main yahan," Vihaan replied.

[Yes, I am here]

His voice—deep, calm, unmistakably him—sent a shiver down her spine. Swara swallowed hard, unconsciously licking her lips to ease the sudden dryness.

"Mera matlab hai," she rushed, flustered, glancing anywhere but at him, "aap yahan kaise?"

[I mean, how are you here?]

"Kyun?" Vihaan asked, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. "Main aa nahi sakta?"

[Why, I can't come here?]

Swara shook her head immediately—then nodded—then shook it again, completely betraying her confusion. Her fingers curled nervously into the edge of her dupatta.

He noticed.

A small smile tugged at Vihaan's lips—not mocking, not teasing—just... soft. Almost fond. Her nervousness amused him more than it should have.

Swara's heart raced even faster.

"Happy birthday, Swara."

He said her name softly—almost carefully—as if it meant something fragile in his mouth. The sound of it wrapped around her, sinking straight into her chest. For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.

Vihaan extended his hand toward her.

Swara froze.

Her heartbeat skipped, then stumbled, the way it always did when he said her name like that—slow, gentle, intimate. She blinked once. Twice. As if waking herself from a dream she wasn't ready for.

Slowly, hesitantly, she placed her hand in his.

The moment their skin brushed, an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. Her breath hitched. His hand was cool against hers, firm yet careful, while her own felt warm—too warm. The contrast sent a strange awareness rushing through her veins, making her painfully conscious of the contact.

It lasted barely a second.

But to Swara, it felt longer.

Vihaan released her hand and turned toward the priest who had stepped forward with the prasaad. He accepted it with quiet reverence, and Swara followed suit, taking the offering with hands that still trembled ever so slightly.

Her fingers curled around the prasaad, but her mind lingered on something else entirely.

The ghost of his touch.

And the unsettling realization that even the smallest moment with him had the power to unravel her completely.

"Aryaan got some important work, so he had to leave," Vihaan said as they walked down the temple stairs, matching her pace effortlessly. "I was passing by anyway. He asked me to drop you home safely."

Swara nodded in response, though her mind barely registered his words. It was still tangled in the way he had said her name earlier... the way her heart hadn't listened to reason since then.

They reached his car. Vihaan moved ahead and opened the passenger door for her, stepping aside slightly and gesturing for her to get in.

Swara paused for half a second—then slipped inside.

Touched by the gesture, she turned her face away to hide the smile threatening to bloom on her lips. It wasn't the first time he had done something so simple, so gentlemanly—but every single time, her heart reacted as if it were new.

Vihaan closed the door gently, walked around the bonnet, and settled into the driver's seat.

"Wear your seatbelt," he reminded her.

She nodded obediently and reached for it. Pulled once.

Nothing.

She tried again, tugging harder this time. Still stuck.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. 

"What happened?" Vihaan asked, turning toward her, finally noticing her struggle.

"The seatbelt..." she muttered, trying again. "I think it's stuck."

Before she could say anything else—before she could even prepare herself—he leaned toward her.

Swara's breath hitched instantly.

She pressed her back tightly against the seat, every muscle in her body going rigid. He was suddenly too close. Close enough that she could feel his breath brush against her skin. Close enough that his presence filled all her senses at once.

The faint scent of his cologne reached her—clean, sharp, intoxicating. It made her head spin.

Her fingers clenched around her dupatta instinctively, gripping the fabric as if it could ground her. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, loud and frantic. She was sure—sure—he could hear it.

As Vihaan reached for the seatbelt, his palm grazed her shoulder lightly.

Swara sucked in a sharp breath.

Her eyes lifted to his without permission—and their gazes locked.

Time seemed to stall.

His deep blue eyes bored into hers, intense, searching, as if he was looking straight through her—past her nervousness, past her racing heart, straight into the truth she had been trying so hard to hide.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Neither of them breathed.

Then—Vihaan looked away.

His jaw tightened slightly. His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, breaking whatever fragile thread had formed between them. He straightened back into his seat, clicked the seatbelt securely into place, and stared ahead as if nothing had happened.

The engine started.

Swara turned her face toward the window, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she tried to calm her racing heart.

But her shoulder still tingled where he had touched her.

And her heart...
Her heart refused to forget how close he had been.

Throughout the ride, Swara didn't dare glance at him even once.

She kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the passing trees, on anything that wasn't Vihaan Singhania sitting just inches away from her. Her fingers rested tensely in her lap, twisting the edge of her dupatta, while her heart refused to settle—still racing, still remembering how close he had been moments ago.

The silence between them wasn't empty.

It was heavy. Loaded. Breathing.

When the car finally halted in front of her house, relief and disappointment hit her at the same time. She reached for the door handle and opened it—but didn't step out immediately.

Something held her back.

She turned toward him.

Vihaan was already looking at her.

Her breath faltered for half a second before she spoke.

"Aap... party mein aayenge na?" she asked softly.

[you will come to the party na?]

There was hope in her eyes—raw, unguarded, trembling at the edge of courage. It wasn't just an invitation. It was a question carrying years of unspoken feelings, wrapped in a single sentence.

For a moment, he didn't say anything.

Then he nodded.

Just once.

Simple. Certain.

And that was enough.

Swara's lips curved into a smile so bright, so genuine, it felt like her entire face lit up. Without another word, she stepped out of the car, closed the door behind her, and walked toward her house—her steps lighter than they had been all day.

A silly, uncontrollable smile stayed plastered on her face as she disappeared inside.

Her heart was overflowing.

She was happy. Nervous. Excited.

Because tonight—finally—she would tell him what she had carried in her heart for years. The feelings she had hidden, protected, feared, and nurtured in silence.

Tonight, she would speak her truth.

Unaware...

That destiny was already setting the board.

And it was not planning to be kind to her.

Like, Comment and share your reviews 🫶🏻