She hadn’t looked at me since we got in.

Not once.

Not after I opened the door for her.

Not after I sat down beside her and did nothing— said nothing.

I hadn’t even started the car.

Didn’t know why.

Or maybe I did.

The silence between us wasn’t awkward.

It was worse than that.

It was full.

Of everything that just happened.

Of everything we didn’t have words for.

The vermilion still sat faintly on my forehead— its weight far heavier than its presence.

The red thread itched faintly on my wrist. Not physically. Just… in my mind.

I could still feel her fingertip against my skin.

Still hear her voice when she said my name to the priest.

“Vedant.”

She had said it like it meant something.

And I hated how much it did.

I hadn’t planned this.

Not the temple. Not the thread.

Not the priest calling us "pati-patni."

And definitely not saying "mangetar hain meri."

I didn’t even know why I said it.

It just… left my mouth like it belonged there.

Like she did.

And now she was sitting next to me, quietly holding the velvet box, her face turned away—

but I could feel her spiraling.

I didn’t need her to speak to know she was thinking too much.

So was I.

But unlike her, I wasn’t sure how to name it.

What was I supposed to do?

Apologize for the priest’s blessing? For not correcting him sooner?

For not wanting to?

I turned my head slightly.

Watched the way the light filtered over her profile.

The thread on her wrist. The same thread on mine.

And for a second—

I let myself wonder what it would feel like if it hadn’t been a coincidence.

If this hadn’t just… happened.

If it had been a choice.

Mine.

Hers.

Ours.

But I didn’t say a word.

Because whatever I was feeling—

it wasn’t part of the plan.

And with her, nothing ever stayed where I meant to leave it.

I should’ve started the car.

Should’ve reached for the key, gripped the wheel, done something ordinary— anything to bring us back to a solid ground.

But I couldn’t.

Because the air was heavy.

Laced with everything we hadn’t meant to step into.

I stared straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.

I could feel her beside me—

not moving, not speaking, but present.

And then—

so quietly I almost missed it—

“I didn’t come here for this,” she said.

And she didn’t say it like a punch— she said it like an apology. Like the moment had slipped too far, like her heart was somewhere else entirely, tugging at her ribs with guilt she couldn’t name.

There was no anger in her voice—

just the quiet ache of someone trying to explain that this— whatever this was—

wasn’t what she meant to leave behind.

I didn’t look at her.

Couldn’t.

Still, something in me clenched.

She hadn’t meant the thread. Or the vermilion. Or even the priest’s words.

She meant me.

This moment.

The way we sat in it, neither of us belonging, but somehow still… tethered.

I exhaled slowly.

“I know,” I said.

It was all I could manage.

But it wasn’t enough.

“I came for Misha,” she added, still not looking at me.

“I didn’t want to… involve you. Or us. Or whatever this is.”

Us.

The word hung in the air like a bruise.

She said it like it didn’t belong.

Like it scared her to name it, even now.

I finally turned my head.

She was staring out the window, lashes lowered, mouth set in that stubborn line she always wore when she was trying to stay unaffected.

But her hands—

they were clenched too tightly around that box.

Like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

I wanted to say something.

To ease whatever ache I’d left in her with my silence, my presence, my existence.

But I didn’t know how.

So I started the car.

The engine came to life, loud against the quiet.

She flinched. Just slightly.

But I noticed.

And as I pulled away from the temple, I knew—

this silence between us wasn’t over.

The road stretched ahead, but I barely registered it.

Red lights. Green lights. Lanes. Honks.

Just noise. Background static.

The real storm was in the passenger seat.

She hadn’t said another word since the car started.

And I hadn’t asked for one.

But her silence was louder now— less tense, more... distant.

Like she was trying to fold back into herself.

Shrink out of the moment that had wrapped too tightly around us.

And I hated how familiar that felt.

Because I’d done it too.

Countless times.

With people, with expectations, with myself.

But watching her do it—

now,

after what we just shared in that temple, intentional or not—

felt worse.

Because I couldn’t ignore how easily we’d stepped into something we couldn’t step out of.

The priest hadn’t blessed her.

He hadn’t blessed me.

He’d blessed us.

And no matter how quietly I sat here, hands firm on the wheel, eyes straight ahead—

I couldn’t stop feeling it.

And the truth was—

I didn’t know what scared me more.

The fact that it had happened.

Or the fact that…

part of me didn’t regret it.

Not the thread.

Not the silence.

Not even the word mangetar slipping from my mouth like it belonged.

I glanced at her— just briefly.

She was staring out the window, her reflection faint in the glass, but her thoughts screaming in every line of her face.

She was somewhere else.

Not here.

Not with me.

And I hated it.

Not because I deserved her presence.

But because I'd had it once—

in that one small moment at the bell, at the thread, at the flame—

and now, it was gone.

I turned back to the road.

Gripped the wheel tighter.

And kept driving like the distance would undo whatever had just been done.

🪔

The car eased to a halt in the driveway, headlights pooling softly over the gravel.

6:45.

Fifteen minutes before the house behind us would erupt into music and balloons and voices calling Misha’s name.

I moved to open the door— hand halfway to the handle— when I felt it.

A light touch on my forearm.

Not firm. Not demanding.

Just... hesitant.

I looked down.

Her hand.

Wrapped around me like a question she didn’t know how else to ask.

I froze.

She didn’t let go immediately.

Didn’t look me in the eye either.

But something about the way her fingers curled slightly against my sleeve—

it held me still.

I didn’t move.

She didn’t speak. Just inhaled— then let it out with the kind of breath that came after arguing with yourself.

And then—

In the softest voice, like it had to climb over something inside her just to be said—

“Can you… record something for me?”

Her voice was quiet. Careful.

Almost like she was expecting me to say no.

I blinked.

Turned my head.

She was still holding on, still not quite meeting my eyes.

I didn’t know what she meant.

But I nodded anyway.

She reached behind her and pulled a small paper bag into her lap. Opened the box inside.

Then the softest thing I’d seen all day: A tiny brown teddy bear, ears slightly floppy and rounded arms that looked like they were stitched for hugging.

She flicked a switch at the back. A small red light blinked on.

“It has a recorder inside,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper now.

“I bought it for Misha today. I don’t want her to press play and hear nothing."

She paused.

“I want it to carry a voice.

A voice she knows.

A voice she loves...”

She turned to me then, finally meeting my eyes. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

“Will you say something for her?”

That was it.

So simple.

But her asking... wasn’t.

And I—

I didn’t know what to do with that look in her eyes.

I stared at the bear.

Something for Misha.

Something she’d play on loop.

Something she’d hold close while she slept.

And Diya— she wanted it to be my voice.

I didn’t say anything right away.

Not because I was going to refuse.

But because I was suddenly...

aware.

Of the softness in her tone.

Of the trust it took to ask me this.

Of the irony.

Because who's going to tell her?

That Misha— that little girl with stars in her eyes— probably loved her more than she’d ever love me.

That her voice was the one Misha would reach for in a room full of noise.

Who’s going to tell her that Misha already adores her more than me?

That she is the comfort this teddy will never replace?

That Misha cried less when she held her. That her giggle sounded different when she was the one playing peekaboo.

Still—

I didn’t say any of that.

I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

So I reached for the bear slowly. Took it from her hands like it might break.

Pressed the record button.

Waited for the small, blinking red light.

And then—

“Happy birthday, Mishki,” I said quietly, the recorder's red light blinking back at me like it understood the weight of the moment.

Diya sat beside me, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze somewhere far off. But I knew she was listening.

“E-dant loves you,” I continued, my voice softer than I knew it could go. “So much that it almost doesn’t fit inside me sometimes.”

I glanced down at the bear in my hand—ridiculous little thing with a crooked cherry red bow and floppy ears. She’d love it. Probably chew it. Definitely drool on it. And hug it till it lost stuffing.

“You’re one today,” I murmured. “That’s a big number when your legs are still figuring out how walking works. Big milestone, Mishki. One whole year of being the most loved human in every room.”

I shifted in my seat. Not meaning to. And her shoulder brushed mine. Barely. Accidentally. But it anchored me in place. Enough gravity to keep my heart from tipping over.

“This bear... when you press its tummy or bow, you’ll hear me. Not because I think I sound cool or anything,” I muttered, “but because I want you to know I’m here. Always. Even when I’m not in the room.”

I paused. My thumb traced the curve of the recorder button like it’d help me say this next part right.

“So when bedtime feels too quiet or the day's too big or you just want a voice that loves you without needing anything back... press the button, Mishki.”

A beat. My voice dropped to a whisper.

“You are so, so loved. More than words. More than this world. You’re our silly little star, shining bright even with mashed banana on your face."

My voice faltered.

I clicked the button again. The light faded. The recording saved.

Silence slipped back in.

The kind of quiet that said she didn’t know how to respond.

Didn’t know what to do with the gentleness I’d just offered.

And maybe I didn’t either.

Because as she tucked the bear back into the box, I watched her fingers hesitate at the lid.

Like she didn’t want to shut it yet.

So I looked away.

Heart thudding too loud for a man who’d just spoken thirty seconds into a stuffed animal.

And still—

I’d do it again.

Our eyes met—

there was something in hers that made my chest feel too small.

Something that felt like a thank you.

And something that felt like guilt.

Or maybe… something scarier.

But she said nothing.

Neither did I.

The car door closed softly behind me.

Diya stepped out first, her arms full— hands gripping the gift bags tighter than necessary.

She didn’t even seem to notice.

But I did.

I noticed the way her fingers curled too firmly around the handles, like she was grounding herself.

Like she needed something to hold, because everything else— everything inside— was still trying to settle.

I stood still for a second.

Not out of hesitation.

Out of awareness.

Because this was her first time here.

In this house.

My house.

The one she’ll step into again—

not as a guest,

but as someone it will soon call its own.

A home she didn’t choose.

A life she didn’t plan.

And yet… here she was,

standing at its threshold like the walls were already adjusting to her presence.

Not mine.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

But something about her being here

felt like the house already knew.

And suddenly, that felt like… too much.

I didn’t rush.

Didn’t call her name.

Didn’t reach for her bags or ask if she was okay.

I just let her walk ahead.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about her, it’s that she moves on her own terms— even when she doesn’t know where she’s going.

Her gaze lifted to the house, and I saw it—

that pause.

That flicker in her eyes she didn’t even try to hide.

And how could she?

The house looked like it was getting married.

Fairy lights wrapped around the balcony like bangles, marigold garlands arched over the gate. Even the windows glowed differently tonight. Like they were holding their breath.

It wasn’t just decorated.

It was dressed.

As if the walls already knew—

she’d be coming back in six days,

not with gifts in her hand,

but with vermillion in her parting and her name carved beside mine.

It looked like the kind of house that was getting ready to welcome a bride.

But inside—

it was still Misha’s night.

Laughter floated through the open doors.

Faint music played somewhere in the background—

a soft, nostalgic melody, too gentle to belong to a child’s playlist.

Balloons swayed near the ceiling.

There were snacks laid out on the table.

And the kind of warmth that could only come from people who truly knew each other.

It should’ve felt warm. Inviting.

But for her, it was a threshold.

A line she hadn’t crossed before.

And she paused there. Just long enough for me to notice.

For my chest to tighten.

I moved then— quietly stepping past her, rounding to the front just enough to lead.

It wasn’t about guiding her, not really.

It was about giving her a reason to follow.

Giving her time.

She was still behind me.

A few steps slower.

And I felt that, too.

The hesitation in her walk. Not fear. Not discomfort. Just… unfamiliarity.

Like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be here.

Like she didn’t know what version of herself to bring through that door.

I wanted to say something.

Anything.

A quiet reassurance.

A small nudge.

But the words felt too loud for a moment this delicate—

so I stayed silent.

Let her find her own way in.

The way she always does.

She took a breath— one I felt in my own chest— and stepped forward.

Crossed the threshold like it was something sacred. Like she knew this house would never feel the same again once she did.

And maybe it wouldn’t.

I walked a half step ahead of her as we moved through the entryway.

Not to lead. Not really.

Just enough space so she didn’t feel watched. So she could look around without feeling like she had to react.

I kept my pace steady, unhurried. Let her breathe.

Let her pretend it wasn’t a big deal— even though we both knew it was.

I didn’t say a word. Didn’t offer some awkward welcome or reassurance.

But I made sure the lights weren’t too bright.

Made sure the silence was gentle.

Made sure she didn’t have to ask where to go— because I was already carving the path for her.

Everyone noticed her. And like waves lapping the shore— warm, constant, impossible to stop— they pulled her into their laughter, their chatter, their effortless ease.

Diya looked like she was caught mid current— hesitant, unsure— but letting herself be carried anyway.

Not quite anchored. Not quite adrift.

Her eyes scanned the room— polite smiles, unfamiliar voices, too many faces in too little space.

And then they found him.

Dadu.

Cross legged on the lounge chair like always, palms resting on his knees, his presence as steady and familiar as a childhood lullaby. He wasn’t laughing like the others. Just watching. Quiet. Waiting.

And Diya— God, the way she looked at him— like the ground had finally stopped moving.

Like she didn’t have to perform anymore.

Her whole face shifted.

The stiffness left her shoulders.

And for the first time since we walked in, she looked... home.

She walked toward him without saying a word. No hesitation, just something gentle in her steps. Like her feet knew the way.

Like her heart remembered.

And Dadu’s face lit up in a way that had nothing to do with birthday balloons or cake.

The bags stayed clutched in her hand, but her other moved on instinct— reaching down toward his feet with that quiet reverence only she ever showed.

“Na,” his voice came— gentle, certain. “Bola tha na, betiyan pair nahi chhooti.”

Her hand stilled midair, and then—

That smile.

Wide. Quiet. The kind that didn’t need witnesses.

Not the smile she gave the world.

The one she saved for him. For Dadu.

“Kaise hain aap?” she asked, her voice softer now, lined with a care that felt lived in.

“Main toh buddha ho gaya hoon,” he said, with a huff of amusement.

Diya shook her head, that same stubborn tilt she probably had since she was four.

“You’re still as young as you were nineteen years ago,” she said, lips tugging upward.

“Sach mein?” His face lit up, like the years between them had never passed.

And Diya nodded— small, eager, like a child being trusted with a secret.

And he laughed— freely, i haven't seen him laugh like that since the day he came out of that hospital.

“Tu kaisi hai, beta? Kaam kaisa chal raha hai?” he asked, so casually, like he hadn’t been quietly tracking every detail of her life through half-told stories and secondhand updates.

She blinked— just for a second— like she hadn’t expected the question to come from anyone today.

Then she nodded again. “Sab theek hai, Dadu.”

They slipped into conversation like they’d never stopped.

Laughed in that easy, familiar way that softened the air around them.

Like the room faded. Like the world had shrunk down to just the two of them— her and the one person who had always held space for her without needing her to shrink.

And I stood there, just... watching.

Watching her laugh like that— freely, openly, with no edges. Watching Dadu look at her like she was still the little girl who refused to do anything unless he said “shabash.”

It hit me then— this wasn’t just nostalgia.

This was home.

And maybe... the only part of her that had never learned how to hide.

Then Tanya swooped in, all bright smiles and warm energy.

She threw her arms around Diya with the kind of welcome that said, You’re one of us now.

“Thank you for coming!” she grinned. “It’s just close family today. Nothing too loud. You’re the first one here, apart from Misha's personal fan club.”

The living room looked exactly like I thought it would: cushions scattered with loving chaos, in one corner, balloons floated lazily beneath the AC. Gold letters reading “Happy Birthday Misha” swayed softly, like the house itself was humming.

Diya sat on the couch between Dadu and Tanya, her posture relaxed but eyes scanning the room quietly— until it happened.

A squeal.

High. Tiny. Pure enough to slice right through the buzz of conversation.

“E-YAA!”

Misha came barreling toward us in Atharv’s arms, her tiny feet kicking mid air, trying desperately to escape. Pink tulle fluttered with every movement— her dress a whirl of frills and sparkles, with tiny butterfly wings stitched onto the back and a plastic star and clutched proudly in one hand.

She leaned forward, arms outstretched toward Diya like gravity itself was pulling her there. Urging Atharv with impatient little noises, her whole body tilting, ready to leap.

And he— defeated, smiling— walked her closer.

Diya opened her arms gently, already leaning forward, waiting.

The moment they were close enough, Misha launched.

Right out of Atharv’s arms.

Straight into Diya’s.

A soft thud, a tangle of limbs, and then— stillness.

Misha buried her face in Diya’s neck like it was instinct, like she remembered it. Her arms clung tight around Diya’s shoulders, wand digging harmlessly into her back, wings fluttering behind her like she'd finally landed where she belonged.

Diya didn’t say anything at first. She just held her. One arm wrapped securely around that tiny frame, the other brushing Misha’s soft curls down.

Then Misha peeked up— eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the excitement.

Diya smiled, tender and full. “Happy birthday, Misha,” she whispered and kissed her forehead softly.

Without missing a beat, Misha chirped back, "Happy birthday E-yaa!” A little off but still perfect.

She’d been repeating it to everyone who wished her since morning. Only this time, it meant something different.

Diya blinked, caught off guard for a second. Then she chuckled, that amused glint softening her features.

“Who told you my name?” she asked, brushing a curl away from Misha’s cheek.

Misha didn’t answer right away.

She just grinned— wide, wicked. A little too pleased with herself. Wand in hand. Mischief in her eyes. Like she was about to change lives.

She tapped it gently against Diya’s shoulder, like she was about to grant a wish— or unleash a bomb.

And right then, deep in my gut, I knew.

God I knew.

No. No. No.

A breath caught at the base of my throat.

My spine stiffened instinctively, like I could hold the moment still if I just sat still enough.

I didn't even need to hear it.

I could feel the betrayal building in her tiny lungs.

Don't.

Not here.

Not now.

Misha, please.

Be mysterious. Be blissfully vague.

Just pretend you forgot. Point at the cake. Babble something. Bite the wand. Say "balloon."

Anything but the truth.

But mercy? Yeah she wasn't build with that.

She straightened up in Diya's arms, grinning like she'd just solved a riddle.

Turned toward her, loud and proud—

“E-dant!”

...Traitor.

The room went silent then lit up— laughter, teasing, amused gasps, grins exchanged across couches. Tanya cackled somewhere near the couch. Atharv’s eyes lit up like this was the best drama he’d seen in weeks. Like Misha had just dropped confetti on everyone.

And Diya?

She went still. Then turned her head slowly, eyes meeting mine.

And I couldn’t look away.

Didn’t even try to.

Because yeah. I was done.

I was exposed. Utterly.

She didn’t know how many times Misha had pointed at her face in our engagement photo,  and asked, “Name?”

Eyes wide with curiosity.

Didn’t know how many times I’d said her name like it was just another word.

Like it didn’t do things to me every time it left my mouth.

“Diya,” I’d say.

Sometimes softly, like I was afraid someone would hear.

Sometimes without thinking, like it was the easiest truth I knew.

And she’d try it out. Over and over.

“Eya?”

“E-diya?”

"E-yaa?"

And I’d smile. “Close enough.”

God, I was so done.

Misha had learned it. Memorized it.

Worn it like a badge.

And now, she’d handed it back to Diya— with my name wrapped around it like a ribbon.

I sat frozen in the aftermath. Laughter still lingered around the room, but none of it touched me.

Because what would she think?

That I said her name out loud when she wasn’t around? That I helped a toddler memorize her name when i myself have never uttered it in front of her?

She didn’t say anything.

Neither did I.

But in that brief, breathless moment, something shifted.

A flicker. A crack in the surface.

The kind of thing you don’t point out. The kind that’s already changing everything.

And Misha— utterly unaware of the explosion she’d just caused— snuggled deeper into Diya’s neck, her little hands gripping her tight like she’d found her whole world.

Maybe she had.

🪔

The living room buzzed with low chatter and bursts of laughter as the cake was carried in— two tiers of soft pink and cream, edged with clouds of frosting, topped with a tiny sugar figure that looked suspiciously like Misha with a crown tilted sideways.

Everything softened.

Misha stood on the couch like she owned it— Tanya holding one hand, Atharv the other. Wings bouncing, crown tilted, wand in tow like she was royalty and security detail.

A single candle, shaped like the number one, stood proudly at the center of the cake. Its tiny flame flickered to life, casting a soft golden glow just as the lights around dimmed, like the world had paused to celebrate Misha.

“Ready?” Tanya whispered.

“Cake!” she squealed, as if she’d summoned it into existence.

Everyone sang. Loud. Off key. Full of love.

The candle blew out with more spit than breath. Laughter broke around the room, someone cheered— but my eyes went to them.

Tanya’s hands were still mid clap, eyes glassy, like her heart couldn’t quite contain the moment.

Atharv stood frozen for a second, then let out this shaky breath and laughed, wiping at his cheek like he hadn’t just teared up over a candle. And maybe he had.

First birthdays hit different when it’s your kid, I guess. There was something raw in their joy—quietly breaking at the edges. It made me look away for a second longer than I meant to.

Then came the cake feeding ritual.

Tanya handed Misha the first bite of cake, loaded and wobbling on a tiny spoon. Misha blinked down at it like it held the secrets of the universe, then turned—

Straight to Diya.

Of course.

She lifted the spoon, ready to feed her like she was the guest of honour. But Diya, ever so gently, reached forward and curled her fingers around Misha’s little hand— guiding it sideways, toward Tanya.

No words. Just that soft, silent gesture that said enough. Tanya stilled. For a second, something flickered on her face— like the moment caught her off guard. She smiled— quiet, warm. Almost... moved.

Misha, oblivious to the weight she was carrying in that tiny hand, fed her mother with the same serious focus she’d had a second ago.

Tanya smiled through it, but not the kind meant for show. It was slow. Soft. Like it came from somewhere deep. She pulled Misha into her arms, pressing a kiss into her hair and holding her just a second longer than usual.

Diya was watching them, her smile small and aching—like the moment had brushed against something tender and hidden inside her. There was a stillness to her, as if she was holding her breath, not wanting to disturb the softness unfolding in front of her.

And me? I didn’t mean to feel anything. But there it was anyway— tight in my chest, refusing to be ignored.

Tanya kept handing Misha a fresh spoon of cake for every person.

She took a spoon and turned to Atharv, voice high and sure. “Papa,” she squealed— just that one word, but it echoed somewhere deep in me. A word so small, yet it cracked something open. My heart felt full in a way that was hard to name, like I was watching something too pure, too big for a room this small.

Atharv laughed, the kind of laugh that had pride stitched into every note. He looked at her like nothing in the world could touch her— his eyes soft, his chest puffed just enough to give away the truth.

He was gone for his daughter. He looked every bit of a father who'd just been handed the moon. A look of a man who'd never need another achievement in life.

She fed him the cake like it was a serious task, and he played along, beaming like she’d handed him a Michelin star dessert.

And then came Dadu, leaning down for his bite, but pressing a kiss to Misha’s cheek instead— gentle, almost sacred. Like she was the best thing he'd ever been given.

Misha turned again. Fresh spoon of cake in hand, her eyes landing on Diya.

"E-yaa" she called, in that clumsy, perfect way only she could.

This time, Diya didn’t deflect. Didn’t guide her hand elsewhere.

Misha held the spoon up with all the seriousness in the world— like this was her mission, her moment.

And Diya... she leaned in, but only just. Took the tiniest nibble. Barely a taste. Almost hesitant. Almost shy.

Like she wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of something so... pure. Like the kindness startled her.

"Thankyou princess." she said in the softest voice and then fixed Misha's crown.

And I swear—something in the air changed. Subtle, but undeniable—

Because Misha turned.

Straight toward me.

That same spoon still in her tiny hand— the one Diya had taken a shy little nibble from, barely disturbing the frosting. It was still almost whole, still soft with her touch, still too full of something I wasn’t ready to name.

Tanya moved slightly, maybe to offer her a clean one, but Misha was already on her way. Focused. Sure footed in that wobbly toddler way. And when she stopped in front of me, her whole face lit up like she was handing me the moon.

“E-dant,” she said, like she’d been waiting for this all day.

My throat tightened.

Diya sat across the room, still as stone. No smile now. Just hands folded in her lap like she didn’t know what to do with them. Like she didn’t expect this.

But Misha— she waited.

Wide eyes. Hopeful.

That spoon held up.

So I leaned in. Took what was left. Just a smear of frosting. Barely a taste. But it landed heavy. Sweet and tense and confusing. Like something had slipped through the cracks and made itself at home in my chest.

Misha laughed, proud of her little mission, and toddled off like nothing had happened.

The room picked up again— music, voices, everything moving like normal.

Except me.

I was still standing there, heart doing things it wasn’t supposed to do.

🪔

Then came the avalanche of gifts. A riot of colors, boxes ripped open like confetti cannons going off— dolls with blinking eyes, clunky building blocks, a tiny piano that made more noise than music.

Misha… wasn’t impressed. Not really. Her little hands poked, prodded, but that spark? Missing.

Until Diya stepped forward.

No flashy wrapping. No shiny bows screaming look at me. Just a small velvet box, humble and quiet— except for that golden ribbon. Tied like it meant something. Like she’d sat down, took her time, made it count.

“This one’s from me,” Diya said, and damn if her voice didn’t slip into the room like a secret. Soft. Sure.

Misha paused— no grabby excitement this time. She reached for it gently, like she knew this wasn’t just another toy to toss aside. She opened it.

And there it was.

A pendant. Gold. Small. Shaped like an evil eye.

Simple. Stunning. Sacred.

Not something you buy off a rack because it sparkles in the light. No, this... this was protection. A silent promise. Something powerful woven into metal.

And for a moment, everything else— noise, people, laughter— just faded.

It was that pendant. Ofcourse it was.

The one she had cradled with both hands earlier today— like it carried weight beyond gold. The one she’d placed before Durga Maa, head bowed, lips moving in whispers too sacred to share.

She had offered it first. To faith. To protection. To something bigger than all of us.

She didn’t just buy it— she blessed it. Let her prayers soak into its metal, then brought it here, tied it with care, and placed it into Misha’s small, waiting hands. No explanation. She didn’t say a word about where it had been, what it meant.

Just... let it sit there. Quiet. Powerful. Waiting to be felt, not flaunted.

It wasn’t just a gift.

It was her.

All of her— thoughtful, deliberate, quietly fierce. A guardian spirit dressed in subtlety. Hiding in plain sight.

And something in my chest shifted. Swelled. Broke a little.

Because it reminded me of my pendant.

The one I found in my elevator.

The one that shouldn't mean anything— but somehow does.

The one that rests on my nightstand, tucked close like a secret.

The one I slept better with.

The one my fingers reach for when the world tilts sideways.

The one that provides this strange, unexplainable comfort.

Only lately… I haven’t touched it. Not as much.

I don’t know why. It's just... the urge to reach for it has been decreasing day by day.

Misha meanwhile, was spinning. Quite literally.

“Shinyyyyy!” she yelled, clutching the pendant like she’d just been handed the moon dipped in glitter.

Tanya stepped in, gently fastening it around her neck. She didn’t say a word to Diya.

Didn’t need to.

The way she looked at her— soft, knowing—was enough. Gratitude without theatrics.

And Diya? She just smiled. Shrugged like it was no big deal.

Like she hadn’t just gifted her something sacred.

Then came the second act.

The bear.

Floppy. Squishy. Brown. Its face was lopsided in the most charming way— like it had stories to tell. Like it had already been loved.

Misha gasped like someone had brought her an A-list celebrity.

“MASHA AND THE BEARRRR!” she screeched, before launching herself onto it with the kind of pure joy adults spend decades trying to feel again.

The room cracked with laughter.

Atharv muttered something about investing in earplugs.

And Diya— oh, Diya—

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t draw attention.

But she glowed.

Just this quiet, radiant joy that settled over her like light on still water.

Misha was in love.

The bear became her world in thirty seconds flat.

She dragged it across the floor, made it twirl, tossed it like it could fly, then hugged it like she’d never let go.

I watched her— half amused, half… aching.

Until she hit the bow.

Accidentally. Just a brush of her hand.

Click.

A red light blinked. Once. Then—

“Happy birthday, Mishki.”

My voice.

Softer than I remembered.

Rougher, too. Like I’d meant every syllable but barely got them out.

“E-dant loves you…”

And that’s when it happened.

She stopped.

Mid spin. Mid laughter. Mid magic.

And the entire room seemed to hold its breath with her.

Tiny fingers clutched the bear tighter.

Her eyes— wide, shiny— looked around, confused, like the voice had come from a dream.

And I—

I couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Because in that moment, she heard me. Felt me.

And somehow, the weight of that love…

It landed harder than I expected.

Then—

She turned. Looked at me.

“E-DANT!!!”

She shrieked my name like it meant everything. Like I was the magic.

And then she ran. Full throttle. Bear squished in one arm, pendant swinging wildly on her chest like a tiny gold heartbeat.

Straight to me.

And before I could even react—

She was there.

Small arms flung around me, the full force of her joy crashing into my chest.

I caught her instinctively.

She clung tighter.

Buried her face into my shirt.

Like this was the safest place in her world.

And I...

I held her closer.

The applause around us blurred. Tanya dabbed at her eyes, Dadu chuckled softly— but none of it touched me.

Because when I looked up—

Diya was already watching.

Not smiling. Not blinking.

Just holding me in that quiet, unreadable gaze. Like she saw something.

Misha was still in my arms when she looked up at me— eyes round, thoughtful, like something had just clicked into place.

“E-dant,” she said again, softer this time. Then tilted her head, blinking curiously.

“Gift?”

I smiled.

Didn’t answer right away. Just reached into my pocket and pulled out a small black key— sleek, glossy, the Porsche emblem gleaming in the center like it knew it didn’t belong in toddler hands.

Her fingers curled around it like it was treasure, even though she had no clue what it meant. Still, she held onto it like it mattered.

“Come on,” I said, shifting her slightly in my arms. “Let me show you.”

The others followed— some amused, some suspiciously quiet. Diya trailed behind, of course. Like the moment wasn’t for her. Like she wasn’t allowed in the part that felt like a little too much.

But Tanya didn’t let her retreat. She took her hand and pulled her forward— gentle but firm.

Good.

The garage lights came on. Soft, clean. No clutter. Just one thing sitting in the middle under a cream cloth.

I set Misha down gently and crouched beside her.

“That one’s yours.”

She waddled toward it, key still clutched in her fist. Her little fingers tugged at the cloth, struggling with it. I stepped in, helped her pull it away.

The cloth slipped off.

Gasps behind me.

But I didn’t care about them. Only waited for her reaction.

Because in front of her sat a Miniature Black Porsche Taycan Ride On Car— open roofed, luxe finish, custom number plate: MISHA01.

Scaled down to toddler size but still unapologetically luxurious.

And now hers.

She stared like it was magic. Then turned to me, eyes wide.

I lifted her into the driver’s seat.

She looked up through the open roof, gripped the steering wheel like she owned it, and then—

Clapped. Giggled. Screamed.

“E-dant!”

And God, I swear my chest almost cracked open.

I didn’t want to get her something that blended in. I wanted her to have something that stood out. That made her feel like she could take on the world, even if that world right now was just the living room carpet and the garden path.

I didn’t get her a pink one— not because pink was wrong. But because everything today was pink. I wanted this to be bold. To say: you’re different, and that’s power.

She didn’t ask questions. She just drove.

Or well— pressed buttons and spun the wheel with unmatched authority. But in her mind? She was already on the road.

The room was full of praise, but I didn’t hear any of it.

Just her laughter. Her joy.

Her head tilted back through the open roof like the world had cracked open just for her.

And me?

I just stood there, hoping she never forgot what it felt like to hold something that made her feel capable.

Even if it was just a car that didn’t go past 5km/h.

𓂃 ࣪

˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

I want to d!e a little. Don't ask why. Everything is too overwhelming rn, in a way that has nothing to do with this chapter.

I hope everyone is doing well.

No this isn't the long chapter I was talking about. Change of plans. Will be posting it in 2 separate chapters only.

Sorry for the delay i feel extremely bad for keeping you all waiting at 2 am.

ig : authorem_

Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌