Not all love stories begin with stolen glances... some are born in the wreckage- chaotic, consuming, and utterly uninvited.
Amyra Saxena is 22, fiery and full of words, yet drowning in silent pain.
Ahaan Singh Chandravanshi is 27, cold and commandin...
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He stepped into the room, his silhouette sharp against the soft glow of the chandelier. The door clicked shut behind him, a punctuation I wasn't prepared for, slicing through the stillness of the night.
Before I could stop myself, the words spilled out- raw, jagged edges cutting through the thick air.
"Where the hell have you been? I've been worrying like crazy!"
My voice cracked at the end, betraying far more than I intended. Anger, yes- but beneath it, something darker and messier: fear, panic, that vulnerable ache I loathed admitting even to myself.
I hated how much it hurt. How exposed I felt. How I'd spent hours spiraling in my mind, twisting worst-case scenarios into vivid nightmares. And now that he was here-alive-that fear hadn't just faded. It tangled up with my fury, tightening like a noose.
He didn't flinch. If anything, a ghost of a smirk played on his lips-calm, maddeningly so-as he shrugged off his coat. His movements slow and deliberate, like he owned every second he'd been gone. Like my unraveling was a spectacle he barely cared to watch.
His eyes never left mine. That dark, unreadable gaze that always made my breath hitch. And despite every fiery word, my stomach twisted at the sight of him- whole, present, real.
"You couldn't bother to answer your phone?" I snapped, stepping forward, words trembling with frustration. "Or send a damn text? Something? Anything?"
My hands curled into fists at my sides. I'd paced the floors, replayed every moment, rehearsed this confrontation a hundred times. But now, faced with him, the words barely held under the weight of everything swirling inside me. "I've been going insane here, waiting for you."
His presence pressed in- intense, suffocating, filling the space between us and the air I breathed. I felt the heat radiate off him, my pulse pounding loud enough to drown out the silence.
His eyes locked onto mine, holding me captive, and for a breathless second, neither of us moved.
Then- his voice, low and smooth and maddening. "You were worried about me?"
There was a glint in his expression- amusement, maybe something softer, sharper.
The question hit harder than I expected.
How dare he? How dare he twist my fear into something sweet, something like a gift he never expected but secretly wanted? How dare he act like my heart hadn't nearly torn itself out worrying about him?
I scowled, though my voice trembled.
"Of course I was worried. Any normal person would be."
