Nandini Verma was 18 when she penned her first story, a tale of passion, betrayal, and revenge. It was a masterpiece, poised for publication. But on the night she was to share her brilliance with the world, tragedy struck. Her abusive father, a figu...
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It had been three months since everything fell back into place. My little Swan remembered everything, and life seemed perfect again. We had demolished her old house as she requested, erasing the bad memories associated with it. Her headaches had gone with the medication she took, and she had even reconnected with her grandfather. Everything was peaceful, just the way I had hoped it would be.
As I sat in my office, waiting for her to join me for our dinner date, I couldn’t help but think about how far we had come. She had gone to submit her new draft—a rewrite of her mother's manuscript that she wanted to publish under her mother’s name. That was her new project, a tribute to the very woman who had created me. The irony wasn’t lost on me: I was a character from her mother’s book, yet I was here, living, breathing, loving. And despite everything, I had fallen deeply in love with the daughter of the woman who had written me into existence.
I toyed with the ring box in my hand. The engagement ring had a small swan-shaped diamond, simple yet elegant, just like my Swan. I had even used my powers to etch a small black feather on it—a symbol of our unique, magical connection. The ring wasn’t grand because Nandini didn’t like grand gestures. She preferred the simple, meaningful things in life, and this proposal would be just that—perfectly us.
A smile crept onto my face as I thought about the iconic slap she had given me. That was a moment I would never forget. Of course, she had faced her “punishment” later, and she enjoyed every second of it. I chuckled softly at the thought.
Life as I knew it had changed, yet certain truths remained. I was still the Yashwardhan from a different world, a fictional villain brought to life by the power of imagination. My little Swan was also my creator, kind of like she also had written me and I had my memories of that unpublished book still in my mind. But that didn’t bother me. I had my little swan, I had my powers, I had my people like rakshit and Nitu and that was enough. I knew that one day, when my creator or my sole reason for being in this world passed away, I would disappear from this world too. But that fate didn’t frighten me; I was content knowing I would grow old with my woman, and when she left this world, I would follow her.
A text from Nandini snapped me out of my thoughts. She told me she would be late, and I asked where she was. When she said she was at a bookstore, without any car or security, I couldn’t help but smile. That was so typical of her.
I told her to stay put; I would come and pick her up. And just as I expected, she scolded me for wanting to use my powers for such trivial reasons. She never liked it when I used my abilities for everyday things. "We’ll become lazy that way," she would always say.
As I drove through the rain-soaked streets, I found myself on the same road where I had first seen her. It was almost poetic—this same rainy night, this same street, and there she was, standing under the very garage where my obsession with her had begun. The universe seemed to be recreating that moment, and my heart pounded with nostalgia and love.
