#Book 1 of HIS Series
Started On : August 2024
Completed On : [ONGOING]
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"When scars run deep, can love heal?
Meet two broken souls, hiding their agony behind masked smiles.
She has suffered unimaginable pain at the hands of someone she trusted.
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The dinner—or, well, date, if I allow my hopelessly stubborn heart the liberty to call it that—was quite possibly the most achingly perfect experience of my life.
And I'm not someone who uses the word "perfect" carelessly. No. I'm deliberate with my words, often more guarded than I care to admit. But this? This wasn't just a well-planned evening. It was something else. Something warm and terrifyingly personal.
It wasn't about the place, though the ambience could have made even the stars jealous. The soft golden fairy lights strung across the outdoor terrace seemed to flicker in rhythm with my heartbeat, like the universe was pausing—holding its breath—for us. Every table had candles, but ours felt like it burned just a little brighter, like it knew we were different.
It wasn't about the background music either, though every single song somehow belonged to my playlist. Not in a generic way, but in that hauntingly specific "how did he know?" kind of way. The kind that makes your spine tingle. Like the melodies were memories I hadn't made yet.
It wasn't even about the breeze that toyed with my hair or the wine that tasted like secrets.
It was about him.
The way he looked at me across the table. As if I was the only person not just in the room, but in the entire timeline of his existence.
And maybe I was.
Because when Aryan looks at you—really looks—it feels like time forgets how to tick.
His confession wasn't dramatic. There were no fireworks, no public declarations, no over-the-top poetry. Just a bouquet. Ordinary to anyone else. But not to me.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly which flowers made me smile in grocery store aisles, which colors I lingered over in parks, which scents made me close my eyes and breathe just a second longer.
He handed it to me like it wasn't just a gesture—it was a language. Like the petals spoke the words he couldn't quite say out loud. Each bloom a sentence. Each hue a feeling. Each leaf a prayer.
And that's when something fragile inside me gave in.
It was subtle, the breaking. Like the cracking of old glass under sunlight. You don't hear it happen, you just suddenly see the pieces and wonder how long they've been waiting to fall.
I cried.
Right there. In front of him.
Not out of heartbreak. Not even out of happiness. But because it was his love. Quiet, intentional, and painfully sincere.
