Getting Over Him

A door opens

The door swings open, and the last people I ever wanted to see are standing there. My parents. His parents. Four pairs of eyes, sharp as knives, cutting into us with fury.

"Enough of this nonsense!" my father thunders, his voice reverberating through the hall. "You've embarrassed this family long enough, Pat."

"And you," Pran's mother snaps, pointing an accusatory finger at him, "dragging my son into this shameful mess—do you have any idea what you've done?"

The heat of their words slams into me, but I don't flinch. Not this time. Beside me, Pran's jaw clenches, but he holds his ground. We're tired of being treated like criminals for loving each other.

"Running away?" my mother spits, her eyes narrowing. "Do you think you can hide from us forever?"

That's when something inside me snaps—not with fear, but with clarity. I glance at Pran, and I see the same fire burning in his eyes. We've been silenced too long.

"No," I say evenly, my voice carrying more weight than I thought possible. "We didn't run away from you. We ran toward each other. There's a difference."

Pran steps forward, his hand still gripping mine. His voice is calm, but laced with steel. "And if love is the worst crime you think we've committed, then maybe the real shame here isn't ours. It's yours."

The air stills, thick with the shock of our defiance. Their faces twist with anger, but I don't care. For the first time, I feel free—not because the danger is gone, but because I'm done being afraid.

I lift my chin, meeting their glares head-on. "You wanted us to choose between our families and each other. Well, here's our choice: we choose us. Every time. So if you came here to drag us apart, save your breath. We're not going anywhere."

Pran's lips curve into the smallest, fiercest smile, and he adds softly, "Together means together. Whether you like it or not."

The silence that follows is deafening, but it's ours. For once, we hold the power.

And for the first time, I don't see escape as our only option. I see us standing tall, unshaken, daring the world to try and break what it never built.

The silence after our words is heavy, charged. For a moment, all four parents just stare, their anger colliding with the truth we've thrown in their faces.

My father's fists clench at his sides, his jaw so tight it looks painful. "You think this is bravery?" he spits. "It's foolishness. Delusion. You're destroying your futures for a childish fantasy."

Pran's mother shakes her head, her voice sharp but trembling underneath. "You've blinded him, Pat. My son was destined for better than this—than you."

Pran steps closer, his grip on my hand unyielding. His voice doesn't waver. "No one blinded me. I see clearer now than I ever have. And the truth is, the two of you never cared about what makes me happy—you only cared about control. Well, I'm done living under it."

The words land like a slap. His father's nostrils flare, but he says nothing, his silence more telling than any outburst.

I raise my chin, my own parents' fury washing over me like a wave I refuse to drown in. "You can scream, threaten, call us selfish all you want. But the fact is, you raised us to be strong—and now you're furious because we're strong enough to choose a life you don't approve of. That's not weakness. That's love."

For a second, I almost expect another explosion, another round of shouting. But instead, the air shifts.

My mother's face softens just slightly, her lips parting as if to argue, but no words come out. Behind the anger, I catch a flicker of something else—fear. Maybe even doubt.

Pran's father finally exhales, his voice low and bitter. "You'll regret this one day."

Pran meets his gaze evenly. "The only thing I'd regret is walking away from him."

The words settle like a final stone placed in a wall. There's nothing more to say.

Our parents stand there, furious, helpless, unable to bend us the way they always have. And in their silence, I feel it—the shift of power, the realization that they can't stop us anymore.

I squeeze Pran's hand tighter, my voice steady as I deliver the last blow: "So either accept that this is who we are, or step aside. Because we're not backing down."

The hallway is thick with their rage, but they don't move, don't answer. For once, they have no control. And that silence—their silence—feels like victory.

The silence cracks first with my father's growl. He jabs a finger at me, his face red with fury. "You think this is over, Pat? You've humiliated us for the last time. If you stay with him, you're no son of mine."

Beside him, my mother's eyes burn with betrayal. "You'll regret turning your back on us. Don't come crawling back when this all falls apart."

Pran's mother crosses her arms, her voice sharp as glass. "You're throwing your life away for him, Pran. And when it destroys you, don't expect us to pick up the pieces."

His father glares, his words low and venomous. "Mark my words—you'll both learn the hard way what it costs to defy us."

And then, like a storm breaking, they turn—snapping, muttering, slamming the door behind them as their anger echoes down the hall. Heavy footsteps retreat, each one laced with threats and the weight of disownment.

The apartment falls silent again. But this silence is different. It's not heavy with fear anymore—it's clean, sharp, almost freeing.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My hands are shaking, but Pran's grip steadies them instantly. I turn to him, and for the first time since the knock at the door, I allow myself to smile.

"They'll never understand, will they?" I whisper.

Pran shakes his head, his lips curving into a fierce, unshaken smile. "Maybe not. But we don't need them to."

The echo of slammed doors and shouted threats lingers, but it doesn't matter. Not anymore. Because in this moment, standing together in the quiet aftermath, I realize something unshakable:

They walked away angry.

We're still here—stronger than ever.

I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

"Together," I say, my voice steady now.

Pran's smile widens, his eyes burning with the same fire as mine. "Always."

And as the dust of their fury settles around us, I know: no storm, no threat, no parent can undo what we've built.

We've already won.