Vivaan

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t come from the absence of sound, but from the absence of feeling.

Vivaan Mehra lived in that silence.

For thirteen years now—since the day his father’s heartbeat faded into hospital monitors and responsibilities tightened around his chest like a noose—he had forgotten how to breathe without carrying the weight of someone else’s world.

His mother’s tremble.

His siblings’ tears.

His company’s future.

His own… didn’t matter.

He built walls, not homes.

Spoke in business terms, not emotions.

Loved his family, but from a distance where no one could see the cracks he carefully hid.

And he had grown used to it—the stillness, the order, the loneliness.

Until one day, someone would walk in...

With a voice that felt like morning light

And colors that didn’t ask for permission to bloom.

But he didn’t know that yet.

He only knew how to be rain.

---

Kavya

Kavya Sharma cried at the end of every movie.

Happy, sad, even the ones with talking dogs.

Her heart was not fragile—it was just… open. Always open.

She believed that one day, someone would come along who’d fall in love with the way she twirled with a paintbrush in her hand, who’d see the poetry in her silence, and who’d stay—not because she begged, but because they couldn’t imagine leaving.

Life hadn’t been kind to her dreams.

Not all clients paid on time.

Not all crushes ended in love.

Not all nights ended without a tear falling quietly on her pillow.

But she woke up every morning with hope anyway.

Because that’s what sunshine does.

It doesn’t ask if the world deserves it.

It just rises.

And one day, she would walk into someone’s life who had forgotten how to feel—

And he wouldn’t know it yet,

But everything would start to change.

Because she didn’t knock on doors.

She lit up the rooms behind them.