CHAPTER LXXXVIII
The moonlight lingered like a blessing, casting silver halos around Ava and Vanshu as they stood wrapped in one another's presence. Time held its breath.
Vanshu gently guided Ava toward the bed, not with haste, but with the kind of care one gives to something sacred. They sat side by side on the edge, hands still linked, hearts still beating in quiet rhythm.
Ava leaned her head against Vanshu's shoulder, her breath warm against the skin of her neck. "Why does it feel like… I've known you for lifetimes?" she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Vanshu's fingers gently traced slow circles on the back of Ava's hand. "Because some souls don't need memories to remember," she replied, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. "They just… know."
Ava lifted her gaze, searching Vanshu's eyes for truths she couldn't name. "Tell me something," she said softly, her thumb brushing Vanshu's knuckles, "something only the old me would understand."
Vanshu smiled, a slow, wistful curve of her lips. "You used to kiss my forehead every time before a storm. You said it was your way of protecting me—even if I wasn't scared." She paused, then added with a playful twinkle, "And you always stole the last bite of dessert. Always."
Ava laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. "That sounds like me."
"You're still you," Vanshu whispered, lifting Ava's hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
A silence followed, thick with emotion but never heavy. It was the silence of comfort, of hearts speaking without words.
Then slowly, Ava leaned in. Her lips brushed Vanshu's cheek, feather-light, before trailing gently to her jawline. Vanshu shivered, not from cold, but from the intimate ache of being wanted—remembered not by mind, but by soul.
Their lips met again, this time with a deepening sense of purpose. Ava's hands found their way to the sides of Vanshu's face, holding her tenderly, as if trying to memorize the shape of her. Vanshu's arms circled Ava's waist, drawing her close, anchoring her to this moment, this feeling, this rediscovery.
The kiss deepened—not rushed, not urgent, but layered with every emotion left unspoken: longing, comfort, and love that had weathered silence and memory loss.
Vanshu pulled back just enough to speak, her forehead still pressed against Ava's. "Are you sure?"
Ava didn't answer with words. She nodded, her gaze unwavering, then leaned in again. The robe she wore slipped slightly off her shoulder, and Vanshu gently, reverently pulled it back up, brushing her thumb against Ava's collarbone.
"Tonight is not for rushing," Vanshu murmured. "It's for remembering."
The two lay back on the bed, facing each other in the dim light. Fingers danced over familiar curves, rediscovering skin and scent, sharing stories in touches instead of words. There was no need to hurry. Every sigh, every gentle stroke, was a declaration.
Wrapped in soft sheets and softer emotions, they became more than lovers rediscovered—they became a beginning rewritten.
Later, as Ava lay nestled against Vanshu's chest, her voice floated like a lullaby into the quiet room. "Even if I forget again, promise me something?"
Vanshu looked down, her eyes filled with tears that refused to fall. "Anything."
"Remind me. Every time. Remind me of this… of you. Of us."
"I will," Vanshu said, kissing her hair. "I'll remind you every day, in every way."
Outside, the stars shimmered in silence. Inside, love lit its eternal flame—no longer lost, no longer waiting—just quietly blooming in the heartbeats they now shared.
The next morning, something unexpected stirred the quiet routines of everyone's lives.
One by one, they all received the same message.
Simple, direct, and unsettling:
"Come meet me at the bungalow — the one Aashutosh gave me."
— Ava
It was brief… almost too brief.
No explanation, no context. Just a location, a memory, and Ava's name — wrapped in silence.
As the message spread among the group, confusion rippled through their minds like a cold breeze.
Why now? Why this place?
And most of all — what happened to Ava?
No one had heard from her in days, not properly. She had withdrawn, emotionally distant, her words now clipped shadows of what they once were. Ava, once filled with vibrant fire, now spoke like someone carrying the weight of invisible storms.
Dwan was the first to react.
She stared at the message, heart pounding in her chest. Something wasn't right — she could feel it deep in her bones.
She tried to call Ava.
Once. Twice. A message.
No reply.
And when she finally confronted her, hoping to pull out some answers, Ava refused to say anything — just offered a soft, tired smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Ava, please… talk to me. What's going on?"
Dwan's voice trembled, a blend of concern and fear.
But Ava only looked away.
"There's nothing left to talk about," she whispered.
Later that evening, Dwan followed her — unknowingly, desperately — only to find Ava standing before an old photograph, encased in a dusty frame, resting on a shelf in the bungalow.
The picture was of Aashutosh and Surya.
Together.
Smiling, frozen in a moment that now felt like a cruel echo of peace.
Ava stood there quietly, eyes fixed on the image.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the frame, almost reverently, almost as if touching a wound that would never truly heal.
And then, she spoke.
Not to anyone. Not to Dwan.
But to herself… or perhaps to the war that raged within her.
"In the end, the war will end everything."
Her voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a thousand storms.
As if every memory, every betrayal, every moment of love and loss had led her to this point — this house, this photo, this reckoning.
There was something final in her tone.
A quiet resignation.
As if she had already accepted whatever came next.
The others didn't know it yet.
But this message… this meeting…
Would change everything.
To be continue....