Two days later, as we were on our way home after another round of pandal hopping, something shifted. A small argument turned bitter—he was shouting at my sister, and it lit a fire inside me. I was furious. Without saying a word, I blocked him from Instagram. Then, I blocked his number too. My heart was burning with anger, disappointment, and confusion.

  Back at the room, my sister, her friend, and jiju were sitting outside, sipping their drinks, laughing about something. But I wasn’t in the mood for any of it. I lay on the bed with a novel in my hand, pretending to read but not really focusing—my mind was still clouded with what had happened.

  Suddenly, he entered the room.

  "Why did you block me?" he asked, standing there.

  I didn’t respond. I was too angry to look at him. Too hurt to speak.

  He stared for a second, then left the room silently. I stayed there, quiet but hurting. My eyes welled up. I wiped away the tears quickly, not wanting anyone to see.

  After a while, he came back. This time his voice was softer, almost trembling.

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  "If you don’t forgive me, I’ll leave," he said gently.

  Still, I said nothing. My heart was at war—anger clashing with love.

  Seconds passed. Then, without looking up, I murmured, “Don’t go. I’ll talk to you.”

  And I meant it.

  At around 4 a.m., he was sitting alone on the sofa. The room was quiet, dim, filled with early morning silence. I walked up to him and finally broke the silence. I told him everything—why I was angry, what had hurt me. I asked why he behaved like that with didi. He looked at me, calm and honest, and said, “I wasn’t shouting. I was just explaining.”

  Then he held my hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  I forgave him.

  That same day, we went out again. Durga Puja was still in full swing, and despite everything, we didn’t want to miss the beauty of the season. We visited Sree Bhumi, Kalyani, and finally Tala Prattoy. The night air was cool, and the crowd was insane, especially at 2:30 a.m. The streets buzzed with life, the pandals were glowing, and the excitement was contagious.

  At Tala Prattoy, I noticed something—he seemed quieter than usual. Sad, even.

  Then he turned to me and said, “Promise me you won’t leave.”

  Without hesitation, I replied, “I promise. I won’t leave you.”

  He smiled faintly. “You’re here with me in the lowest point of my life. Be there when I rise too. In every success. Just be there.”

  I looked at him, eyes full, heart soft. I didn’t say anything, just listened. Because sometimes, presence is more powerful than words.

  Inside the pandal, the crowd was chaotic, but he kept shielding me, holding my hand tightly, gently pushing away the crowd—like I was something precious. Like a princess.

  I was exhausted from all the walking, nearly dragging my feet.

  So he did the most unexpected thing.

  He held my hand tightly, laughed, and said, “Fine, come here,” and playfully pulled me along like I was a little trolley bag.

  And in that silly, sweet moment—I felt loved, seen, protected.