The breeze in Bokaro's central park carried the scent of old leaves and distant chai stalls. Trees swayed lazily under the cloudy afternoon sky, and the rusted iron benches stood half-wet from the morning’s drizzle.

Zoya sat on the third bench from the entrance, her dupatta fluttering in the soft wind. She kept adjusting it nervously, her eyes searching the narrow pathway leading into the park.

And then she saw him.

Akif.

Blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messed from the wind. He walked like he always did—calm, sure, focused—and the moment his eyes met hers, Zoya forgot the world for a second.

She stood up.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked faster.

And then, without another word, they hugged.

Tightly.

No cameras. No crowd. No judgments in that second. Just their hearts, thumping in sync.

“I missed you,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“I counted the days,” he replied.

They sat on the bench like two puzzle pieces finally fitting into place. Hands brushing, pinkies locking, eyes lingering.

“Papa allowed this?” Akif asked softly.

Zoya smiled. “He said we could meet once a month. As long as I stay in Bokaro.”

Akif exhaled. “It’s something.”

“But people have started noticing,” she said, her voice dimming. “Someone from the neighborhood saw us together last week.”

Akif’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

Zoya hesitated. “Nothing to me directly. But my mother looked at me weird. Said I should wear longer clothes when going outside. That people were... talking.”

Akif leaned back, brows furrowed. “Why is it always her shame they care about? Not your truth?”

Zoya smiled sadly. “Because shame is louder in narrow minds.”

A soft silence settled over them. Then Zoya reached into her tote bag and pulled out a folded paper.

“What’s this?” Akif asked.

“A letter I wrote last night,” she said. “If Papa ever asks why I chose you, I’ll give him this.”

He unfolded it.

Zoya watched as he read every word—his brows twitching, eyes blinking faster near the end.

He finally looked up, visibly moved.

“You wrote this for me?”

“I wrote it to remind myself. That no matter what they say… this, us—it’s real. Even if the whole world whispers.”

Akif took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

“I’ll make sure one day… the whispers become applause.”

Just then, a group of aunties passed by, eyes lingering too long.

One of them nudged the other.

Zoya stiffened. Akif noticed.

“Let them look,” he said softly, “I’m not ashamed.”

“Neither am I,” Zoya replied.

Still, her stomach twisted as the women moved on, whispering behind draped sarees.

---

That evening, Zoya returned home a little later than usual.

Her father was seated on the verandah, newspaper in hand. He looked up.

“Met him?” he asked without anger.

Zoya nodded, heart steady.

He folded the newspaper slowly. “Your mother told me people saw you both.”

Zoya’s throat went dry. “I know.”

Her father was quiet for a while.

Then: “I never cared what the world said when I built this house with my bare hands. Let them speak. I just hope you're not wrong about him.”

Zoya blinked. “I'm not.”

He nodded. “Then make sure… he proves it.”

Zoya walked away with quiet tears, not of sadness—but of hope.

---

Meanwhile, Akif sat with Aarfa and Ayaan that night in their video group call.

“She looked tired,” he murmured.

“She’s trying to hold everyone’s weight on her shoulders,” Aarfa said gently.

“You both are doing everything you can,” Ayaan added. “Let the whispers come. You’ll drown them all when your love speaks louder.”

Akif didn’t smile.

But his eyes burned with quiet fire.

“I’m almost at the finish line,” he whispered. “One last race.”

---