Growing up, my ideas about love were painted with broad, colorful strokes — vivid scenes from movies, romantic novels, and whispered tales from friends. Love, in my imagination, was spontaneous and electric, a magical force that would sweep me off my feet and change everything in an instant. It was the kind of love where hearts raced, where stolen glances held promises of forever, and where even the smallest touch felt like an awakening.
I believed love was effortless, something that just happened when the timing was right. Two people would meet by chance — at a café, a library, a crowded street — and suddenly, the world would shift. There would be butterflies, late-night conversations under starry skies, and grand declarations of devotion. Love was meant to be thrilling, overwhelming, and unmistakably real.
The romantic comedies I watched often ended with a kiss in the rain or a heartfelt confession at an airport. Love was the climax, the reward, the happily-ever-after. It was passionate and poetic, full of intensity and raw emotion. I longed for that kind of love — the kind that made life feel like a beautiful adventure.
But deep down, I also knew that love was complicated. I heard stories of heartbreak and unrequited feelings. I saw couples struggle with misunderstandings, fights, and the slow fade of affection. Yet, I clung to the hope that true love would be different — that it would conquer all, that it would be undeniable and lasting.
When I was told my marriage would be arranged, a quiet fear took root. How could love grow from a foundation that wasn't built on spontaneous attraction or years of shared memories? I wondered if I was giving up on the romantic ideals I held dear. Would love come later, or would it remain an elusive dream?
I imagined love as a spark — instantaneous and bright — but what if love was more like a flame that needed tending, patience, and care? Could it be something quieter, less dramatic, but no less profound?
In my mind, love was a dance, and I feared I didn't know the steps. How do two people learn to move together when they barely know each other? How do you build trust, affection, and desire when you start as strangers?
Yet, despite my doubts, a small part of me was curious. Maybe love wasn't a single moment but a journey — a collection of everyday gestures, shared laughter, and mutual respect. Maybe love was less about fireworks and more about steady light.
As I prepared to meet Ayaan, I carried these conflicting ideas with me. I didn't know what our story would look like, but I held onto the hope that love, in whatever form it took, could be part of it.
And maybe, just maybe, love was waiting for me in a place I hadn't imagined and I would wait for the day to come.