Every morning felt the same.
She woke up, followed her quiet routine, prepared for college, and blended into the background—just the way she liked it. She was deeply introverted, the kind of person who took time to trust, time to open up. Even small personal details—favorite colors, favorite actresses—were not shared easily. Only comfort earned that access.
One ordinary day, something unexpected happened.
A boy suddenly stood in front of her.
He spoke words she had never imagined hearing—he proposed to her.
His face, strangely, felt unclear. Not unfamiliar, just… blurred. Like her mind couldn’t focus on it yet.
Her heart began to race.
Questions flooded her thoughts all at once.
What if her parents found out?
What would they think of her?
What had he even seen in someone like her?
Overwhelmed, she did the only thing she could—she ran away.
Without a word. Without a glance back.
Time moved on.
She completed her graduation in Botany, found a job in the agriculture field, and slowly built a stable life. She felt settled, confident in her own quiet way.
Soon, marriage proposals began to arrive.
Some rejected her because she wore glasses, claiming that if the mother wore glasses, the children would too. When she calmly explained that it wasn’t always genetic, she was labeled “too outspoken.” After that, she stopped explaining. Some people didn’t want understanding—they wanted silence.
Then one day, another proposal came.
The boy had only his father. No mother. Just the two of them.
After brief conversations, the elders left them alone.
The silence felt heavy.
Suddenly, the boy asked if she liked him.
She panicked.
He gently asked her to look at him—just once.
She tried, but her courage failed her.
When he asked again, she answered honestly.
If her parents liked him, she would too.
He said that marriage was between two people.
She replied softly, but firmly—that a lasting marriage needed the parents’ happiness too. A relationship didn’t survive on love alone; it survived on acceptance.
He didn’t argue.
He simply lifted her face gently and asked her to look at him once.
This time, she did.
He smiled—slow, warm, sincere.
She smiled too, shyly.
And then they left.
Embarrassment washed over her so strongly that she made an excuse and left the house. She went somewhere quiet to calm her heart.
Around evening, her phone rang.
Her mother said yes.
Shock turned into nervous excitement. When she asked if they liked the boy, her mother said her father liked him too—his job, his behavior, everything.
She hung up the call and smiled uncontrollably.
She bought ice cream for the children playing nearby and shared her happiness without saying a word.
The wedding preparations moved quickly.
Her two married sisters, their daughters, her younger brother—everyone gathered. They ate together, played games, laughed loudly, as if trying to store memories for later.
Then the wedding happened.
During her farewell, many people called to check on her. Her mother said her father had cried a lot. Her brother came with her during the farewell, and because of that, she didn’t feel alone.
At her in-laws’ home, she stayed close to her brother more than anyone else.
The next evening was the reception.
When her parents arrived, her heart tightened. She tried to hold herself together, but the moment she saw her father, her tears escaped.
He wiped her tears gently, hugged her, placed a gift in her hands, and quietly walked away—so she wouldn’t cry more.
Later, she laughed with her siblings, talked softly with her parents, shared food and warmth.
Eventually, everyone went to sleep.
The house became quiet.
And then she realized—
she had to go to her husband’s room.
She was terrified.
It felt like she had committed some crime and the police were coming to arrest her.
Inside the room, she hid under the blanket, pretending to sleep.
He came in and called her by name.
He said he knew she was awake.
He told her not to feel alone—that he was there. That after her parents and brother left, she must be feeling empty.
Before he could finish, she started crying.
He gently lifted the blanket and looked at her tear-filled face.
Then he pulled her into a warm, steady hug.
She held onto him tightly and cried freely.
He let her cry.
He wiped her tears slowly, patiently.
They stayed like that for a while.
Quiet. Safe.
When she finally looked up, their eyes met.
Then he asked softly if she remembered a boy from college who had once proposed to her.
She panicked and cried harder, insisting that he was her first and only.
He grew worried and quickly reassured her.
He told her the truth.
That boy… was him.
He explained how he had understood her silence, how he learned about her feelings through her best friend, how her respect for her parents had made him admire her even more.
He said he was glad she hadn’t accepted him back then—because only then did he realize how deeply he could love her.
She lowered her face shyly.
He misunderstood her silence and apologized nervously, saying he should never have hidden the truth.
She stopped him gently with her hand on his mouth and looked into his eyes.
She apologized too.
They both cried.
They wiped each other’s tears.
He hugged her again and kissed her forehead softly.
She lifted her head down shyly.
He laughed and said she looked very cute when she blushed.
They noticed the time—it was almost 2 a.m.
He reminded her that she had her first cooking ritual in the morning and should sleep.
She lay awake, smiling, unable to sleep.
And then—
Her father woke her up.
The dream broke.
She lay there, blushing, smiling, and feeling strangely emotional all day. She wanted to tell someone about her dream—but there was no one close enough.
So she writes.
And even while writing it, her heart felt shy.
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(Some love stories are not lived.
They arrive only once—quietly, in dreams—and stay forever.)
21Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfZOi2Iy2Fg
and then Add to home screen.