𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐞

You called me by a name

no one else heard—

a word born between

balconies and tea steam.

So tell me, love,

when the page used that name…

was it magic,

or manipulation?

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Nearly a year into their marriage, they had built something that resembled comfort. Not love, not yet — but something steady. Something dependable.

They weren’t strangers anymore. They spoke gently now, shared small slices of their day, waited up for one another, and kept separate mugs in the kitchen for the kind of tea each preferred.

Ashvik still couldn’t sleep most nights.

It was one of the few things Mira had learned about him without needing to ask. And so, without being told, she made his tea a little stronger tonight. Two pinches of lavender instead of one.

He never asked for it. But he never failed to drink it either.

By the time she finished in the kitchen, he was already in his study. She left the cup beside his chair, exchanged a quiet look with him, and padded back to their room.

She had waited all day for this moment.

The new book.

A. Reyaan Vale’s latest novel had hit the stands this morning. Mira had stood in line outside the bookstore, ignored the Mumbai heat, and walked away with the first edition in her hands like a sacred relic.

Now, finally, she had the time to begin.

The cover was ink-stained black, flecked with golden constellations. His signature style. The tagline read: What if the stars chose someone too early?

She flipped to the first page, already smiling.

And then she saw it.

The dedication.

To my wife —

To my Tara,

The one who never needed a telescope to see me clearly.

I should’ve told you sooner.

—But I was still learning how to be seen.

Her breath caught.

Tara? Not her real name. Not even close.

But Ashvik had given it to her, once, on an ordinary evening during their second month of marriage. She had filled his balcony with soft yellow fairy lights and said something casually about how dull the space felt.

He had stood beside her and said, without thinking —

“Then maybe you’re the star I didn’t know I was waiting for.”

She had laughed then, not taking him seriously. He had repeated the word again a few nights later. “Tara.” A name that didn’t belong to anyone else. A name only he called her.

Only he knew.

Her fingers trembled against the paper.

There was no way this could be a coincidence. No one else knew that name. No one else would call her that. Unless—

Unless A. Reyaan Vale and Ashvik Suri were the same man.

She stood up too quickly, the book still clutched in her hand.

Her heart beat faster. Confusion morphed into something heavier, something sharper. Her stomach twisted.

She walked to the study. The door was half-open. He stood by the balcony, lit only by the pale orange haze of the city’s night sky.

“Ashvik,” she said, flatly.

He turned. “Kahiye, Shrimati ji.”

She stepped inside and lifted the book.

“You know this is my favorite author,” she said, her voice tight. “And yet… somehow, in his latest novel, he’s using a name that only you’ve ever called me.”

Ashvik didn’t answer.

“This isn’t just a coincidence, is it?”

He sighed, quietly. “No.”

There was a long pause.

“So you’re A. Reyaan Vale.” Her voice was hollow now.

He gave a small nod. “Yes.”

The silence stretched dangerously thin.

Her expression hardened. “And you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“Mira—”

She held up a hand. “No. Don’t. Don’t try to soften it now. You knew I admired his writing. You knew how much I followed his work. You’ve seen me quote his lines to you, for God’s sake.”

“I know,” he said. “I never meant to hurt you.”

She shook her head, voice rising. “This isn’t about hurt. This is about trust. We’ve been married nearly a year, Ashvik. You’ve seen me obsess over this author. Buy every new release. Wait in line. And all this time—you were watching me without saying a word?”

He looked genuinely pained. “I wasn’t hiding it to mock you.”

“Then what were you doing?” she snapped. “Enjoying it? Letting me embarrass myself while you smiled behind a pen name?”

He didn’t answer.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You let me look like a fool.”

“I didn’t want you to love me because of my name,” he said quietly. “Or the words I wrote before I even met you.”

She laughed bitterly. “That’s the problem, Ashvik. I don’t love you for your name. I liked you—or at least, I thought I was beginning to. But now I’m not sure who you even are.”

He stepped forward. “Mira—please—”

She stepped back. “Don’t.”

Her hands were cold now, her face stiff.

“I’m going to bed,” she said curtly. “And don’t follow me.”

He didn’t.

In the quiet of their bedroom, Mira sat with the book unopened in her lap. The dedication burned in her mind.

To my Tara.

The name sounded different now.

What once felt intimate now felt manipulative.

How many other details in his books were real? How many things had she shared unknowingly? What else had he kept from her?

And worst of all—how long had he been writing about her before she even knew him?

The book fell from her lap onto the bed.

She didn’t sleep that night either.

But not because of insomnia.

Because for the first time in almost a year, she didn’t feel like she knew the man sleeping under the same roof.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*