I never meant to fall for him. I was running toward Deepak Kumar, the man I’d watched on screen a hundred times, the voice that crooned through my bedroom radio, the face on every poster. But somewhere between the broken-down bus and that tiny Parsi guest house where we shared a room — just one, because Raghu had spent all his money on my escape — something shifted.

He annoyed me. Loud, sarcastic, always scribbling notes like I was some headline. 'Runaway Heiress Flees for Filmstar Folly' — that’s what he wanted to call it. But when the conductor kicked us off, when the rain poured and I had nowhere to go, he didn’t leave. He argued with drivers, lied to innkeepers, even gave up his coat when I shivered.

And then… he left. Just like that. A note slipped under my door. I never read it. I saw him go and thought: He’s done. I’m alone again.

Now I’m in a white lehenga, surrounded by flowers, about to marry the man of my dreams. But all I can hear is Raghu’s laugh, all I can feel is his hand pulling me onto that bus.

The priest raises the veil. My father’s eyes meet mine. Heavy. Knowing.

Do I walk forward… or run?