We met again the following Sunday—over pani puri, just like he promised. No five-star cafes, no curated menus, no awkward silences over overpriced coffee. Just a busy street corner, the smell of masalas in the air, and him standing there in a plain tee and jeans, holding two steel plates like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I like spice,” I warned him with a grin as the vendor filled our puris.

“I like danger,” he replied, deadpan.

I laughed so hard, the golgappa water nearly shot out my nose.

That was the beginning.

Over the next few weeks, we met often. Bookstores, art exhibits, chai stalls, sea-facing benches—nothing fancy, but everything felt new. And somehow, with Rohit, I never had to pretend. I didn’t suck in my stomach when I sat down. I didn’t apologize for finishing the last french fry. I didn’t feel like I had to shrink myself just to fit into his world.

He listened when I spoke. Really listened. Asked questions, remembered details, sent me links to articles he thought I’d like. And every time he smiled at me, it wasn’t out of pity or politeness—it was like he genuinely enjoyed my company.

I remember one evening, as we walked along Marine Drive with half-melted ice cream cones in hand, he looked at me and said, “You make me feel... grounded.”

“Grounded?” I laughed. “I’m not sure that’s romantic.”

“It is,” he smiled. “You don’t pretend. You’re not trying to be anyone else. It’s... rare. And kind of addictive.”

I blushed so hard I nearly dropped my cone.

Back home, things began to shift. Maa had started smiling more often. She no longer sighed when I wore a bright color or served myself a second helping at dinner. Baba had stopped scrolling through rishta profiles entirely.

Then one day, after another family dinner—this time with Rohit’s parents at our place—I overheard Baba saying, “They’re a good family. And the boy’s got sense.”

I stood at the kitchen sink, pretending to wash dishes, but my heart was sprinting.

And then, it happened.

Two days later, both families sat in the living room with a box of kaju katli, smiling wider than the silver trays they were served on. The elders talked of wedding dates and muhurats, of decorators and menus. Rohit looked at me from across the room and gave me a small wink.

I didn’t even realize I had tears in my eyes until Maa placed a hand on my back and said, “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

I turned to her, nodding.

“I’m beyond happy,” I whispered.

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t being chosen despite who I was.

I was being chosen because of who I was.

That night, long after the guests had left and the leftover kaju katli had been packed into steel dabbas, I sat alone in my room, still wearing the green and gold kurta I’d chosen for the occasion.

My cheeks were aching from all the smiling.

But my heart… my heart felt still. Soft. Full.

I turned slightly and looked at myself in the mirror. The kajal had smudged under my eyes, my lipstick was worn off, and my dupatta had slipped off my shoulder—but for once, I didn’t rush to fix anything.

Because for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I had to.

Someone saw me.

Not just my size. Not just my face in filtered photos. Not a “pretty girl if she lost weight.” Not a project to be fixed.

Rohit had looked me in the eye and seen me. The girl who laughed a little too loudly when she found something funny. The one who collected notebooks she never wrote in. The one who still got nervous ordering at crowded cafes. The one who wore her heart like an open diary and tried to tuck it away every time it got bruised.

And he hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t judged. He hadn’t even hesitated.

He chose me.

Not as a compromise. Not as a last resort. Not after every slimmer girl said no.

He chose me… first.

And that realization brought tears to my eyes—not the loud, dramatic kind—but the quiet ones that sneak out of you when your soul finally exhales after holding its breath for too long.

I pulled my dupatta around me, hugged my knees to my chest, and smiled through the tears.

All my life, I had been told to shrink—to be softer, smaller, quieter, thinner.

But for the first time, I realized I didn’t have to be less of myself to be loved.

I could just be.

And someone saw that as enough.