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[ineff-ability]

i think love is stored in nighttime conversations and “did you eat yet” and books left outside your door and “i waited to watch this with you” and splitting something in half to share and “im proud of you” and folded towels and “you can pick” and heads on shoulders and “you’re right, that was shitty. im sorry” and knocks on doors and “DINNER!” and stupid jokes and “hey i got this for you” and coffee made just right and… there are so many ways people say i love you silently every day over and over again if you only listen

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Aldous Huxley, Proper Studies

Caspar David Friedrich, Woman at a Window, 1822

(Collage: instagram @emmalinatotes)

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love letter 💌.

some days feel like standing on the edge of a cliff,

yes, the wind is in my hair,

and yes the view is enough to snatch my breath away,

but all i can do is look down, and wonder how long it would take to fall.

however, where there is a cliff, there is also someone pulling me back. 

i don’t believe in soulmates anymore

but someone important once mentioned how everything in the universe was once space dust,

i think that our space dust always floated together. 

and even if this is the only universe in which that is so,

i am glad for this one. 

i am glad you exist in my life.

i may be able to count you all on my fingers, 

but who judges a sunset for only happening once a day? 

thank you. i love you. and i needn’t add any tags or any assurances that this is “only platonic”. 

who ever said that platonic wasn’t enough?

xx

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guilt ridden.

guilt has plagued me, ever since my chubby fingers could messily tie back my own hair, and my lips were less chapped and more used to kissing my teddies goodnight 

it seems like my only friend on some days.

my only constant - it knows me better than most. 

guilt will unwrap my deepest secrets like birthday presents and glow brighter with each one

it will bake a cake that tastes like failure and hand it to me, all smiles.

it toys with me, finding joy in the way i scramble to leave its grasp.

guilt lives in my head, in my stomach, in my bones

some days i wish to break every one, just to rid myself of the feeling.

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Dostoevsky, The Idiot

Caspar David Friedrich, Gartenterrasse, 1811

(Collage: instagram @emmalinatotes)

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in english we say: "I love you."

but in poetry we say: "I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything."

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ineffablity (n.) - incapable of being expressed or described in words

★ original poetry + short story side blog

★ reblogs of literature/quotes/poetry/etc.

★ my writing is under the tag "saanvi writes"

★ my main is @pocketedxoxo !!

★ have a lovely day/night, i hope you enjoy <33

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– Audrey Hepburn

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hate.

i wonder where hate is born

does it lurk beneath the surface, wearing a mask of another, before ripping it off and displaying its true colours?

is it like water being poured into a cup, eventually cascading over the sides and spilling out to the world?

perhaps it's a ghost, destined to hold your hand and walk down every path with you, something that doesn't, and will not, abandon you.

hate hate hate hate hate hatea hate htae htae haet hate hat eah hate aha teh ahtea hate hate aheat haet hate hate hate ages ahte heat hear yeah ahte htae haet hat ehta hea theat hate hate hatera hate htae ahtea aha teh eah aheat hate.

the word itself is ugly. everything about it disgusts me.

the way that fathers can turn their hate on their daughters disgusts me. the way marriages can fall into hate so easily disgusts me. the way that hate can transform people into shells of themselves disgusts me.

hate must have been born somewhere equally as disgusting. in the midst of bloodshed, or next to the graphs which forced a person to coin the phrase "global warming".

but what possibly could have hate been born for?

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in poetry we say..

and perhaps, we were made from different pieces of stardust in the universe, 

and our atoms were destined not to touch

stars that would forever see each other glinting and shining

but be light years apart . 

[ineff-ability]

alarm.

i woke up this morning to the sound of my phone chiming.

an alarm. 8:30, the time reads.

ten more minutes, i think to myself, and press the snooze button.

8:40, and it's ringing again. i had a late night.

so i reach out to press the snooze button.

the clock now reads 9:00. my phone is chiming again. i ignore it.

the sound doesn't stop.

sleep invites me back inside for a cup of coffee, and happily, i accept.

i wake up, finally, at 9:30. the sun snakes its way to my face, shining in my eyes brightly, feeling like a harsh reality check.

i take my phone.

long lines of notifications snake down my screen. they reach out, crushing my windpipes and wrapping around my chest, pulling tight. they have my heart and have devoured it whole, stopping it from beating. the snakes must have found their way to my brain too, since everything seems clogged. if my mind was a city, natural disaster had struck, and only rubble remained.

the words swam in front of my eyes, and i wasn't quite sure when, but my phone had ended up on the floor. it seemed a long way down from up here. i was standing on the edge of a cliff. the ground crumbled beneath my feet, and the wind was so harsh it brought tears to my eyes.

finally, i lost my balance, and fell. i didn't scream. the snakes had taken my voice too. ghosts of words danced on the backs of my eyelids tauntingly as i spiralled towards the ground.

...

...

...

i never will snooze an alarm ever again.

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voicemail

beep

tides shift as the moon waxes and wanes,

and the sun rises and falls with every day.

nature is not inclined to immortality, and so neither should i.

yet "the end" seems so definitive. surely, there's something more?

perhaps this is only wishful thinking, and my hope will only grow into a heavy burden to lift

maybe it's best if i just forget.

...

...

...

how can i though, truly? when the thought of you is sewn into the fabric of my life?

losing someone is different from being left, and i can't help but ask myself if that is what happened to us.

what ifs plague me, and however much i want to let go, i just can't

i wonder what you're doing, what you're thinking. if we'd still talk now, or be swept up in the busy nature of life.

i may be a writer and bend words to my will, but i don't think i've found a phrase that describes what i think of you anymore.

click.

[ineff-ability]

hide and seek.

Memories are funny, finicky things, aren’t they? Moving in and out of the mind’s focus, like a piece of driftwood floating over the sea. Like hide and seek. And once you think about them, you can’t make them go away.

Sometimes, I would wish that they’d disappear. That they would fade out, like the ending of an 1970s song, and the right shade of green wouldn’t bring a pair of eyes to mind and a wave of nausea. Perhaps it was idealistic.  But all I wanted was to be able to watch movies without a cavity forming in my chest when I didn’t hear the usual commentary following along.

“Alara!”

The call of my name snapped my attention back to reality. I lifted my eyes to meet with my friend’s sheepishly. Nevaeh raised her eyebrows and looked at me with a crooked grin.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I waved a hand. My lips had become accustomed to those words. “What were you saying?”

Nevaeh shrugged, “I was just saying that my brother and I were going through my mother’s boxes earlier!”

“Oh!” I remembered faintly that Nevaeh’s late mother had a slight obsession with boxes – kept loads of them for no reason. “Anything interesting?”

“Some old photographs of hers,” Nevaeh stirred her coffee, “It was definitely rewarding though.”

“I can tell,” I observed, “You seem so much brighter today.”

Nevaeh laughed, “Really? Ezra was saying something similar.”

“Well, he’s right,” I said, taking the final sip of my coffee, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

If only I had that kind of privilege.

My phone buzzed from my pocket, and I lifted it to read a notification from my lock screen as I listened to Nevaeh talking about how she had been thinking of visiting the church again. The name Wren shone from the screen, and I swiftly clicked on my roommate’s message.

i’m going out to meet with some friends. will be back late – left the keys under the plant pot. see you later!

Wren’s social life seemed to never stop. Sometimes, I would wonder how she found time for everyone. I couldn’t ever find time for many more than five people. It had been the same even before the accident.

“I think I’m gonna have to go,” I showed Nevaeh the message with a slightly amused smile.

Nevaeh snickered,  “Doesn’t Wren realise that the plant pot is the most common place to hide keys? Go home, before someone breaks in!”

“Say it louder, won’t you?” I rolled my eyes at her, before waving goodbye, promising to text and leaving.  

The weather had been chilly lately, with summer fading into autumn. The days were growing shorter and shorter, darkness falling earlier than usual, but I didn’t mind. Winter was my favourite season.

It used to be summer. That changed. July held too many memories. July, his birthday month. July, the month that he was driving to his surprise party and never turned up. July, the month I had a call telling me that it had been quick. The funeral had been in August.  

Soon enough, everyone else had moved on. People started watching me with anxiety-ridden eyes as they danced around conversation topics, as if I were a ticking time bomb. Eventually I had enough of it. And so, I buried it. I took down all the photos and shoved them into a box. I deleted all the pictures from my phone, deleted our playlists and got rid of anything that could remind me of my best friend. It was all hidden away.

But of course, the memories would return. The one thing I had no control over.

I reached my block of flats and walked in, making my way straight up to my flat. Making my way down the familiar hall, I stopped automatically outside my door. The regular array of plants grew outside our door, at Wren’s insistence. But something seemed amiss. Had something moved out of place? Perhaps Wren had shifted something whilst she hid the keys. That made sense. I reached under the biggest plant pot to find the keys and unlocked the door quickly, before stepping in and letting it swing shut behind me.

Home sweet home.

But something felt wrong. The door opened into a hall as usual, with five doors – two bedrooms, one kitchen, the living room and bathroom. The walls were the same shade of magnolia that had been there since we moved in. Wren’s trainer collection was scattered across the entrance, not to my surprise, along with my three pairs of shoes. The living room door, however, was shut. My frown deepened as I slowly stepped forward, careful not to make a sound. We never shut that door.

I could feel my heartrate skyrocketing as I tried not to panic. Nevaeh’s words of caution echoed in my head. She had been joking obviously  – who would even want to be in my house? But my uneasiness still grew.

I pushed the door open.

The room was perfectly tidy. The TV was on, playing a show that I hadn’t watched in a year. And on the sofa sat a boy. A boy with curly brown hair and a curious shade of green eyes and a smattering of freckles. A boy who lounged on the sofa like he’d known this place for years. A man, in fact now, whose funeral I swear I had attended a year ago.

The clocks seemed to stop. Time moved through a thick wad of honey as I stared, open mouthed, at someone who was meant to be dead. The bitter taste of coffee stained my tongue. My heart stuttered and I sucked in a sharp gasp, causing him to spin around.

I found myself staring face to face with my best friend. My dead best friend. Connor. My lips formed words but no sound came out.

“Alara.” He spoke first, rising from the sofa and taking a step towards me. But I stumbled back instead, falling over my feet and gripping the door handle so tightly that my knuckles went white.

This couldn’t be real. I remembered that phone call like it was yesterday, and the wreck his car made on the road with the other van driver who had lived and I had wanted to strangle for. I remembered his coffin, his funeral, the dead silence that came afterwards. Oh, God, the silence. But here he was. Standing in front of me.

But how could he be? It was impossible. It must have been a hallucination. I reached to pinch myself, flinching at the sharp pain. Not a dream. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that when I opened them, he would be gone. He was not.

Connor stood in front of me still, staring at me from across the room. The distance between us felt like oceans.

“I’m real,” he confirmed gently, as if reading my mind.

The first word that left my mouth was, “How?”

“You probably would want to sit down,” Connor gestured to the sofa. He moved closer to the window.

I approached the sofa, sinking into it. My emotions felt at war with each other, sending me through a stormy sea, the waves battering against the hull and pulling and pushing me from one way to another. My words were trapped, drowning under the weight of it all.

“You- you died,” I choked out, but Connor shook his head.

“You need to listen Alara. I’m sorry-”

“Sorry?!” I found myself reaching for the nearest object to me – the TV remote, and chucked it right at him. It was a terrible throw and the remote fell to the floor, but Connor winced all the same. “Sorry? I thought you were dead! You were hiding!”

“There’s an explanation! I promise you!” Connor tried to plead, but I had already had enough.

Rage festered in me, bubbling furiously. I needed to kick a wall or let out a scream – just something to release all my pent up frustration. If he was alive, why hadn’t he come back to me? I could have even found him if I knew! I reached for the next closest thing, which turned out to just be a pillow, and chucked it at him again. Connor ducked as it sailed over his head, and raised his hands in surrender. There was a look in his eyes that I couldn’t place. Was it regret? He wasn’t smiling. Good. I didn’t need his grin haunting me any longer.

“Alara, listen, please! I’ll explain everything soon, I came back to warn you, okay? You’re in danger.”

My breath stilled. He had to be joking. That was Connor in a nutshell. A jokester. But his face had grown serious, and something told me that he wasn’t lying. I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could, I was interrupted.

Out of nowhere, three loud consecutive knocks echoed through the flat from the door.

Connor and I swore at the same time.

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emotional shipwreck

my vision is a ship at sea swimming through dark waters

my heart is a ship capsizing sinking to the floor

my mind is a trapped soul under the waves screaming “come help”

my words are tangled seaweed in the propellers stuck under the weight of everything else .

[ineff-ability]

DYSTYCHIPHOBIA

(n.) the fear of hurting someone.

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PRINCE HIMESH KANWAR WAS NOT someone to back down from a challenge. He had spent half his life training to make the hard decisions and the rest of it learning how to win. It came easily to him, obviously. The prince topped every exam, won every award and zoomed to the top. Nothing could break his focus and nothing would ever topple him off of his pedestal. 

        Right or wrong. Good or bad. Win or lose. Truth or lies. Black or white. That was how his mind functioned. One or the other, and no space left in between. Grey area was a waste of time and space. Everything could be categorised.

        Himesh's life was straight-forward and orderly. Chaos had no place in perfection and he shunned anything that was out of place or odd. Distractions were unnecessary. It wasn't that he was boring. Himesh made time for partying and having fun, and he won in that too. Smiles and jokes formed the perfect, charismatic aura that surrounded him wherever he went and friends were never far. 

        Of course, every rule has its exceptions. And that exception came in the form of a certain Khushi Muskeraat, who was as true as her name. Somehow, the painter from the village with bright, laughing eyes and long dark hair and voice like liquid sunlight, had captured Himesh's heart as easily as she produced the most stunning artwork. 

        Although the kingdom had been consumed in a snowstorm for the past several years, he had still found her. That night was one of the memories that had automatically been painted golden in his black and white mind. The two of them had stood huddled in the soft snow in the dark, exchanging short whispered words. Neither of them had caught a glance at the other's face, yet something electric had sparked within them both. As if there were an understanding between a pair who couldn't have been more different. 

        Their icy kingdom had secrets, lots of them. Even Himesh didn't know all of them. But he did know that no one was allowed to know the location of the castle. And so, he always met with Khushi in the village or outdoors, even when it was freezing cold. Khushi hadn't asked why and he had never brought it up. It was for her own safety, really. He shuddered to think what would happen if they were caught.

        Himesh lay back on his bed, throwing up a ball towards the top of his four-poster bed before catching it. This was one of his very rare off days, but it was with good reason. Diwali was tomorrow, and whilst the weather was cold and blustery constantly and celebrations for the festival of light had been diminished, many still considered it a holiday, and spent time with family and friends. He had been warned that on this day, he must be completely vigilant. Apparently, whispers about an attempt on his life had been heard. A knife had been placed on his bedside table. Just in case. He wouldn't have to use it though, of course. It was unlikely that the assassins could ever make it this far, and so thoughts of dying tonight were pushed out of his head.         The crown prince sighed deeply, looking up at the deep purple velvet of his four-poster. He longed for someone to celebrate the holiday with. Someone to string lights across the windows with, someone to enjoy jalebis with, someone to dress up nicely with. Briefly, Himesh wondered where exactly this urge had come from. Nothing of this sort had filled his mind last year. Mentally, he thanked Khushi for teaching him to let go a little more. This idle daydream was nice, in a strange way. Not needing to think seriously was liberating. 

        Too busy considering the possibilities, Himesh didn't notice the way his window slowly slid open. His record player was playing softly, singing out gentle tunes. 

"do badan ho judaa, meri hoke hamesha hi rehna, kabhi na kehna alvida"

even if our two bodies separate, always be mine, never say goodbye.

        A figure, clad in complete black, slipped into his room. 

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        KHUSHI MUSKERAAT LOVED WITH HER full and whole heart and did not back away from it. Love was a gift to be shared, and she gave it to whoever she saw fit. That lady selling portable heaters in the market who gave her a discount. Her brother, who had visited recently. A black cat on the pavement. The girl had seen too much suffering to be able to feed it back to anyone else, and she was always seen with a wide smile and a sparkle to her eyes.  

        A romantic at heart, and an artist's mind to match. She knew it was one day going to be her downfall. But for now, she held tightly onto it.

        Khushi saw the world in colours. Reds and yellow and oranges. Greens and blues and purples. Colours made up her life. She had seen them all, again and again, and never grew bored. Yet there was one colour that she had only seen with one person. Crown prince Himesh Kanwar. He was made up of many colours, as any person was. Icy blues, deep purples, and soft pinks made up the halo that Khushi imagined as the crown on his head, and often, he was bathed in a golden light.

        She had first seen it the first time they'd met, at that artist's convention last year. Neither of them knew the other as they stood outside from the chaos together in the dark, watching the stars glint above as they softly spoke to each other about anything that came to mind. Khushi hadn't even realised that she had spilled out her life's events to the crown prince before he presented her with a prize for best artist and the dots slowly connected. She had been seeing his colours around for a while, everywhere she went, yet that soft pink was nowhere to be located.

        It had been a while after that before Himesh reached out to her again, inviting her out. Khushi could still remember it all, even though it was a year ago now. It was snowing, as always, but it was light and soft; romantic, in a sense. They had met out over the frozen lake before Khushi suggested that they go somewhere warmer and they visited a nearby art museum. The colours of that day were incredible. Soft pinks and oranges washed over every memory. 

        Never once had they put a label on their relationship, but Khushi knew it was love. The kind that she'd see in people's eyes when talking about their partner, the kind that she'd see in her parents even in their old age. This wasn't just the romantic in her anymore - this was her whole heart, body and soul, loving another's heart, body and soul. It was one of the most true emotions that Khushi ever could have experienced. 

        But there were some things that Khushi couldn't bear to tell Himesh. Like how her art wasn't bringing much money anymore, and how her bills were long overdue. The way that she'd do anything for a bit of money now, just to keep her house secure for her elderly parents. It was her duty to look after them, but with no money, it was getting harder each day. And when Khushi was at her lowest, having not seen Himesh in a week and starting to busk on the streets undercover for money, she was approached by a woman who had a job for her. 

        "That's the tower," Durga pointed it out to Khushi as they both stood on the ground outside the castle. Part of Khushi's job was anonymity and she had no idea where she was, and couldn't make a single guess. There were plenty of castles and big buildings in the kingdom and this could have been any one of them. The wind was blowing strongly and six crows flew overhead as Durga continued. "Your job is to break into there and kill whoever's in the bed. No questions asked, alright? I'll have your money to you when you come back down."         It wasn't the best plan, but Khushi was prepared. There was no other way to find money. She had hardly any qualifications after she was pulled out of school to work and now no one would accept her or her art. She nodded to Durga in silence before straightening up. She was wearing full black tonight, with two knives in hand and a gun on her belt. She promised herself that she would never ever do this again - she'd fund her education with part of the money she received this time, and then get a job teaching children and making sure they'd never end up like her. She'd take care of her parents and be able to be with Himesh without feeling guilty. 

        As she scoured the building, she didn't think a word about what she was doing. She distracted herself by counting her steps instead. One step up, another step up, then another and another. Snowflakes fell from the sky and Khushi would have taken all the time in the world to observe it if she hadn't been on such a tight schedule. Mentally, she thanked Himesh for teaching her how to stay more focused. He made her a better person. It took about 120 steps until the reached the window, and ever so carefully, she slid her knife under the window panel and stepped inside. 

        The inside of the room was plain but obviously made for someone of the elite. The walls were a dark burgundy and the four poster had its purple curtains drawn. Despite the warm undertones, the room radiated cold colours. Was it because of the chill outside? Khushi wasn't sure. Her gut was telling her, screaming at her, that she should be leaving now, that this was all wrong. It obviously was, but Khushi was struggling and she needed the money. No one would know it was her. 

        She crept over to the bed. The record player was singing softly, a song that Khushi knew all too well. 

"Meri subah ho tumhi, aur tumhi shaam ho. Tum dard ho, hum hi aaraam ho. Meri duaon se aati hai, bas yeh sadaa - meri hoke hamesha hi rehna, kabhi na kehna alvida..."

You're my morning, and you're my evening. You're my pain, and you're my relaxation. My prayers only call for this request - always be mine, never say goodbye. 

        Khushi silently lifted the needle of the record player off the vinyl and moved it to the side, pausing the music there. A group of crows flew past the window. One, two, three, four, five.         Six.

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        KHUSHI AND HIMESH COULDN'T PREDICT the future. Himesh tried to control it. Khushi let it wash over her. But neither of them were ever close to accepting it either. Their futures were lain out in front of their very eyes, settled by their choices in life. 

        Khushi crept around the bed slowly, keeping her breath even. Her hood was pulled up over her head, hopefully casting enough shadow to cover her face. She grasped the knife at her belt, curling her fingers around the unfamiliar object in her grasp. Himesh's ball had dropped to the edge of the mattress and he reached out for it blindly. His music had stopped and he shrugged it off, deciding that the record had just slipped. He'd go change it in a minute. For now, he enjoyed the rest. 

        The girl's hand grasped in the darkness for the edge of the curtain surrounding the bed and pulled them back sharply. She held her knife tightly, raising it high above her head.

Don't look at their face. 

        She broke that promise before it could even fully pass through her head. Because who other to be lying in front of her on the bed, a look of serenity passed over his face than the one person who kept her chained to this life? A gasp left her lips, fighting to get oxygen to her lungs as her throat constricted. She felt dizzy, her head spinning as her heart sank down to her stomach and bile coated her lips. 

        Himesh noticed the curtains draw back and immediately, the words from the general of the royal army rang in his mind. 

"Stay vigilant," The general had placed a knife neatly onto Himesh's bedside table earlier, "No one will disturb you, unless someone enters by force. Goodnight."

The knife. 

        Someone was here to kill him. He barely opened his eyes, not wishing to look at the ugly face of his murderer, but instead, rolled over to grab the dagger on his bedside table and moved swiftly to stab his attacker in the stomach. Thank god for his fast reflexes. He scrambled back, leaving the knife in the wound he had made, the same blood that now stained his fingers flowering from his assassin's stomach. What next? Call the guards? Yes, that was right. Call the guards, cover up the whole affair, search the grounds for any accomplices. 

        Khushi Muskeraat was dying, and she couldn't help but think that she was deserving of it. This was karma, after all. But what shocked her the most was the way that she was dying. Anguish shattered her shock, pulling her back to the present with a sharp jolt. The pain was everywhere and nowhere, seemingly numbing and torturous at the same time. 

"Himesh..."

        His name left her lips in a soft, pained gasp, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto as she nearly lost her balance. Black spots danced in her vision. 

        Her lips whispered his name, a ghost of the voice he used to know. Himesh stopped himself short, taking a moment to glance up at the face of the person he had just stabbed. 

"Khushi..." His voice was croaky, his eyes darting from hers to the knife in her stomach and the blood on his hands. He felt sick, guilt churning slowly in his stomach. 

        A sinking feeling washed over him in waves, over and over again. He swallowed hard. Why was she here? Nausea swirled under the surface like a whirlpool of regrets. He forced his body into action, moving to lie Khushi down on the bed. His breathing came in short, panicked spurts no matter how hard he tried to regulate it. He had stabbed Khushi. He had stabbed her. But she wasn't meant to be here. 

"I'm sorry," Khushi's voice broke as she spoke, as if every syllable took her last ounce of energy. 

        She shouldn't have agreed to this. She shouldn't have gone through. She shouldn't have done any of this. There were other ways to find money, were there not? 

"I'm sorry," Himesh's voice was shaky as he spoke at the same time as her, as if every syllable sapped all of his strength. 

        He should have paid more attention. He should have closed his windows tighter. He should have thought about what he was doing. There were ways to avoid this, were there not? 

        Khushi was bleeding out onto his bed now, red pooling and splaying over the white sheets, painting a grotesque image. 

"Khushi, please hold on," Himesh wrestled with his emotions to keep a sob down, "Please please hold on, I'm going to call a medic and we're going to be fine, you're going to be fine."

        But the castle had been emptied earlier that day, to avoid any breaks in the security. No one here knew anything about medicine. 

"Karma," Khushi finally said with a small laugh, but her soft brown eyes were pained in a way that made Himesh want to twist a knife into his own gut. 

        This wasn't karma, not at all. What had Khushi done to deserve any of this? Himesh felt his life cracking, spiralling into pieces, shattering like shards of glass over the carpet beneath his feet. The jewelled dagger still lay in Khushi's stomach. 

"No," He shook his head firmly, "Not karma."

"Himesh Kanwar," Khushi's eyes were already vacant as she lifted her hand limply to cup his cheek, catching his tears. That struck him as strange. He hadn't realised he was crying. "Keep safe."

        Prince Himesh Kanwar didn't back down from a challenge. But what sort of twisted challenge was this? To throw someone like Khushi into his life and snatch her away, just as fast?

        Khushi Muskeraat loved with her full and whole heart, and it turned out that was her one flaw. If only she had taken a moment to think about what she was doing, taken a moment longer to say Himesh's name, to alert him that it was her. 

        Khushi and Himesh couldn't predict the future. Not when fate seemed to be picking their destinies at random from a pool of misfortunes. If anything had changed, their fate would have been changed. It isn't one mistake that leads to a downfall - it's a series of wrong decisions.

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