For a while, love lived in small places.
Window seats. Library corners. Late-night calls whispered under blankets. Their relationship felt like a secret garden — protected because it was hidden.
They didn't announce it.
They didn't need to.
Everyone important already knew.
The way Mira leaned into him when laughing. The way Arjun watched her in crowded rooms. The unconscious choreography of two people orbiting each other.
Friends noticed first.
"You're disgusting," one of them declared affectionately.
Mira bowed. "Thank you."
Arjun pretended dignity and failed.
Their love wasn't dramatic.
It was easy.
And ease can look suspiciously like permanence.
The first crack came from outside.
Mira's phone buzzed during lunch. She read the message and her smile faded.
"My parents want to meet my 'college friends,'" she said.
Arjun's stomach tightened.
"That's normal," he replied carefully.
She met his eyes.
"They don't believe in 'normal' friendships."
The sentence hung heavy.
In Mira's house, tradition wasn't suggestion. It was law written in old ink.
Dating wasn't forbidden.
It was unthinkable.
Arjun tried to sound steady.
"We don't have to tell them everything."
Mira shook her head slowly.
"I don't want to hide you."
The words warmed him.
And terrified him.
The dinner was polite.
Too polite.
Mira's parents smiled the way people do when inspecting something fragile.
Questions arrived wrapped in courtesy.
"What are your plans after graduation?"
"What does your family do?"
"Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Arjun answered calmly.
Respectfully.
But he felt the evaluation happening beneath the surface.
He wasn't being met.
He was being measured.
When he left, Mira walked him to the gate.
"They don't hate you," she said quickly.
"That's not the same as approval," he replied.
She looked down.
Silence confirmed it.
Days passed with a new tension.
Mira's calls became shorter. Her texts more cautious.
Not because she loved him less —
but because the world had started pressing its thumb against them.
One night she whispered:
"I don't want to choose between you and them."
Arjun closed his eyes.
"You shouldn't have to," he said.
But both of them understood:
someday she might.
And love, for the first time,
felt fragile under the weight of reality.
They still held hands.
Still laughed.
Still planned futures in careless conversation.
But underneath it all ran a quiet fear.
Not of losing feelings.
Of losing permission.
And the cruel thing about permission is this:
Love doesn't need it.
Life often does.