Happy Dreams

There’s a kind of silence that only comes after a long walk, when legs are tired but hearts are still racing. That’s the silence we shared, sitting side by side on the rooftop of her apartment building, far above the Saturday traffic. Bengaluru below was buzzing, but up here, the night was quieter. Softer. Waiting.

She had changed into her old college hoodie, faded, two sizes too big, with a frayed cuff she kept rolling unconsciously. I had seen her wear it back in undergrad, three years ago, usually during late-night library runs. Back when I was still just the junior who passed her notes in class, too scared to ask for her number, too aware that she was always two steps ahead of me in every way that mattered.

Now here we were. Both working. Both in the same city. Both dancing around something bigger than memory.

She was sipping tea. I was watching the steam rise from her cup.

"You're being unusually quiet," she said, not looking at me.

I nodded. Then said nothing.

Because what do you say when you're about to ruin everything by telling the truth?

Instead, I handed her a folded sheet of paper. Handwritten. Crumpled on one side from being carried too long in a back pocket.

She looked at it. Looked at me. Raised one eyebrow.

I said, “Just read it.”

She opened it slowly, the way you open something when you already know it’s going to shift the ground beneath you. And she read:

I have seen some dreams

Some happy dreams

In which I can’t imagine my life

Without you being my wife.

With every breath of mine

It’s you, I want to care for

With every heartbeat of mine.

“You wrote this?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought giving me a letter instead of actually saying it was a good idea?”

“I... I didn’t know how else to say it.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Possibly.”

"Seen what?"

"The way you look at me. The way you hold back when you want to say something. Like you're scared it'll be too much."

Yes, that’s what I desire for

For a second, her face was unreadable. Then she folded the paper, placed it back in my hand. A long pause.

She leaned back, looked at the sky, and exhaled. Her breath fogged a little in the chill.

“I always imagined my proposal would be more dramatic,” she said. “Champagne. Candles. Or maybe something on a mountain.”

“This rooftop is kind of elevated,” I offered.

She chuckled. Quietly. Then shook her head.

"You think I haven't seen it?"

"I am scared," I admitted. "You’ve always been ahead. Smarter. Sharper. I didn’t think I deserved to ask."

"You didn’t." She smiled, and for a second, I thought that was it.

"But you stayed. Through my bad days. Through my mess. That counts more." Silence again.

Then she reached out, took my hand, and said, “Next time, say it out loud.”

I looked at her. Really looked. The hoodie. The frayed cuff. The girl I’d watched from the library window all those years ago.

“Will you marry me?”

“Hmm,” she said. “Ask me when I’m not in this hoodie.”

“But I love you in that hoodie.”

She laughed. Loudly this time.

“Fine. Ask again tomorrow. And maybe bring a ring.”

“You want a ring?”

“No,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I want you. Just... with a little more confidence.”

And up above the traffic, the dust, the doubt, we sat. No fireworks. No photographers. Just two people, quietly promising something they weren’t afraid of anymore.