"Aysha, what's your connection with Rahul? What was your motive?" The police officer's voice thundered through the cold, dimly lit interrogation room, sending shivers down Aysha's spine. She had kept her eyes tightly shut, as if doing so could shield her from reality.
"Open your eyes, Aysha," the officer ordered. Slowly, her eyelashes fluttered open, revealing her fear-stricken gaze. The room was sterile and freezing, with a few English officers and one Indian officer in uniform standing around her. It was the Indian officer who had spoken.
"Look, Aysha," he continued, leaning forward, his tone sharpening. "Staying silent won't help you. This isn't your home country. Once you're trapped here, getting out is next to impossible. So, you better start telling the truth."
"I don't know anything," she stammered, her lips trembling as she spoke. Her gaze fell upon the name tag on his chest. "Officer Arun... I swear, I don't know anything."
"You're not being detained for a petty crime, Aysha," Arun said firmly. "This is the anti-terrorism unit. And you're a suspect. Tell me—how do you know Rahul Shiva?"
The mention of his name sliced through her like a blade. Her head bowed, her voice faltered. "I... I was in love with Rahul."
Arun's eyes narrowed. "Did you know the Rahul you claim to love is a terrorist?"
Her head snapped up, her face pale with shock. "What?" she whispered, disbelief etched into every syllable.
"Stop pretending, Aysha. It won't work in your favor."
"Officer Arun," she said, her voice breaking. "I'm just an ordinary girl. Loving Rahul is my only crime. I had no idea..."
Arun wasn't convinced. "Then explain. How did you come to know a man connected with terrorists?"
Aysha drew in a shaky breath. Her voice softened, pulling her memories forward.
---
I'm an MBA final-year student at Fordham University, working part-time at Eve's Coffee & Cakes. It was a regular Sunday evening when Rahul Shiva walked into my life.
He was strikingly handsome—an easy 30-something North Indian with sharp features. He wore a white shirt and blue jeans, layered with a black jacket to combat the New York chill. There was a quiet confidence about him that made it impossible to look away.
I still remember the first time his gaze met mine. His dark eyes held a warmth that lingered. Slowly, he walked toward the counter, his hands tucked casually in his jacket pockets.
"Yes, sir?" I managed, though my voice wavered slightly.
His eyes scanned the display before he pointed to a cake. "I need one."
"Which one, sir?" I asked, pulling myself together.
"Butterscotch," he said.
I packed it up quickly and, holding the cream pen, glanced at him. "Would you like me to write something on it?"
His lips curled into a faint smile. "Yes. Write... Hello."
"Hello?" I echoed, puzzled but amused. Still, I wrote it in delicate swirls across the cake.
"Thank you," he said, taking the box with a nod before walking away.
I thought that would be the end of it, but the very next day, he returned. This time, he ordered a chocolate cake. When I asked what to write, his response startled me.
"I am Rahul Shiva," he said, watching my reaction.
"Pardon?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Write it down—I am Rahul Shiva."
With a small chuckle, I obeyed. As I handed him the cake, I couldn't resist asking, "Are you planning to propose to someone?"
His lips quirked upward. "Yes."
"How romantic," I teased, smiling.
He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Do you think she'll like this idea?"
"Absolutely," I replied, packing the cake with a grin.
As he left, he turned back and said, "Nice to meet you, Aysha Siddique." He had caught my name from my badge, and the way he said it made my heart flutter.
That was the beginning of something magical. Rahul kept coming back, each time ordering a new cake with a new message. Over time, we grew closer, laughing over silly anecdotes and exchanging stories. His presence became the highlight of my days.
But then, one day, he vanished. For an entire week, there was no sign of him. I couldn't shake the sense of loss that settled over me. Just when I began to accept he might not return, he walked through the door again, his smile as radiant as ever.
"Rahul!" I exclaimed, unable to hide my relief. "Where have you been? I thought..."
"You missed me," he teased, resting his elbows on the counter and propping his face in his hands.
"Don't flatter yourself," I retorted, though the blush on my cheeks betrayed me. "What about your mystery girl? Did you finally propose?"
"I think I'll do it today," he said, his voice soft yet determined.
"So, you need a cake?" I asked, my voice light and teasing as I gestured toward the display.
His gaze lingered on me for a moment before shifting to the cakes. He nodded, the corner of his lips lifting in a subtle smile that made my heart skip.
"Which one?"
"This one," he said, pointing to the red velvet cake.
"Good choice," I said, sliding the cake out of the display. "Red velvet—the color of love. Perfect for a proposal." My voice was playful, but something about his demeanor held my attention.
He smiled faintly, his fingers tapping on the counter. "It is, isn't it?"
I grabbed the cream pen and positioned it over the cake. "What do you want me to write?"
For a moment, he didn't answer, his gaze steady and unwavering. Then he reached for the pen in my hand, his fingers brushing against mine.
"Today, I'll write it myself," he said, his voice low and deliberate.
My breath caught, but I quickly handed him the pen. "Alright, sir. Your wish."
He leaned over, the curve of his jaw catching the soft glow of the café lights. His movements were precise, almost reverent, as he wrote on the cake. When he straightened and slid it back to me, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of nervous excitement.
My eyes scanned the creamy letters.
"I love you."
Beneath it, a broken heart was drawn with the same delicate touch.
I frowned slightly, tilting my head. "A broken heart? What's that supposed to mean?"
He leaned against the counter, his eyes locking onto mine. "It's how I feel right now. And only she can mend it."
The weight of his words hung between us, and I found myself struggling to meet his gaze.
"Alright," I said softly, trying to steady my racing heart. "Let me pack it for you."
As I busied myself with the box, I noticed him taking a call, his voice calm yet distant. A flicker of disappointment washed over me. There he was, so close yet so unattainable. For the first time in my life, someone had completely captivated me—his eyes, his demeanor, even the quiet sadness that seemed to linger behind his smile.
I slid the box across the counter toward him. "Rahul..."
He ended his call and looked at me, his expression attentive.
"That'll be ten dollars," I said, forcing a professional tone.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed me his card. As I swiped it, I tried not to let my thoughts wander. Returning the card, I mustered a smile. "Wish you all the best with your proposal."
He chuckled, a low sound that sent warmth rushing through me. "Thanks."
But just as I thought the interaction was over, he hesitated. His hand lingered on the cake box before he slid it back to me.
I blinked. "What's wrong? Don't you like the cake?"
"I love it," he said, leaning closer, his voice soft yet deliberate. "But it's already served its purpose."
My brows knitted in confusion. "What do you mean? Aren't you going to propose?"
"I already did," he said simply, his gaze steady on mine.
A slow realization crept over me, but I refused to believe it. "To whom?"
His lips curved into the faintest smile, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "To you, Aysha."
The world seemed to pause, his words hanging in the air. My heart stuttered, and for a moment, I could only stare at him, unable to process what he'd just said.
Gathering my wits, I fumbled for the cream pen again. He watched, intrigued, as I opened the box and added something to his message. With a few quick strokes, I repaired the broken heart and added a small detail of my own.
When I pushed the box back to him, I murmured, "I love you, too."
His eyes widened as he read the words, a mixture of joy and disbelief spreading across his face. His smile deepened, and for a moment, we just stood there, caught in a bubble of shared emotions.
The café felt warmer, quieter, like it existed only for us.
That was the beginning of us—a whirlwind of laughter, shared moments, and dreams whispered in the quiet corners of the city. He made every moment feel extraordinary, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly alive.
"I love you too," I whispered, my voice trembling with nervous excitement, even before he could read the words. A smile stretched across my face, uncontainable and bright. His eyes widened, a spark of joy lighting up his face. His lips curved into a soft, tender smile. In that moment, we couldn't stop smiling, as if the world had melted away, leaving just the two of us in the glow of newfound love.
The days that followed were magical—woven with the kind of moments that felt straight out of a dream. Rahul and I explored every nook and corner of New York City together, savoring street food, strolling through the bustling streets, and even attempting to cook meals that often ended in playful disasters. We glided clumsily across ice rinks, laughing at every fall, every stumble. It was the kind of happiness that left an imprint on your soul.
Rahul was a researcher at a science institute, an unassuming man with a knack for finding beauty in the simplest of things. He had no family to speak of, no attachments that held him back—only an infectious zeal for life. In the few months we spent together, I came to understand him deeply, to love him fiercely. He made my world feel complete in ways I hadn't imagined possible.
One day, I decided to talk to Rahul about marriage. I wanted to take our relationship to the next chapter, and deep down, I felt he had the same in mind. My heart brimming with anticipation, I set out to meet him.
The evening air was crisp, the winter chill biting at my skin. I rubbed my hands together for warmth, my breath clouding the air as I waited at a red signal. Across the street, I spotted Rahul standing by the corner, his hands in his pockets, his smile as warm as ever. My heart fluttered, my steps quickening even though the light hadn't yet turned green.
The signal finally changed, and I stepped onto the street, walking toward him with a growing sense of excitement. He began moving toward me as well, his gaze locked on mine, his smile growing wider with each step.
And then, out of nowhere, the sharp crack of a gunshot ripped through the air.
I froze, my heart plummeting as I turned to see a man collapse just a few feet away from me. The street erupted into chaos—people screamed, ducked, ran for cover. But my eyes searched for Rahul, panic rising in my chest.
When I found him, my blood ran cold. He stood there, his face grim, a gun clutched in his hands. My mind refused to process what I was seeing. Rahul—the man I loved, who had brought so much light into my life—was firing shots, aiming at someone in the distance.
"Rahul! Stop!" I screamed, my voice breaking. My legs moved before I could think, carrying me closer to him. He turned toward me, his expression unreadable, and then, to my utter disbelief, he raised the gun and pointed it at me.
Terror rooted me to the spot as I stared at him. My heart begged for this to be a mistake.
"I can't stop now," he said, his voice calm, as though this had been inevitable. His finger hovered over the trigger. My breath hitched, and time seemed to slow.
Before I could comprehend his words, a hail of bullets rang out from somewhere behind me. I watched in horror as they struck Rahul's chest, one after the other, his body jerking with each impact.
"Rahul!" I screamed, my voice shattering as I ran toward him. His body crumpled to the ground, and I fell to my knees beside him. My trembling hands reached for him, cradling his face, searching for any sign of life.
Memories flooded my mind in a rush—the first time he walked into the shop, the way he nervously confessed his feelings, the laughter we shared during our clumsy attempts at cooking, the quiet moments of simply being together. The weight of those memories crushed me as I held him, tears streaming uncontrollably.
My hands were stained red with his blood, warm and sticky, and I stared at them in disbelief. Around me, the world began to blur—voices, footsteps, the sharp commands of police officers, all blending into a distant hum. I looked up to see a circle of officers standing with their guns raised, their faces tense.