We walked up to the fountain and I turned to face him. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might choke on it. I could see his expression shift from surprise to something warmer, something softer.
“I love you,” I started. “You know that. These last four years, they’ve been everything to me. You’ve been everything to me. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”
His eyes were already glassy, the way they get when something lands deep with him.
“I know the first time I asked, you weren’t ready,” I continued. “And I tried to respect that. I tried to give you space and time. But I also know what I want. I know I want you. I want to build a life with you. I want to wake up next to you when we’re old and grumpy and still fighting over what to watch.”
I took a breath. My fingers trembled as I reached into my bag and pulled out the ring box.
“So… Adrien,” I said, dropping down on one knee again, this time on stone instead of sand, candles flickering in my peripheral vision. “Will you marry me?”
For a moment, it was perfect. He was staring at me, eyes shining in the candlelight, the fountain murmuring behind us, the scent of roses wrapped around us like a blanket. I could feel the hope rising in my chest, almost painful in its intensity.
And then he said it. The same words.
“Meera, I want to marry you. Just not yet. Not just yet.”
The world tilted.
For a second, I thought I’d misheard him, that my brain was playing some cruel rerun of the beach scene. I stayed there, frozen on one knee, ring in my hand, my smile turning brittle.
“Not yet,” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.
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