The Fragrance of Forever

By Saloni Duggal

Anamika had always been a storm in silence.

People mistook her stillness for peace, but it was only the calm of a sea that had learned to hide its waves. She lived in her small apartment with walls the color of monsoon skies, her shelves filled with books she never read twice, and her head crowded with thoughts that never slept.

Once, she believed kindness was a currency everyone valued. She shared her lunch in school, wrote apology letters even when she wasn’t wrong, and laughed at jokes she didn’t find funny—because she thought being good would be enough to be loved. But life taught her otherwise. The world took her goodness, spent it freely, and left her empty.

And so, she changed.

By the time she turned twenty-five, Anamika had become what people in her office called the curly-haired queen—beautiful, unpredictable, and untouchable. Her curls framed her face like thorns protecting a rose. She wore sarcasm like perfume, not to attract, but to repel. If a man tried to flirt, she’d look at him with such sharp indifference that he’d forget his own name.

Love was no longer something she chased. It was something she avoided like traffic on a summer afternoon.

Until Abeer came along.

He arrived one Monday morning, new to the team—shirt crisp, smile soft, eyes unsure. He introduced himself in the morning meeting. “Hi, I’m Abeer.”

The name struck her ear like a faint melody she didn’t expect to remember. Abeer—the fragrance of colors.

She didn’t look up at first. She had stopped believing in coincidences. But when she finally did, she saw someone who didn’t carry the arrogance most men wore like armor. His eyes didn’t wander. They listened.

He was placed two cubicles away, in the same department but under a different project. Their first interaction was nothing dramatic—an email she’d sent mistakenly, a polite reply, a smile that lasted one second too long. Then a conversation at the pantry, about coffee brands.

And then another, about music.

And then, lunch.

He was gentle in ways that made her uncomfortable. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t try to impress her. He just noticed her. When she reached for her water bottle and found it empty, he’d quietly refill it without saying a word. When she spoke about her deadlines, he’d listen, really listen—not waiting for his turn to speak.

He was the kind of man who looked at her not as a challenge to conquer but as a world to understand.

And she, despite every wall she had built, began to let him in.

Attraction was easy.

Attachment was inevitable.

What started as casual lunches turned into shared rides home. Their cars moved in opposite directions, but their hearts didn’t. Sometimes, he’d wait by the office gate just to see her finish her last call. Sometimes, she’d bring him homemade food, pretending she’d cooked extra when in truth, she hadn’t.

The city began to revolve around their laughter. The small stall outside their office became their chai point. The bench near the metro gate became their place. Every little thing that was ordinary began to glow with meaning just because they were together.

They never said I love you. They didn’t need to. Love had already started living between them, quietly and confidently.

But love is never a straight road. It curves where you least expect.

One evening, Abeer didn’t show up for their ride back home. His phone went unanswered. She assumed he was stuck in a meeting. When he finally came the next morning, pale and quiet, he smiled and said he was fine.

He wasn’t.

A week later, she found him sitting outside the office building, eyes red, staring at nothing. She sat beside him, no questions asked. After a long silence, he said softly, “Some things can’t be fixed, Anamika.”

She didn’t understand.

Abeer had been diagnosed with chronic kidney failure. The doctor said he had two months left, maybe three—with regular dialysis. His parents were abroad. His relatives distant. And the boy who once filled rooms with warmth began to fade in front of her.

He didn’t want her to know.

So, he started to push her away. He became cold, distracted, and distant. One afternoon, she saw him laughing with her best friend at a café. The same girl who had warned Anamika never to fall for him.

The betrayal burned.

When Abeer avoided her eyes afterward, she didn’t scream or cry. She simply walked away. But her silence that night was heavy enough to suffocate her. Something didn’t fit. His laugh didn’t look real. His eyes didn’t sparkle the way they used to. It was almost as if he wanted her to hate him.

So, she dug. And she found out.

He was dying.

He had faked that relationship so she could hate him—so her healing would be easier when he was gone.

She felt her chest tighten as she stood outside his hospital room. He was on dialysis, pale and weaker than she’d ever seen him. She didn’t knock. She stormed in.

“How dare you?” she hissed. “How dare you decide what’s good for me?”

Abeer looked up, startled. “Anamika—”

“No,” she snapped. “You don’t get to talk about protecting me. You don’t get to send me away when you are the one who needs me the most. You don’t get to choose my pain!”

He broke then. The tears he’d been holding back spilled, unguarded.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered. “I wanted you to remember me smiling, not dying.”

“And I wanted to stay, Abeer,” she said, voice trembling. “I wanted to fight with you, not against you. You think love is about sparing someone pain? No—it’s about holding hands even when the world burns.”

Abeer stared at her for a long time, the realization dawning slowly, painfully. Then he smiled weakly. “You really are impossible.”

“And you’re really stupid,” she replied.

They both laughed through tears.

And from that day, they stopped pretending.

The next morning, Abeer gave her a small folded note. Inside was a list titled My Bucket List – Before I Forget How to Smile.

1. Have a picnic on a hillside.2. Watch a movie under the open sky.3. Dance until I can’t breathe.4. Go mountain biking (short one, promise).5. Have a child—my biggest impossible dream.

Anamika looked up, smiling through the ache. “We’re doing all of these,” she said.

He chuckled. “Even the fifth?”

She didn’t answer. “You’ll see.”

The following weekend, they escaped.

She told the hospital it was a “therapeutic outing.” She had arranged everything—a doctor on call, portable oxygen, the works. They drove to the outskirts of the city, where a small hill overlooked a quiet lake.

She laid out a white bedsheet, packed sandwiches, fruits, and his favorite sugar-free cake. They sat under the open sky, eating, laughing, and listening to the rustle of the wind.

When the sun dipped below the horizon, she hung the white bedsheet against two bamboo sticks, set up a small projector, and played Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani.

Abeer laughed until he cried. “You really brought a theatre here?”

“Shut up and watch,” she said.

By the time Ranbir Kapoor said “Main udna chahta hoon, daudna chahta hoon,” Abeer was holding her hand like a child afraid of losing his favorite toy.

And when the credits rolled, she switched on the speaker and played his favorite song—Phir Le Aaya Dil.

He stood up, weak knees trembling. She caught his hand and they danced, slowly, clumsily, under the stars.

Three wishes fulfilled in one night.

The fourth came the next morning.

A short mountain biking trail near the hill. She had arranged everything—helmets, safety gear, and a doctor’s van trailing behind. Abeer insisted on riding alone for the last five minutes. When he returned, breathless but smiling, she knew she’d never seen him happier.

Later, back at the hospital, his condition worsened. Dialysis grew harder. Nights became longer. Still, he never complained.

One night, when the pain became unbearable, he whispered, “Anamika, water…”

The doctor had warned her strictly—no water beyond prescribed limits. But his voice sounded like a child begging for mercy. She sat there frozen, tears falling soundlessly, unable to decide between obedience and love.

She didn’t give him the water.

And that night, he slipped away silently—like a candle that burns too brightly before dying out.

The world went colorless.

Anamika blamed herself endlessly. If I had given him water… if I had called the doctor sooner…

But two years later, when she stood outside an orphanage in Jaipur, she finally understood what he meant when he said live for me.

She adopted a baby boy—a two-year-old with eyes just like his. She named him Abeer. And started to raise him alone.

Life didn’t heal overnight. Some days, she still woke up expecting a good morning text. Some evenings, she still set two cups of tea. But slowly, her grief began to change its shape. It no longer hurt like a wound—it glowed like a scar she could live with.

At night, when she held little Abeer close, she’d whisper stories about a man who taught her that love wasn’t about forever—it was about now.

One evening, as the child giggled and reached for her curls, she smiled through tears and whispered, “Your papa wanted to see the sky one last time. Now you will see it for him, every day.”

Outside, the wind carried the faint scent of rain—soft, sweet, familiar.

It was the fragrance of forever.

By Saloni Duggal