In Love and In Life

They were never the kind of couple who shouted love from rooftops or wrote long, poetic declarations on anniversaries. Ayaan and Zara had a quiet kind of love — one built not on grand gestures, but on small, almost invisible promises.

Their wedding had been simple. A gathering of close family and a few hesitant smiles exchanged under soft lights. Ayaan had whispered “I’ll try my best every day,” and Zara had only nodded. Neither of them knew what marriage truly required, but in that moment, their hearts agreed to learn together.

In the first year, everything was new. From how Zara liked her tea — strong with a hint of cardamom — to how Ayaan couldn’t sleep without the fan on, even in winter. There were laughs, many of them. And there were arguments, sometimes over burnt toast or who forgot to hang the laundry. But no door was slammed, and no night was spent apart. They had made a silent promise — no matter how angry they got, they would always end the day by sitting together, even in silence.

Time passed like wind through leaves — gently, then suddenly. They moved into a small apartment after two years, both working jobs that left them tired. The romance didn’t fade, but it changed shape. It looked less like roses and more like Ayaan bringing Zara soup when she had a cold, or Zara waiting up late to reheat his dinner after a long shift.

They rarely said “I love you.” But when Ayaan warmed her side of the bed in winter, or when Zara silently filled his water bottle every morning before he left for work, it was there — louder than words.

Their silent promises continued:

— To never mock each other’s dreams, even when they seemed impossible.

— To protect each other’s dignity in front of others.

— To never bring up past mistakes as weapons in a new fight.

Life, however, doesn’t stay gentle forever. In their sixth year of marriage, Zara lost her mother. The grief came like a storm, sudden and unforgiving. She stopped talking much. She cooked less. She cried alone at night.

Ayaan didn’t know how to fix it. But every evening, he sat beside her in silence. Sometimes, he held her hand. Sometimes, he just placed a cup of tea in front of her, cardamom and all. He didn’t say things like “stay strong” or “she’s in a better place.” He simply stayed. And that silent staying — it was a promise too: I will not leave you in your dark.

A year later, when Ayaan lost his job, it was Zara’s turn to keep the silence. She didn’t panic or complain. She simply adjusted their expenses, found extra tutoring work online, and made sure his favorite meal — dal chawal with fried onions — was on the table every week. He didn’t say thank you every time. But his eyes softened when he looked at her, and that was enough.

Years turned into decades. Wrinkles appeared on faces that once blushed in youth. Their children grew and left home. The house became quieter, but not empty. Their routines continued — Zara still filled the water bottle, and Ayaan still warmed the bed.

On their 30th anniversary, their children threw a party. There were decorations, speeches, and cake. Ayaan stood beside Zara, uncomfortable in his stiff suit, and looked at her.

“You know,” he said into the microphone, glancing at the crowd then back at her, “we never had a wedding song. Or a grand vow. But every night we sat together after a fight, every cup of tea made, every meal reheated — those were our vows. I never said the words much, Zara, but I’ve loved you every day.”

Zara smiled, eyes glistening. She said nothing. She didn’t need to.

Because sometimes, the deepest love doesn’t come with music or poetry. It comes in shared silence, in small acts repeated over years, in showing up — again and again.

And that is what they had built:

A life made of silent promises.

And every one of them kept.