Chapter 25: When Silence Speaks Aloud

Winter wasn’t quite gone, but the world had decided to pretend otherwise. Along the lake in Geneva, tourists snapped photos in sweaters that didn’t yet stand up to the chill, and the first pink buds had begun to shoulder their way through uncertain frost. For Arjun and Elara, life at the edge of spring felt like living just ahead of an opening curtain.

The news—such as it was—spread in ripples, not announcements.

They told Elara’s parents first, during a clumsy video call, where Elara simply lifted her left hand with the slim Möbius band, and her mother blinked twice before nodding in quiet approval. Her father asked no questions, only said, “Love looks good on you, Elara.”

A week later, Arjun’s father called from Mumbai, voice more formal than usual. “I hear congratulations are in order. Do I lose a son or gain a colleague?”

Arjun laughed. “You were the one who asked about marriage before I did. This is your legacy, Appa.”

His father’s voiced softened. “Then bring her home, when you’re ready. Let us mark the occasion with what family knows best—food and stories.”

Not fanfare. Just belonging.

They didn’t post anything. They didn’t mail invitations or throw a party. But their union unfolded in a hundred gentle ways: the appearance of both names in the university directory as “Partners in Instruction,” the joint signature on a grant application, the ease with which Elara reached for Arjun’s hand at a conference reception, no longer looking left or right for permission.

There were side glances. Curious whispers among colleagues who’d tracked their story since its first, careful lines at Westfield. A few well-meaning friends asked in private, “Isn’t it strange now, being so seen?”

Elara answered best: “There’s risk in invisibility, too. We just got tired of mistaking protection for erasure.”

One afternoon, an undergraduate approached them after seminar.

“Will you do a wedding?” she blurted out, cheeks pink.

Arjun and Elara exchanged a look, silent laughter passing between them. “We’re not sure yet,” Elara said, “but we’re good at celebrating. Whether in crowds or on our own.”

“Does it matter?” Arjun added softly. “We crossed the important threshold already—choosing each other. The rest is just how we tell the story.”

Spring ripened slowly, and they created their own traditions.

On the final evening of March, they invited a handful of close friends—colleagues, neighbors, and two family members—into their apartment. No suit, no white dress. Just the smell of saffron rice, French cheese, and cardamom-heavy wine warming the edges of the room.

They read no vows. Instead, they read aloud from their years of notebook pages. The first entry: Elara’s “Notice everything” assignment from their Westfield class. The most recent: Arjun’s promise, scribbled days ago—_“I will make a home wherever we wake up. Even if the city changes. Even if our names do.”_

Afterward, their loved ones stood and offered toasts not to “happily ever after,” but to “never hiding again.”

No music followed—just laughter, and the low hum of people at peace.

After the guests left, Arjun and Elara lingered at their kitchen table, the Möbius ring catching candlelight between their hands.

Elara reached across the table, palm up.

“No footnotes tonight?” she asked.

He grinned. “This is the one night our story stands alone.”

She leaned over, forehead meeting his. “So what do we call this? Marriage? Partnership? Promise?”

Arjun brushed a curl from her cheek. “Let’s just call it _staying_.”

And finally, in the hush between celebration and sleep, they realized: love had never needed an audience. But even so, sharing it had turned their private ritual into a living testimony—for anyone who still lingered in the silence between longing and telling.

The story was theirs. Now, so too was the light.