Her Balcony of dreams

She sat on her balcony lost in her thoughts, reflecting on her unhappy marriage. A question lingered in her mind—would she ever experience the kind of love she read about in her favorite romance novels? A love that consumes, that burns with passion, the kind that feels like it belongs in the movies.
A man whose mere touch gave her goosebumps. Who, despite his strength, was gentle with her—his touch as soft as a feather gliding across her skin. Her large, expressive eyes mirrored his gaze, a look filled with admiration. Dressed in a body-hugging kurta, she noticed his eyes tracing her form, as if she were the most delicate and beautiful being on earth.

Her jhumkas swayed gently as she smiled—wide and unrestrained—at his lame yet innocent jokes. He, usually confident, seemed nervous around her. His palms were sweaty, his crisp white shirt uncreased, in contrast to her messy hair. The shirt clung perfectly to his arms, veins visible as he folded his sleeves three-quarters up—enough to make her look away, afraid she might say something embarrassing.

There was a tension in the air when they were together—a tension that somehow soothed the ache in her heart. This new feeling made her anxious in the most beautiful way. Why did this man, so distracting, also inspire her to be her best self?

Such is the feeling of love she believes in.

Her mother’s voice interrupted her asking her if she was okay, but a smile lingered on her lips—one she couldn’t explain. Why was it so hard to share this feeling with the woman closest to her? Such is the feeling of love.

Her friends called her crazy when she tried to describe these strange, perpetual emotions. Maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe it was all because of the movies she grew up watching. She knew reality was far from her dreams, yet she chose to live in them—because they made her feel alive. They reminded her of the worth she deserved.

There was no Damon to offer her a love worth dying for. No Klaus to make her question her very existence. Life wasn’t a storybook. But she chose to live in her romance novels, to avoid the harshness of reality—because reality haunted her.

Her heart was shattered, yet she clung to hope—in the movies she watched, in the books she read. She would not watch movies if the ending wasn’t happy. Because those stories were her escape. They gave her joy in ways real life never could.

Hope is what we seek. Hoping our endings will be as beautiful as the ones we see on screen or read in books. Deep down, we know sometimes they won’t be. But we still hope. Because these characters give us something to live for.
Hope to be happy.
Hope to be loved.
Hope that, in the end, everything will turn out just like in our favorite stories.