**Propose Day Special Story**

Suhani had learned, very early in life, how to stand straight even when the world blurred at the edges.

She was confident—fiercely so. Confidence wasn’t something she wore for others; it was something she had built slowly, layer by layer, after life tried to bend her too often. She spoke with clarity, walked with purpose, and carried her dreams carefully, like something sacred. People admired her strength, her independence, her calm smile.

What they didn’t see was the quiet fear that lived behind her eyes.

An eye disorder—progressive, unpredictable, and declared incurable by most doctors—had slowly been stealing the sharpness of her vision. It didn’t happen all at once. It was subtle. First, the letters on a page refused to stay still. Then lights at night turned into soft halos. Faces at a distance blurred just enough to make her heart race.

Some days were easier. Some days terrified her.

And every time someone spoke of *forever*, Suhani smiled politely and stepped back.

Because how could she promise a lifetime when she wasn’t sure how clearly she would see it?

Love, to her, felt like a responsibility she didn’t want to place on anyone else. She refused to be someone’s weakness. If the world was going to dim, she would face it alone—strong, prepared, dignified.

What Suhani did not know was that somewhere in the same city, a man had been loving her for nineteen years.

Dhruv was thirty-one now. The world knew him as a man who owned empires—companies that stretched across countries, decisions that moved markets overnight, a name that commanded respect in boardrooms and headlines. People said he owned the world.

But the truth was simpler.

The world he owned had only one name.

Suhani.

He had first seen her when he was twelve.

A school corridor. A burst of laughter. A girl running down the stairs, almost tripping, then laughing at herself without embarrassment. Sunlight slipped through the window and rested on her face for just a second.

Something had settled into his chest that day—quiet, warm, permanent.

Life, however, did not pause for childhood feelings. Years passed. Responsibilities grew heavier. Paths separated. Dhruv grew into discipline and ambition. Suhani grew into confidence and purpose.

And his love stayed.

He never chased her. Never interrupted her growth. From a distance, he followed her achievements, celebrated her wins silently, worried during her failures. Loving her meant letting her fly—even if it meant she never noticed the man watching from the ground.

When fate finally brought them face to face again, it wasn’t dramatic.

It was a café.

Small. Cozy. Soft music humming in the background. Suhani walked in carefully, scanning the room, her eyes lingering a little longer than usual as if measuring distances. Dhruv noticed instantly.

“Here,” he said gently, pulling out a chair for her.

Their fingers brushed.

Something shifted.

They talked—not like strangers, not like lovers. Just two people discovering comfort in each other’s presence. She spoke about work, dreams, travel. He listened—really listened. Never interrupted. Never rushed her. When she paused to blink or refocus, he waited.

No pity. No questions.

Just presence.

They met again. And again.

Slow evenings turned into shared laughter. Silence stopped feeling awkward. Suhani felt safe—something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

One evening, as the city lights blurred softly before her, she finally spoke the truth she usually hid.

“My eyes,” she said quietly. “They won’t get better.”

Dhruv didn’t flinch.

“They’re beautiful,” he replied.

She smiled sadly. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t believe in relationships. I don’t want to be someone’s burden. I don’t want promises I might not be able to keep.”

He wanted to tell her everything then—that he had loved her since childhood, that he would choose her even in darkness—but love, he knew, was not about pressure.

So he smiled.

“Then let’s just live,” he said softly. “No labels. No fear.”

Weeks later, he suggested a trip.

“Just you and me,” he said. “A break.”

She hesitated. “I struggle in new places.”

“I’ll be there,” he replied. “Like a shadow.”

She agreed.

What Suhani didn’t know was that Dhruv had already been searching—for hope, for answers, for a miracle hidden in medical journals and late-night consultations. Experimental procedures. Risky surgeries. Possibilities that most people gave up on.

The trip began with laughter and quiet walks. Then one night, he told her about the surgery.

She broke down.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, holding her trembling hands. “But you won’t be alone. Not for a second.”

The surgery happened.

Days turned into weeks.

Dhruv cancelled meetings, handed over companies, ignored the world that once defined him. He sat by her bedside counting her breaths. Read to her when she couldn’t open her eyes. Fed her soup. Wiped her tears when pain stole her strength.

Like a shadow.

When the bandages finally came off, the world was still soft—but clearer.

And Dhruv was the first thing she saw.

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

Their final destination was Beijing.

At a romantic spot glowing under warm lights, Dhruv handed her an eye-test chart.

She laughed nervously. “You’re impossible.”

“Trust me,” he said.

She read.

Large letters.

Smaller ones.

Then the last line—the tiniest font.

Her breath stopped.

Because the letters formed:

**I LOVE YOU**

Dhruv knelt.

“I’ve loved you since I was twelve,” he said. “I don’t want a perfect future. I want *you*. Will you let me stay—forever?”

Tears streamed down her face.

“Yes,” she whispered.

They married after the long treatment.

And even when the world blurred sometimes, Suhani was never afraid.

Because love, she learned, was not about perfect vision.

It was about choosing someone—clearly, completely, forever.