After Ever After

They told her fairy tales ended at “happily ever after.” That once the prince arrived and love was declared, the curtain fell and life paused at perfection.
But no one ever told her what happened after the fairy tale.
It began with a message. Just one.
He had replied to her Instagram story about the rain with, “It rains just like this here too.”
That was it. That’s how it started.

She didn’t expect anything. After all, he lived oceans away—in a small, windy town somewhere in the north of England. She lived in the humid warmth of coastal India, where the monsoons brought both chaos and poetry. But somehow, they kept talking.
At first, it was light. Banter about TV shows, songs they both loved, memes. Then it turned into voice notes—awkward at first, with pauses and self-conscious laughter. He liked how she said “exactly,” with a little lilt. She liked how he said her name—carefully, like it mattered.
Then came the calls. Video calls that started late in the evening and ended when the birds began to sing. Time zones didn’t matter when conversation flowed like this. She showed him the moon from her window, and he showed her his too—half a world away, and yet, the same moon.
For almost two years, this was love in pixels. And somehow, it was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
They wanted more than goodnight texts and “I wish you were here.” They wanted to know what it felt like to walk side by side, not just scroll together through days.
So they made a plan. Saved money. Took leave. Booked flights.
And one ordinary Tuesday, she waited at the airport, her heart drumming like thunder, her fingers shaking. When he appeared, tall and slightly hunched with nervous energy, holding a crumpled sunflower (the best he could find after a ten-hour flight), her eyes filled with tears.
They didn’t kiss immediately. That would’ve been too much. Instead, they smiled—stupidly, sweetly, like everything was finally, wonderfully real.


The first few days were a blur. They explored the city hand in hand, stopping to try street food, snapping blurry selfies in front of monuments she had stopped noticing long ago. She watched him take in her world with wonder: the sound of honking rickshaws, the vibrant chaos of spice markets, the endless cups of chai from roadside stalls.
He said her city was loud and alive, like her.
She said he was quiet and steady, like a rainy Sunday morning.
At night, they lay under her ceiling fan, listening to the power hum of the city outside, and it hit her—he was here. The same boy who once existed only on screen now shared her space, her bed, her mornings.
And yet, love didn’t feel like fireworks. It felt like buttered toast made just right. Like finding his t-shirt folded beside hers. Like brushing teeth side by side, spitting at the same time, laughing like idiots.
But "ever after" wasn't all soft-focus romance.
They had their first argument on Day 9. Over something silly—where to go for dinner. But under the surface, it was about more. About compromise. About the unspoken strain of being so close after being far for so long. About how reality, no matter how beautiful, was still reality.
He stormed out. She cried into a pillow.
But he came back. With ice cream. And a stupid apology that made her laugh through her tears. “I’ve never loved someone enough to fight like this,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.
They learned together. That love didn’t erase differences; it respected them. He liked his tea without sugar. She liked hers drowning in it. He was a planner. She made decisions on impulse. He folded clothes like a military man. She made a mountain of laundry and called it art.
Still, they made it work.



By the third week, he had started picking up her language. Not the formal textbook kind, but the silly, everyday words—jaldi karo, pagal ho kya, kitna cute lag raha hai. She laughed every time he tried, especially when he mispronounced things and pretended he hadn’t.
In return, she learned to understand his silences. He wasn’t always expressive. He didn’t say “I love you” ten times a day like she did. But he remembered her favorite side of the bed. He always made her tea when she had a headache. He sent her songs that reminded him of her, even if the lyrics made no sense to him.
She called that his quiet poetry.
They spent evenings watching the sunset on her terrace, the orange melting into the sea. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. It didn’t matter. Being there—together—was enough.


When his trip neared its end, the city felt heavier.
They didn’t talk about the flight back. They tiptoed around it like it was a storm cloud they could maybe, possibly, avoid. But on the last night, they sat in bed, lights off, fingers intertwined.
“I don’t want this to end,” she whispered.
“It won’t,” he said. “Not really.”
She cried anyway. Because love wasn’t a visa. And no matter how tightly she held him, morning would still come.
But he held her tighter.
“You know what’s funny?” he said. “We used to dream about what it would be like to meet. To finally have a moment. But now… I dream about mornings with you. About brushing our teeth in the same sink. About grocery lists and burnt toast and Netflix in pajamas.”
“That’s not very romantic,” she sniffled, smiling.
“It’s the most romantic thing I know.”



And so he left.
She stood at Departures this time, a sunflower tucked into his backpack pocket.
The weeks that followed felt hollow. But they also felt real.
Because this time, the love didn’t vanish with the screen. It had happened. It was happening.
They didn’t go back to just video calls. They planned. They saved again. They talked about visas, jobs, long-term things.
They fought more, too. Sometimes love feels heavier when it’s tasted in full. But every time they stumbled, they remembered how it felt to fall asleep next to each other, to wake up and see love with bed hair and morning breath.
And they kept choosing each other.
Again and again.



A year later, she moved. With one suitcase, far too many books, and a heart full of nerves, she landed in his town.
The first night in their tiny rented flat, they couldn’t stop laughing. The bed was too small. The heater didn’t work. Her toes were freezing.
But he wrapped her in a blanket and said, “Welcome home.”
And she knew. The fairy tale had never ended.
It had only just begun.



Because love is not the grand finale.
Love is the beginning.
Love is choosing one person—even when the magic fades, the WiFi is bad, the tea is cold.
It’s not just about the ‘happily ever after.’
It’s about all the quiet, messy, beautiful days that come after it.

And in those days, they found everything they’d been looking for.
Each other.
Still.
Forever and a day.