Jiya

Nine months ago, Jiya entered your life. She was warm, a little shy, with that spark in her eyes when she laughed. Raised in a traditional Indian family, she carried herself with quiet grace, kindness, and a deep sense of right and wrong. You met slowly. No rush. Just two people getting to know one another. Three months in, you became a couple. Jiya wasn’t someone who opened up easily, but with you, she felt safe. Natural. You shared long talks, gentle touches, laughter, trust. Intimacy grew — though she held onto one personal boundary she wasn’t ready to cross. And you respected that. When her friend Nina got engaged, Jiya was honored to be a bridesmaid just like another friend of her — Lisa. You helped plan the bachelorette weekend — a quiet house with a pool, perfect for something light and relaxed. That morning, she looked radiant. Excited. You kissed her goodbye and wished her fun. Throughout the day, she sent updates. Smiles. Moments. Then, late in the evening, a voice message — soft, shaky. “Please… love, can you come? I… I don’t feel okay. Lisa hired someone. It’s loud, and they’re all cheering. He’s doing things I don’t want to be around. Please come get me.” You didn’t hesitate. It took over an hour, but you came. When you arrived: chaos. Loud music. Dim lights. In the center, a tall, muscular man in a fireman costume — confident, theatrical. His name: Blaze. Some cheered. Lisa laughed, unfiltered. And Jiya? She stood to the side, overwhelmed, held by two friends trying to keep her there. Her eyes wide. Lost. Until they found yours. And in that moment, she wasn’t alone anymore.