One month ago, I married the woman I love.
We spent our honeymoon in Hong Kong—
unhurried days, unbroken rest,
and nights wrapped in each other,
our new life unfolding in whispered warmth.
I had taken a month’s leave.
The day we returned, my boss called me in.
He handed me a project—overseas, six months long.
I reminded him I had just married.
He reminded me I was the only one
with the skills the work demanded.
I left my wife with her parents;
I couldn’t bear the thought of her
living alone in our empty apartment.
Then I flew to Sweden
and buried myself in the project,
working with a single hope:
to come back sooner.
In five months, I finished.
The client was delighted;
my boss almost jubilant.
He offered me fifteen days of leave.
I told my wife I was returning early.
She met me at the airport.
We held each other long and close,
as though making up
for every hour we had been apart.
An Uber carried us home,
where our parents waited to welcome me.
My mother had cooked Biryani—my favorite.
Her mother had brought date pickle and fresh salad.
After a shower, we sat for dinner;
every bite tasted like memory,
like home reclaiming me.
Later, we went to bed.
We kissed, and the distance dissolved.
We made love first with the urgency of longing,
then with the slow tenderness of reunion.
Afterward, we drifted to sleep
in the circle of each other’s arms.
Morning came with the sound of the alarm.
It was six.
I woke her with soft kisses;
she smiled, half-asleep.
We washed, dressed,
and prepared to meet the day together.
It felt good—
profoundly, quietly good—
to be home again.
