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Chapter 17 - ADC

Few days passed—not quietly, not gently—but in the usual NDA rhythm where time didn’t walk, it marched.

That evening, the squadron room felt different.

Training had ended late, boots still dusty, shoulders aching, bodies tired—but minds alert. Someone had switched on the TV, volume a little higher than usual. Cadets trickled in one by one, some leaning against lockers, some sitting cross-legged on the floor, others perched on chairs, plates of mess snacks forgotten midway.

Breaking news flashed across the screen.

A red strip. A sharp tune. A pause that made the room unconsciously quiet.

“Arre, volume badhao,” someone muttered.

The anchor’s voice cut through the air, crisp and ceremonial.

“In a significant announcement today, the President of India has appointed a new Aide-de-Camp—Major Virat Sekhawat…”

For a second, no one reacted.

Then—

“Wait—WHAT?”

“Major?”

“ADC to the President?!”

The room erupted.

Whistles. Gasps. Low impressed laughs.

“That’s elite,” Zaid said under his breath, eyes glued to the screen.

“Bro, that’s not just promotion—that’s legacy,” Kabir added, sitting straighter without realizing it.

The visuals shifted.

A still photograph appeared—Virat Sekhawat in ceremonial uniform. Upright posture. Calm eyes. Medals catching the light. The kind of stillness that came only from discipline sharpened by fire.

The anchor continued:

“Major Sekhawat was first noticed during the Independence Day Parade two years ago, when he served as a Captain in the Jat Regiment. His marching contingent was adjudged the Best Marching Troupe—marked by precision, leadership, and exemplary command presence.”

The screen replayed the footage.

Rajpath. August sunlight. Boots striking the ground in flawless unison.

The commanding officer marched ahead—Captain Virat Sekhawat.

Even through the screen, his presence was unmistakable.

Every step measured. Every command controlled. Not loud—authoritative.

The room went silent again.

Not because they were told to. But because greatness does that—it demands quiet.

“Damn,” someone whispered.

“That’s the kind of officer you follow without questioning.”

Shreya stood near the back, arms folded.

Her face showed pride—but also something else. A softness she quickly masked.

Adhya hadn’t moved.

She stood frozen, just a little apart from the group.

The room around her blurred.

The noise faded into a dull echo.

Major Virat Sekhawat.

ADC to the President.

The title hit her harder than she expected.

Her mind didn’t go to the uniform first. Or the medals. Or the honour.

It went to—

Letters. Silences. Unanswered questions.

The man on the screen looked composed. Complete. Untouchable.

But Adhya remembered the man who once laughed quietly at her jokes. Who had brought her bangles because she said she loved them. Who had stood awkwardly, nervous, when he proposed—like courage meant more than strategy that day.

Her chest tightened.

Not in pain.

In recognition.

“Adhya,” Kabir said softly, glancing at her. “You okay?”

She nodded once. Firm.

“I’m fine.”

And she was.

But fine didn’t mean unaffected.

The news continued.

“Major Sekhawat’s appointment reflects not only his operational excellence but also his reputation for restraint, integrity, and leadership under pressure. Sources confirm his recent postings in high-altitude operational zones, including Kupwara district.”

Kupwara.

Snow. Silence. Distance.

Zaid exhaled slowly. “Para background, Jat Regiment, ADC track… yeh banda textbook excellence hai.”

“Textbook nahi,” Shreya corrected quietly. “Rare.”

A few cadets clapped—genuine, spontaneous.

Not jealousy. Not insecurity.

Pure respect.

Because every cadet in that room understood what it took to reach there.

The TV showed Virat saluting, the President returning it.

A frame froze.

Perfect symmetry. Duty meeting destiny.

Adhya felt something settle inside her.

Not loss.

Closure.

She wasn’t standing behind that screen. She was walking her own road.

Parallel. Different. Valid.

She glanced around—at Shreya, Zaid, Kabir, the others. Her team. Her people. Her now.

They weren’t watching the news as spectators.

They were watching a future that was possible.

For all of them.

The TV switched to another segment.

The room slowly filled with chatter again.

Speculation. Dreams. Jokes.

But Adhya stayed quiet.

She didn’t need to say anything.

Some victories are celebrated loudly. Some are acknowledged silently.

As the screen faded to commercials, Adhya straightened her shoulders.

Tomorrow, she would train again. Run again. Lead again.

Because somewhere in the country, Major Virat Sekhawat stood in ceremonial precision—

And somewhere else, at NDA Pune, A woman named Adhya stood equally tall—

Not as someone’s memory. Not as someone’s past.

But as her own future, marching forward— step by step, unbroken.

The city of Delhi never slept, but inside the Rashtrapati Bhavan complex, the night had a stillness of its own. Snow and mountains no longer pressed against steel roofs. Instead, manicured lawns, grand corridors, and marble pillars stretched endlessly under the glow of antique lamps. Major Virat Sekhawat now lived within the heart of the nation’s most symbolic residence, the ADC to the President of India.

The uniform had changed slightly—new insignia, new responsibilities—but the weight of duty remained heavier than any medal, any parade, or any rank he had ever earned. Being ADC was not about glory. It was about vigilance, precision, and being the silent guardian, always present yet never the center of attention. Every gesture, every command he gave, every decision he took had to be flawless. One misstep could ripple across the entire office of the President.

Virat sat alone in his private quarters, the hum of security systems surrounding him like a protective shell. A pen hovered over a blank sheet of paper, an echo of a heart he rarely allowed to speak. He had wanted, for weeks, to write. Not for accolades, not for anyone’s approval, but for someone who had never stopped occupying the quiet spaces of his mind.

Adhya.

He could still see her—the girl who had once argued, laughed, and fought beside him with fire in her eyes. The girl whose strength he had admired, whose courage had often outshone his own, whose presence had been a constant reminder of what mattered beyond medals and missions. He remembered the day he had proposed to her, three months after telling her about his dream to join the Para SF forces. His pulse had raced, every disciplined step faltering as he had revealed his feelings. Her eyes had sparkled—amused, surprised, and yet so full of depth. That day remained etched into him, sharper than the edge of any blade he had held in combat.

Now, sitting within the opulent yet confining walls of Rashtrapati Bhavan, he felt the weight of his life’s journey pressing down on him. Every mission, every promotion, every sacrifice had led him here. Yet, despite all, his heart paused at the thought of her. The parade on Rajpath during Independence Day, when he had first been noticed as a Captain leading the Jat Regiment’s precision troupe, flashed through his mind. The cheers, the cameras, the pride—but all of it felt hollow without her acknowledgment.

He had become ADC, living just steps away from the President, attending briefings, overseeing protocol, ensuring every gesture reflected perfection. And yet, in quiet moments, when the world thought him the embodiment of control, he still longed to share a single line with her, a single thought from a heart that refused to let go.

The pen trembled slightly in his hand. Should he write to her? Could he reach out?

“Adhya…” The whisper was soft, almost drowned by the distant sound of ceremonial music echoing faintly from the grand halls. “…do I dare break this silence? Or does the respect for her choice demand that I remain quiet?”

He remembered the last letter she had sent. The clarity, the acceptance, the decision to prioritize herself while leaving the door slightly ajar for memories. That letter had been a mirror, showing him what he had failed to give: consistency, presence, and trust. And yet, he could not let the years of shared moments vanish without acknowledgment.

He drew a deep breath and looked out of the window at the sprawling lawns and fountains of Rashtrapati Bhavan. Each ripple of water, each flicker of light, mirrored the unspoken emotions within him—steady yet restless, calm yet turbulent.

“I can write it,” he murmured to himself. “Not to ask for anything, not to disrupt her peace. Just to honor what we shared. To tell her… that she is remembered, always.”

And so, he began, pen dancing slowly over the paper, each word deliberate, each sentence heavy with the weight of unsaid emotions:

“Adhya… Today, I stand as ADC to the President of India, living within the Rashtrapati Bhavan complex. Every honor I have achieved, every parade, every moment of recognition… it is nothing without knowing that someone I deeply admire and respect understands it. I don’t write this to reopen old wounds, nor to ask for anything. I write because you deserve to know that even in the midst of my responsibilities, even in this life of protocol, precision, and vigilance, you remain the quiet center of my world. Every memory, every smile, every shared word continues to shape who I am…”

Outside, Delhi slept under a canopy of faint stars, indifferent to the silent turmoil within one of its most honored officers. Virat Sekhawat, decorated, disciplined, and feared in the field, allowed himself one human moment—one act of vulnerability that no rank, no responsibility, and no ceremonial duty could ever replace.

Because for all the power, for all the duty, for all the discipline, there remained one truth: the heart remembers what the world forgets. And in that moment, he was not just ADC to the President—he was a man reaching out to the person who had always held the space he could never relinquish.

The pen paused mid-line. Outside, a light flickered. Inside, a heart beat steady, determined. And somewhere, between duty and desire, Virat knew that writing this letter was both the first and most important mission of his life.

The marble halls of Rashtrapati Bhavan seemed endless, echoing with the steps of ceremonial guards, the soft shuffle of staff, and the muted hum of conversations that never touched him. Virat tucked the completed letter carefully into an envelope, pressing down on the seal as though locking his own heart inside. For a man accustomed to handling weapons and commanding soldiers, this was a different battlefield—one of emotions, vulnerability, and hope.

He paused at the window overlooking the sprawling lawns, taking in the faint glow of Delhi at night. The city pulsed with life, indifferent to the silent struggle of a soldier longing to bridge the gap of months, of misunderstandings, of unspoken words.

“Let her know,” he whispered to himself, voice barely carrying beyond the pane of glass. “Not to ask for forgiveness, not to disrupt her peace… just to let her see that she’s remembered.”

He placed the envelope carefully in the official mail dispatch, ensuring it would reach Pune—the NDA. His heart thrummed with an unfamiliar anxiety, a mix of hope and fear. Would she read it? Would she understand? Would it stir the past or bring closure?

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, the NDA campus lay bathed in the orange glow of dusk. The cadets had just returned from evening drills, muscles aching, uniforms damp with sweat and dust. Adhya’s group gathered in the common lounge, laughter spilling over from teasing comments, playful challenges, and the warmth of camaraderie.

Adhya, however, remained slightly apart, a small envelope resting on the corner of the table. It had arrived that afternoon through official dispatch—a handwritten envelope, sealed neatly, addressed in Virat’s disciplined, precise handwriting.

Her hand trembled slightly as she picked it up, fingers tracing the edges of the envelope, a flood of memories threatening to overwhelm her. The NDA’s disciplined corridors, the laughter of her friends, the rustle of papers in the Mess—all seemed to blur as her mind went back to him.

Shreya noticed immediately. “Tum phir se dreamy ho rahi ho,” she teased, nudging Adhya gently. “Kya mila hai, koi secret letter?”

Adhya’s lips curved in a faint, bittersweet smile. “Shayad,” she murmured, sitting down carefully, making sure her friends didn’t crowd her too closely.

The lounge quieted slightly as curiosity bubbled in the air. Adhya took a deep breath, breaking the seal. The first few words made her pause, her chest tightening:

“Adhya… Today, I write not as a soldier, not as ADC to the President, but as a man who has carried the memory of someone he respects and admires through every mission, every mile, every sleepless night…”

Her eyes blurred as she read each word slowly, deliberately, savoring every syllable, feeling the weight of the emotions behind them. Each sentence reflected a vulnerability she had longed to hear, a recognition of shared history, a quiet apology for absence, and an acknowledgment of her strength.

“…I know months of silence may have felt like a chasm, but it was never your fault. It was mine—my inability to be human in the midst of duty, my failure to hold space when you needed it. You’ve grown, you’ve endured, you’ve thrived… and I am proud, more than you can know.”

Adhya’s grip on the letter tightened. Her eyes flicked to Shreya, who watched quietly, sensing the gravity of the moment.

“…I don’t ask for anything in return. I don’t seek to disrupt your life, your peace, your purpose. I only hope that this letter reminds you—reminds you that you were never forgotten, that the memories we created were real, that every decision, every moment I cherished, carried your presence with me…”

Adhya paused reading the letter, letting the silence of the lounge and the distant sounds of cadets walking past envelop her. Her heart ached, yes—but it also swelled with a sense of closure. The words were not asking her to forgive or reconcile—they were simply honest, raw, human.

Shreya leaned over, whispering gently, “It’s him, isn’t it? And it’s… everything he couldn’t say before.”

Adhya nodded silently, tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks. “He remembers… he feels… he regrets. But he respects me enough to let me be.”

Hours later, Adhya sat in the quiet of her room, the letter folded carefully beside her. She spoke softly into the night air, as if he could hear her, though she knew he could not:

“Virat… I read you. I hear you. And I will always remember too. But my life… my mission… it doesn’t stop. Thank you for letting me keep my peace. Thank you for telling me your truth.”

The NDA campus slept around her, but inside her, a storm of emotions had calmed into something resolute. She didn’t need answers anymore—not from him, not from the past. She only needed to move forward, carrying the respect, the memories, and the lessons with her.

Somewhere in Delhi, Virat sat in his quarters at Rashtrapati Bhavan, staring at the empty desk, imagining her reading his words. He didn’t know if she had cried, smiled, or held the letter to her chest. But he did know this: for the first time in months, he felt a subtle weight lift. His heart, hardened by years of duty, softened slightly. And that, he realized, was victory enough.

The night stretched over Pune and Delhi, silent but alive with connection, understanding, and unspoken emotion. Two hearts, separated by miles and duties, had found a fleeting but eternal bridge through words, through honesty, and through respect.

And in that quiet, both of them slept—one in the grandeur of the President’s residence, the other in the disciplined dorms of NDA—connected not by presence, but by the profound acknowledgment of each other’s truth.

The sun rose sharply over the NDA grounds, casting gold over the meticulously lined-up cadets. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wet grass and dust stirred by the drills. Adhya stood in formation, shoulders squared, her boots scuffing the ground with precision as her squad prepared for the day’s training.

The letter from Virat lay tucked safely in her diary, hidden beneath her uniform. It felt heavier than any rifle, more important than any briefing she had received. But today, it was not a distraction. Today, it was a source of quiet strength.

Shreya glanced at her, sensing the shift in energy. “Tum unusually calm hoyi ho,” she whispered, nudging Adhya gently during a short break.

Adhya allowed a small, serene smile. “Calm isn’t the right word. Focused. Let’s just say I know why I’m here, and what I can’t let distract me.”

The drills began in earnest—push-ups, obstacle courses, long-distance running, and synchronized formations. Adhya’s movements were fluid, precise, almost effortless. Her mind, usually a tangle of past thoughts and occasional pangs of loneliness, felt aligned, clear, and determined.

As the day progressed, the joint session with AFMC cadets began. The final-year AFMC students had arrived, tall, disciplined, curious. Their eyes flickered constantly toward the NDA cadets, and when they saw Adhya’s squad, especially her, there was an audible whispering.

“She’s… extraordinary,” one muttered.

“She moves like she owns every inch of this ground,” another said.

Adhya heard none of it consciously. She only felt the collective gaze, the subtle evaluation of her skill, her precision, and her authority. And instead of intimidation, it gave her energy. The letter had reminded her: she wasn’t alone in the journey she had chosen. She carried her own values, her strength, and the unspoken support of those who believed in her—including Virat, in a distant way.

During obstacle navigation, she noticed an AFMC cadet struggling with a climbing rope. Without hesitation, Adhya was there, offering guidance, adjusting grips, demonstrating the technique. Her group followed seamlessly, helping the younger cadets with the same patience and encouragement. Laughter mixed with exertion, the sound echoing off the training walls.

The AFMC students watched in awe. One whispered to another:

“Do they always work together like this?”

Another replied, “I think she’s leading them without them realizing. That’s leadership.”

Even some of the final-year cadets, typically impervious to the younger NDA trainees, couldn’t hide their astonishment. The precision, the coordination, the effortless mentorship—Adhya’s group seemed like a living embodiment of discipline, camaraderie, and strength.

By midday, it was time for the combined tactical exercises. Cadets from both institutions were paired in squads, tasked with strategizing and executing mock missions. Adhya’s squad was partnered with some of the final-year AFMC cadets.

As they moved through the exercise, giving commands, adjusting positions, and leading teams through complex scenarios, Adhya noticed a subtle change in the AFMC cadets’ behavior. Hesitation transformed into confidence; doubt transformed into trust. Her presence, her clarity, her calm decisiveness guided them.

During a brief pause, she finally allowed herself to read a few lines from Virat’s letter again, hidden inside her diary:

“…I only hope that this letter reminds you—reminds you that you were never forgotten, that the memories we created were real, that every decision, every moment I cherished, carried your presence with me…”

Her chest tightened, a lump forming in her throat, but she didn’t falter. Instead, she carried that quiet fire into the next session. Every order she gave, every action she executed, every encouragement she provided resonated with intent. The students of AFMC noticed. They followed without question, inspired not by fear, but by conviction.

During lunch, Shreya nudged her again. “Tumhari toh alag hi shine hai aaj.”

Adhya smiled faintly, looking out at the horizon. “It’s not shine. It’s… clarity. And it’s not just me. It’s all of us.” She gestured to her group, their sweat-streaked faces smiling back, tired but proud.

Evening drills approached, and Adhya found herself alone for a moment on the parade ground, watching the sun dip low over the horizon. The orange-gold light caught on her uniform, reflecting off the polished buttons and the sharp lines of her boots. She closed her eyes briefly and let herself feel the quiet thrill of being exactly where she was meant to be.

The joint session with AFMC had ended, but the respect lingered. One of the final-year cadets, a tall young man named Ishan, walked over to Adhya quietly.

“You… you inspire more than you know. Today, we thought we were teaching each other. But you… you’ve shown us what discipline and heart together can do.”

Adhya simply nodded, feeling a small surge of pride but also humility. “We learn from each other. Every day. Every challenge.”

Later that night, Adhya and Shreya returned to their room, both tired but exhilarated. Shreya flopped onto her bed dramatically. “Tumhari face mein aaj alag hi glow tha. Seriously. AFMC waale humari squad ko dekh ke hil gaye honge.”

Adhya laughed softly, opening her diary to jot down her thoughts. The letter from Virat was still tucked inside, now worn at the edges from repeated readings. She traced the words with her fingers for a moment before writing:

“Today… I realized it’s not about the absence of people who matter, but the presence of purpose. Today, I led. Today, I inspired. And tomorrow, I will do it again.”

Shreya peeked over, grinning. “Tum diary mein bhi commander ka attitude dikha rahi ho.”

Adhya smiled, closing it gently. “Maybe. But it’s not just attitude. It’s every choice I make, every decision I take… for me, for us, for the people around me.”

The night settled over NDA, quiet except for the distant calls of cadets, the rustle of papers, and the soft hum of the fans. Adhya lay down, feeling the weight of responsibility, the thrill of success, and the quiet warmth of knowing that even if some bridges were silent, respect, strength, and purpose remained.

Her mind wandered briefly to Virat, far away in Delhi, fulfilling his duties as ADC. She smiled softly, a pang of longing, but also a deep, unshakable pride. They had both changed. They had both grown. And maybe, in some quiet way, their journeys would always carry pieces of each other.

As she drifted to sleep, Shreya murmured from the other bed, teasing, “Mission accomplished, commander?”

Adhya whispered back, eyes closing, “Mission always continues… but tonight, yes. Mission accomplished.”

And in that moment, NDA, Pune, and all the drills, discipline, and challenges faded into a quiet, cinematic stillness—a world of courage, friendship, and purpose illuminated by a single truth: growth is the greatest victory of all.

The days at NDA passed like a relentless tide—each one pulling the cadets deeper into discipline, resilience, and unspoken strength. The joint training with AFMC cadets had finally concluded, leaving behind not just shared drills and exercises, but a quiet sense of admiration. Adhya’s group, as always, stood apart—not because they demanded attention, but because they commanded respect through precision, teamwork, and an unshakeable calm. Even the AFMC cadets had noticed, whispering among themselves about how effortlessly this small group carried authority.

As the third year crossed its halfway mark, a strange heaviness settled in. Time, which once felt endless, now seemed to race ahead. Days were consumed by training and classes, but evenings still offered stolen moments of laughter, shared glances, and traditions formed over years. Between exhaustion and ambition, friendships had turned into family. Adhya, Shreya, Zaid, and Kabir weren’t just coursemates anymore—they were a unit.

Then came the announcement everyone had been waiting for—a month-long holiday.

Relief swept through the academy like a breeze after a storm. Whispers of home-cooked food, sleep without alarms, and family warmth echoed through the corridors. For the first time in weeks, Adhya allowed herself to feel excited. Home wasn’t just a place—it was grounding.

Departure day arrived in its usual mix of chaos and joy. Bags were packed with military precision, uniforms folded neatly, letters tucked safely between books. Adhya stood for a moment in the squadron hall, inhaling the familiar scent of polish, sweat, and iron—a place that had shaped her.

Shreya bumped her shoulder, grinning.

“Arre madam, itna serious kyun lag rahi ho? Holiday hai ya court martial?”

Adhya smiled softly.

“Serious nahi hoon… bas soch rahi hoon ghar ki chai kitni miss ki hai.”

The train journey unfolded in laughter and chatter.

Kabir and Adhya ended up on the same train to Rajasthan, teasing each other endlessly.

Kabir smirked, “Jaipur jaa ke mujhe bhool toh nahi jaogi, Commander?”

Adhya rolled her eyes. “Sapne dekhna band kar, Kabir.”

Shreya and Zaid, on another train, argued passionately over snacks.

Zaid scoffed, “Samosa over everything.”

Shreya shot back, “Excuse me? Kachori is royalty.”

Meanwhile, Riddhi and Amisha had begun their own journey back to Jaipur from Bangalore, their train scheduled to reach around the same time—different platforms, same city, same reunion.

As the landscape shifted outside the window, Adhya rested her head against the glass, a quiet sense of belonging filling her chest.

Jaipur welcomed them in its usual chaos—vendors shouting, rickshaws honking, the air thick with spices and dust. The train screeched to a halt.

“Finally!” Riddhi exclaimed, dragging her suitcase. “Bangalore se nikalna mission impossible lag raha tha. Law college jaan le leta hai.”

Amisha dramatically dropped her bag.

“Kasam se, mujhe Jaipur ki chai aur golgappe zyada yaad aaye books se.”

Adhya laughed.

“Sach mein… weird lag raha hai. Bas hum teen. Shreya apne ghar pe hai, Zaid aur Kabir bhi apne-apne ghar. No boys, no bakwaas.”

Riddhi grinned.

“Shanti hi shanti. Na Kabir ki teasing, na Zaid ka gyaan.”

As they walked toward the car, Riddhi suddenly beamed.

“Waise… mujhe tumhe kuch important batana hai. Akash ne propose kiya.”

Adhya stopped. “KYA?”

Amisha clapped excitedly.

“Canteen mein! Sabke saamne! Aur main cheer karte-karte almost behosh ho gayi thi.”

Adhya laughed.

“Riddhi, detail chahiye. Proper filmy version.”

Riddhi blushed.

“Canteen mein ghutne pe baith gaya tha, chhota sa bouquet, full nervous. Aur haan… maine haan bol di.”

“And?” Adhya smiled.

“And I meant it,” Riddhi said softly. “Main usse kabhi chhodungi nahi.”

Amisha leaned in, whispering loudly.

“Proposal ke baad ice cream thi ya nahi?”

“Thi,” Riddhi smirked. “Aur surprisingly, disaster nahi thi.”

They reached Adhya’s house just as the sun dipped low.

The car halted in front of Adhya’s house, the familiar iron gate opening slowly, as if it too had been waiting. Before anyone could step out properly, the front door flew open.

“Meri bacchi aa gayi!” Meera ji exclaimed, almost running forward.

Adhya barely had time to drop her bag before she was pulled into a tight embrace.

“Kitni patli ho gayi hai tu,” Meera ji scolded softly, hands moving over Adhya’s shoulders, her face, her hair. “Bas uniform hi reh gayi hai.”

Adhya laughed, muffled against her shoulder.

“Maa, NDA hai… honeymoon nahi.”

From behind, Mohan ji watched quietly, his eyes saying what his words never did. He placed his hand gently on Adhya’s head.

“Welcome home, beta.”

Amisha jumped down from the car next, throwing her arms wide.

“Badimaa!” she announced happily.

Meera ji turned and immediately hugged her.

“Arre meri Amisha! Tu bhi aa gayi? Law college ne chhutti de di?”

Amisha laughed.

“Chhutti nahi Badimaa, bhaag ke aayi hoon.”

Mohan ji smiled at her.

“Aur Badepapa ke liye koi hug nahi?”

Amisha instantly ran to him.

“Badepapa!” She hugged him tightly. “Aap toh aur bhi fit lag rahe ho.”

“Achha?” Mohan ji chuckled. “Phir toh chai aur mithai banti hai.”

Just then, Meera ji noticed Riddhi standing slightly aside, smiling softly.

“Arre Riddhi!” she said warmly. “Tum bhi?”

Riddhi folded her hands dramatically.

“Aunty, ab toh officially main yahin shift ho gayi hoon.”

Before anyone could reply, laughter erupted from behind.

“Dekha?” Riddhi’s mother said, stepping forward. “Apni beti ko ghar le jaane se pehle hi yahan camp laga leti hai.”

Her father shook his head fondly.

“Bangalore se seedha Adhya ke ghar. Apna address toh bas form bharne ke kaam ka hai.”

Riddhi grinned unapologetically.

“Kya karoon Papa, yahan ka comfort unmatched hai.”

Amisha immediately added,

“Aur yahan ka khana bhi. Bangalore ke mess ke baad toh yeh five-star lagta hai.”

Everyone laughed.

Meera ji smiled knowingly.

“Iska aadha samaan toh waise bhi yahin pada hota hai.”

Riddhi’s mother bent down and picked up one of the suitcases.

“Chalo madam, luggage hum utha lete hain. Tum toh waise bhi yahin rehne wali ho.”

Riddhi protested half-heartedly.

“Mumma!”

Her father looked at her gently.

“Beta, jab mann kare, ghar aa jaana. Par yaad rakhna, tumhara ghar sirf jagah nahi hota… log hote hain.”

Riddhi’s smile softened, eyes misting slightly.

Adhya slipped her hand into Riddhi’s, squeezing it quietly.

Amisha, watching all this, teased,

“Bas bas, emotional scene ho raha hai. Agar aur late hue toh chai thandi ho jaayegi.”

Mohan ji laughed.

“Bilkul sahi bola. Andar chalo sab.”

As they walked inside together—luggage clanking, voices overlapping, laughter echoing—the house filled up again.

No ranks.

No uniforms.

No expectations.

Just family, warmth, and the comfort of being home.

Tea was served, luggage dumped, warmth settling in.

Later, all three gathered in Adhya’s room. Shreya joined on video call, already animated.

“Sun sun! Ek cadet ne traffic cone ko salute maar diya,” Shreya laughed.

Adhya groaned.

“Arre haan! Aur ek aur suna? Ek cadet ‘honeymoon period’ ka matlab hi galat samajh baitha. Senior ko flower de diya inspection ke time.”

Shreya burst out laughing.

“Maine dekha tha! Eagle ka face… lag raha tha abhi blast karega.”

Riddhi wheezed.

“Yaar NDA sach mein alag level ka entertainment hai.”

Laughter slowly settled.

Adhya took a breath.

“Waise… mujhe Virat ka letter aaya hai.”

Silence.

Amisha leaned closer.

“The Major?”

Adhya nodded.

“Haan. Abhi poora padha nahi hai… par bas uska likhna… matter karta hai.”

Riddhi smiled softly.

“Distance ke baad bhi… connection wahi hai.”

Shreya teased,

“Bas ro mat dena letter padhte time. Warna future mein embarrassing blackmail milega.”

Adhya laughed, her heart full.

That evening—wrapped in laughter, memories, and unspoken emotions—felt like home. A pause from duty, distance, and doubt.

Just them.

The evening air in Jaipur was warm and still, wrapping around the trio like a comforting blanket. Adhya sat on the edge of her bed, the letter from Virat lying unopened beside her. The penmanship, the words, the weight of the paper—all of it felt like a bridge to someone she had once held close, and yet, a reminder of all that had been complicated, unfinished.

Riddhi, sitting cross-legged on the floor, nudged her softly. “Arre Adhya, bas call kar hi le yaar. At least congratulations de de. Letter toh usne hi bheja hai—woh chahata hai ki tu jaane ki woh soch raha hai. Baaki baatein baad me dekh lenge.”

Amisha, leaning against the desk with her glasses slightly crooked, smirked. “Haan yaar! Kya tension hai? Bas ek chhota sa call. Agar chahiye toh hum help bhi karenge rehearse karne me.” She wiggled her eyebrows, already imagining Adhya stiffening at the thought.

Shreya, on the video call from her own home, grinned mischievously. “Tu hamesha overthink karti hai, Adhya. Bas phone uthaa aur bol de. Kuch catastrophic nahi hone wala. He’s just a human, yaar. Mission brief nahi hai!”

Adhya exhaled slowly, staring at the letter again. Her hands traced the edges, her mind recalling Virat’s steady voice, his unwavering gaze, the way he had been—strong, commanding, and yet… human. “Pata nahi yaar… itna weird lag raha hai. Itne mahine ho gaye, aur ab bhi… complicated lagta hai.”

Riddhi reached over and grabbed her hand. “Bas isiliye call karna chahiye. Koi explanation nahi deni. Sirf… congratulations. Samjhi? Trust me, feel hoga lighter.”

Amisha clapped once, eyes sparkling. “Yes! Ye hui na baat! Aur phir agar mann ho toh reply likh de, warna nahi. Par first step toh ho gaya!”

The night deepened, the streets of Jaipur quiet except for the occasional hum of traffic. Adhya finally dialed Virat’s number, her fingers trembling slightly. As the line connected, she felt the familiar mix of nervousness and anticipation.

Meanwhile, Riddhi had pulled her phone back and started scrolling through YouTube absentmindedly. Her attention snagged on a short clip trending on one of Virat’s fan pages. Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, Adhya! Dekh isko! Tu dekh hi rahi hai ya nahi?”

Adhya, still hesitant on the call, raised an eyebrow. “Kya hai?”

Riddhi’s excitement was palpable even over the speaker. “Virat ka short video hai yaar! Parade me, command karte hue, full glory me! Fan pages har jagah post kar rahi hai. Tu dekh, seriously, movie scene lag raha hai!”

Amisha peeked over Riddhi’s shoulder, grinning. “Seriously yaar, real life hero lag raha hai. Chal dikha de!”

Adhya, despite herself, leaned closer, her eyes scanning the screen as Riddhi played the video. There he was—Virat, in his full ADC uniform, commanding the parade with flawless precision, every movement exact, every command resonating with authority. Her chest tightened, emotions stirring in a way she hadn’t expected.

Riddhi’s voice, teasing yet gentle, broke her reverie. “Dekha? Incredible hai na? Aur haan… yeh sab letter me bhi tha. Bas pick up aur call kar!”

Shreya’s laughter echoed through the video call. “I second that! Uthao phone, soldier! Mission simple hai: ek call, ek congratulations. Bas!”

Adhya took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of her friends’ encouragement. The letter, the video, the memories—all of it felt heavy, but not paralyzing. With a quiet resolve, she picked up her phone again, ready to take the first step, however small, to bridge the distance between them.

Riddhi’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Aur haan, humein bhi bolna ki hum cheering squad the. Ye mission ka part hai!”

Adhya laughed softly, the tension easing slightly. “Alright… okay. Here goes.”

The night held its breath around her, filled with possibility, memories, and the unwavering support of friends who had always been her anchor. And somewhere in that quiet Jaipur night, Adhya took the first step toward reconnecting—her heart racing, her hands steady, and her spirit, as always, unbroken.

Adhya’s thumb hovered over the call button like it weighed a thousand kilos.

The room was unusually quiet for a place filled with people.

Riddhi and Amisha were practically glued to her sides, eyes locked on the phone screen. Shreya was already on video call from her home, sitting cross-legged on her bed, chin resting on her palm, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Adhya…” Shreya said slowly, dragging the word, “agar ab call nahi kiya na, toh main officially declare kar rahi hoon — tu NDA ki sabse brave cadet hoke bhi is mission mein fail ho gayi.”

“Pressure mat daal,” Adhya muttered, swallowing hard. “Ye… ye different hai.”

Riddhi leaned closer. “Different nahi, historic hai. ADC ko first official call ja raha hai, samjhi?”

Amisha grinned. “Aur woh bhi tumhara.”

Adhya closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and pressed the call button.

Ring.

Once.

Twice.

Her heartbeat was louder than the ringtone.

Then—

“Hello.”

That voice.

Firm. Calm. Familiar.

For a second, Adhya forgot how to breathe.

On the other side of the call, Major Virat Sekhawat straightened instinctively. He hadn’t expected this. Not tonight. Not like this.

“Jai Hind, sir,” Adhya blurted out in one breath.

“Congratulations, sir… for becoming the ADC.”

Dead. Silence.

Riddhi’s jaw dropped.

Amisha slapped her own thigh, eyes wide.

Shreya froze on screen, mouth open.

On the other end of the call, Virat blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“…Sir?” he repeated slowly, disbelief laced with amusement.

“Tum… mujhe sir bula rahi ho?”

Adhya’s face went crimson.

“I— I mean— haan— aap— matlab—” she panicked, words tumbling over each other.

“You’re my senior now… proper senior… and protocol… aur main NDA cadet hoon… toh—”

Virat chuckled softly. “Achha.”

Then teasingly, “Aur Jai Hind bhi?”

Adhya nodded instinctively, then realised he couldn’t see her.

“Haan… woh bhi… habit ban gayi hai.”

Riddhi burst out laughing. “Oh God, she’s gone FULL cadet mode!”

Amisha covered her mouth. “This is better than Netflix.”

Virat paused, then said gently, “Tum itni nervous kyun ho rahi ho, Adhya?”

Adhya swallowed. And suddenly, a memory hit her.

“Aapko yaad hai,” she began hesitantly, “jab main bilkul new thi academy mein… aur maine ek senior ko congratulations bol diya tha… bina salute aur bina Jai Hind?”

Virat went silent.

Then—

“Oh no.”

Before he could stop her, Adhya continued, voice now animated.

“Us din woh senior ka ego Everest pe tha,” she said, half-laughing.

“Bola — ‘Discipline kya hota hai pata hai?’ Aur phir—”

She raised her hand dramatically.

“—200 sit-ups.”

Riddhi screamed. “DO SAU?!”

Amisha almost fell off the bed laughing. “Bechari Adhya!”

Shreya was wheezing on video call. “Legendary punishment yaar!”

Virat laughed — a full, genuine laugh this time.

“Haan,” he admitted. “Us din se tumne kabhi bina Jai Hind baat nahi ki.”

Adhya groaned. “Trauma locked discipline.”

They all laughed together — friends on one side, soldier on the other — the tension dissolving like it had never existed.

Virat cleared his throat softly. “But Adhya… sir bolna zaroori nahi tha.”

She relaxed a little. “Habit ho gayi hai. Aur… aap ab waise bhi… bahut upar ho.”

His voice softened. “Tum bhi ho.”

That line landed quietly, deeply.

“Congratulations,” Adhya said again, this time steadier.

“Sach mein. Desh ko aap jaise officer ki zarurat hai.”

Virat inhaled slowly. “Thank you.”

Then, after a pause, “Tumhara phone… unexpected tha.”

Riddhi leaned in and whispered loudly, “Bol do — heart attack aate-aate reh gaya!”

Adhya glared. “RIDDHI!”

Virat chuckled again, clearly hearing the chaos.

“Lagta hai main speaker pe hoon.”

“Unfortunately,” Amisha said cheerfully. “Full audience ke saath.”

Shreya grinned. “Sir, Adhya ka courage officially unlock ho gaya.”

Virat said warmly, “Achha hai. Courage suit karta hai usse.”

Adhya felt her chest tighten — in a good way.

“I just wanted to congratulate you,” she said softly.

“Bas.”

There were many things unsaid.

But this moment didn’t need them.

“I’m glad you called,” Virat replied. “Sach mein.”

They said goodbye soon after — simple, respectful, calm.

As the call ended, Adhya exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for months.

Riddhi clapped. “FIRST CALL SUCCESSFUL!”

Amisha laughed. “Protocol ke saath romance — very NDA coded.”

Shreya smiled from the screen, softer now. “Proud of you, Adhya.”

Adhya leaned back, heart light, cheeks still warm.

She hadn’t written a letter yet.

She hadn’t explained anything yet.

But tonight —

She had taken the first step.

And sometimes, that was enough to change the direction of a story.

The call ended.

The screen went dark, but Virat remained still, phone resting in his palm like it held something fragile.

For a few seconds, the world around him didn’t exist.

Not the high-ceilinged corridor of Rashtrapati Bhavan.

Not the distant footsteps of guards changing shifts.

Not the weight of the uniform on his shoulders — immaculate, heavy with responsibility.

Just her voice.

“Jai Hind, sir.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned back against the cool marble wall.

Sir.

A small smile tugged at his lips — one that hadn’t appeared often these days.

He closed his eyes.

She was nervous. He’d heard it instantly. The slight tremor she tried to hide. The way her words stumbled — not out of fear, but out of care. Out of discipline drilled deep into her bones.

Still the same, he thought.

Strong. Honest. Overthinking everything.

His fingers brushed the edge of his rank insignia absentmindedly.

ADC to the President of India.

The post people congratulated him for.

The post that looked glorious on screens and headlines.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

What mattered was that she had called.

He straightened unconsciously when he remembered the sit-ups story — her voice animated, slightly indignant, slightly amused.

Two hundred sit-ups.

He shook his head with a quiet chuckle.

That day…

She had stood there, jaw clenched, sweat dripping, eyes burning with defiance — not anger, just resolve. She had never complained. Not once. She had just… endured.

That’s when I knew, he admitted silently.

She wasn’t made to quit.

Virat opened his eyes and looked down the corridor.

The flags stood tall, unmoving. Just like expectations. Just like duty.

People thought rank changed a man.

It didn’t.

Responsibility did.

And responsibility came with silence.

His phone buzzed faintly — a notification he ignored.

Instead, his thoughts drifted back to her laughter — genuine, unguarded — surrounded by her people. Her support system. Her strength.

She’s not alone, he reminded himself.

And that’s a good thing.

Still…

There was something else.

She hadn’t spoken about the past.

Neither had he.

The distance between them wasn’t measured in kilometers — it was measured in unsaid words.

Virat slid the phone into his pocket and began walking.

Each step echoed — firm, controlled.

I didn’t expect her call, he admitted.

But I needed it.

He stopped near a tall window overlooking the lawns, moonlight spilling in like quiet reassurance.

She called me sir, he thought again, the smile fading slightly.

Not because she sees me above her… but because she respects the uniform.

That thought stayed with him.

Respect was heavier than love sometimes.

He straightened his shoulders.

She’s becoming what she dreamed of, he thought.

And I’m standing where destiny placed me.

Different paths.

Same oath.

Virat looked up at the sky — vast, patient.

“I’m proud of you, Adhya,” he said softly, to no one and to everything.

He turned and walked back into duty.

But somewhere beneath the uniform, beneath the ranks and restraint, something steady had shifted.

Not weakness.

Hope.

And for the first time in a long while, Major Virat Sekhawat slept that night—

not as the ADC to the President,

but as a man reassured that the girl he believed in

was still standing strong.

Sleep refused to come.

Adhya lay on her bed, lights switched off, the room wrapped in stillness broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Her phone lay face-down beside her pillow, silent—but her mind wasn’t.

His voice replayed again.

“I’m proud of you, Adhya. Always.”

The calm firmness of it. The way he said her name. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… sure.

She turned on her side, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling fan cutting through the darkness.

Why now?

Why after so long does one call do this to me?

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Didn’t work.

With a soft sigh, she reached for her phone.

Bas thoda scroll… phir so jaungi.

The screen lit up, casting a pale glow across her face.

Reels.

Her thumb moved lazily.

One reel.

Two reels.

And then—

She froze.

On the screen, Virat appeared—not in crisp formals, not commanding, not guarded.

But smiling.

Soft.

The caption read:

“Major Virat Sekhawat being a complete pookie 🥹🇮🇳”

She blinked, surprised despite herself.

The video was short—just a candid moment caught somewhere. Him adjusting his cap, a corner smile appearing as if he didn’t know the camera was on. No posture. No performance.

Just… him.

Her lips curved before she realized it.

Pookie? she thought, almost scoffing.

Inko pata bhi hai ye kaun hai?

And yet—

Her thumb tapped the heart.

❤️

The like felt harmless. Almost instinctive.

She exhaled and scrolled again.

The screen refreshed.

And suddenly—

It was him.

Everywhere.

One reel turned into five.

Major Virat Sekhawat.

ADC to the President of India.

Marching beside the President.

Standing alert during ceremonies.

Walking two steps behind—eyes sharp, posture unbreakable.

Saluting. Commanding. Present.

Edits with patriotic music.

Slow-motion frames.

Close-ups of sharp eyes and a calm jawline.

She sat up slightly now.

The comments began to pull her in.

“Why is he so fine 😭”

“Nation’s crush officially!”

“I don’t believe men like this exist.”

“President ke saath mother-son vibes 😭❤️”

“If discipline had a face.”

“I’d enlist just to see him once.”

Her throat tightened.

She scrolled slower.

More comments.

More admiration.

More strangers wishing things she once held quietly.

They don’t know him, her mind argued immediately.

They know the rank. The uniform. The image.

She paused at one comment.

“Whoever ends up with him is the luckiest girl alive.”

Her finger hovered.

Her chest felt… strange.

Not jealousy.

Something deeper.

A quiet ache mixed with pride.

They don’t know how he listens.

They don’t know how he remembers small things.

They don’t know the silences he carries.

Another reel played.

Him smiling briefly at something the President said.

The caption:

“When your ADC smiles and the whole nation melts.”

Adhya locked the phone.

The room felt suddenly smaller.

She hugged her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them.

So many people see you now, she thought.

And yet… I heard the same voice tonight that once asked me if I’d eaten properly.

Her heart beat heavier.

She wasn’t angry.

She wasn’t insecure.

She was… human.

And humans feel.

She lay back down, staring at the ceiling again.

I still love him, the thought came quietly, without drama.

But loving him doesn’t mean losing myself.

She breathed in deeply.

I chose my path.

And he chose his.

The reels, the comments, the noise of admiration—all of it existed.

But somewhere beneath that—

There was also the man who remembered her strength, who still said her name the same way.

Her phone buzzed faintly.

A notification.

She didn’t open it.

Instead, she placed the phone beside her, closed her eyes, and whispered softly into the dark—

“Good night, Virat.”

Sleep came slowly.

Not with peace.

But with acceptance.

And somewhere in the quiet, the question lingered—

Was this the end of their story…

Or just the pause before something braver began? 🌙

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~Asii