Kabir asks. Prangya answers. The room was unusually quiet. Outside, rain tapped gently against the window. Kabir had a notebook in his hand—not because he wanted to write, but because he wanted to remember. Every answer. Every pause. Every smile that appeared before a difficult truth. He looked at Prangya. Kabir: If I ask you a hundred questions today... will you answer all of them? Prangya: If they're honest questions... yes. Kabir smiled. Kabir: What's your favourite colour? Prangya: White... philosophically. It's a mixture of seven different colours, and I love that idea. But if you ask me what I actually prefer... probably black. White demands perfection. One stain and everyone notices. Black carries its scars quietly. Kabir looked up from his notebook. Kabir: That's a very "you" answer. She laughed. Kabir: Favourite song? Prangya: I don't think I have one. I like soothing songs... calming songs. But more than music... I like talking to someone....
A promise to love you till my eternity...