The morning sunlight filtered into the chamber, casting golden streaks across the polished floor. The soft jingling of bangles filled the air as Subhadra adjusted her bracelets, admiring the delicate glow of gold against her skin. She smiled at her reflection in the bronze mirror, her hair neatly braided with jasmine flowers, their fragrance filling the room. It was a beautiful morning—calm, peaceful, and full of promise.

Or so she thought.

Just as she was about to reach for her anklets, a hurried knock on the door startled her.

Before she could even respond, the door swung open with a sudden force that nearly made her drop the jewelry in her hands.

“Bhadre! Save me!”

The voice was unmistakable—Krishna.

Subhadra turned just in time to see her eldest brother rushing inside, his peacock-feathered crown slightly askew, his usually serene expression replaced with something that looked close to playful desperation. He quickly positioned himself behind her, crouching slightly as if trying to use her as a shield tho it was definitely a failed attempt as she was still smaller than him.

Subhadra blinked in confusion. “From what, bhrata?”

Before Krishna could answer, a chorus of voices called from the hallway.

“Arya!”

The unmistakable sound of multiple feminine voices filled the air, and in moments, his wives entered—led by Satyabhama.

Subhadra let out a slow breath, already understanding the situation.

So, her bhrata Krishna had not come seeking refuge from an enemy, nor was there an urgent matter of state. No, this was something far more dangerous.

His wives were engaged in a debate.

A debate in which Krishna was expected to pick a side.

“You promised you would give us an answer today, Krishna!” Satyabhama was the first to speak, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze fixed on her husband.

“Yes! You cannot escape this time, arya,” Jambavati added, her tone both playful and insistent.

“Arya, you are the one who started this discussion,” Mitravinda reminded him, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Now you must settle it.”

Rukmini sighed, ever the calm one among them. “Everyone, enough please. There is no need to turn this into a battle—”

“This is already a battle, Rukmini didi,” Satyabhama declared dramatically, flipping her hair back with the flourish of a true queen. “And our Krishna must be the judge!”

Krishna, still half-hiding behind Subhadra, smiled serenely, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah, my dear queens, how can I possibly choose among you all? You are each correct in your own way.”

“That is not an answer!” they chorused.

Subhadra sighed, pressing her fingers to her forehead. It was clear now why Krishna had run to her—he did not want to take sides.

And if there was one thing she had learned from her brothers, it was that sometimes, the best way to escape a situation was to change the subject.

With a sweet and playful smile, she tilted her head. “Oh, bhabhi! Why don’t you all tell me what this argument is about?”

Her sisters-in-law immediately turned to her, momentarily distracted from their pursuit.

Now, Krishna, ever the strategist, saw his chance.

“Oh, yes, yes! Let even my little gudiya know,” he said quickly, stepping away from her and attempting to blend into the background.

Jambavati had just opened her mouth to speak when—

“Oh! What is this?”

Krishna’s voice cut through the air, smooth and deliberate.

His gaze had shifted, his expression shifting from amused to… intrigued.

Everyone followed his gaze.

Subhadra’s heart nearly stopped.

Krishna was looking at her painting.

The painting she had made last night.

It was still resting near the window, where the morning light illuminated its details. A hand—a strong, firm hand, painted with delicate strokes, capturing both its power and gentleness.

Subhadra instantly regretted not hiding it away.

Before she could react, her sisters-in-law stepped closer, drawn by curiosity.

“A painting?” Rukmini murmured, her voice warm with admiration.

“It’s quite detailed,” Jambavati observed, stepping closer.

“That’s a man’s hand, isn’t it?” Mitravinda tilted her head.

Satyabhama arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Bhadre, whose hand is this?”

Subhadra stiffened.

The heat rushed to her cheeks so quickly she felt almost lightheaded.

“It’s… it’s nothing, bhabhi Satyabhama,” she said far too quickly. “Just something I imagined!”

Silence.

Then—

“Oh?”

That single word came from Satyabhama, drawn out in intrigue.

“An imagination?” Mitravinda repeated, glancing at the painting again.

“But it looks so real,” Jambavati commented.

“Yes, the way the fingers are drawn—it’s as if you have actually seen them before,” Rukmini said thoughtfully.

Subhadra felt cornered.

She waved her hands frantically, trying to cover up her own flustered state. "It’s just—! I just wanted to practice painting hands!"

She cleared her throat and nodded to herself as if she had just given the most reasonable explanation in the world. "Yes, exactly! I suddenly had this burst of creative energy. You know how it is, right? Inspiration strikes, and you just have to act on it! Completely normal. Absolutely nothing strange about it!"

She flashed a bright, innocent smile, hoping they would just accept her reasoning and move on. But deep down, she knew—that wasn’t the real reason at all.

More silence.

Then, Satyabhama smirked. “Bhadre, are you sure this is just practice?”

“Of course!” Subhadra huffed, crossing her arms.

Rukmini chuckled softly, her voice kind. “It is a beautiful painting, truly. You have such a gift.”

Her warm words seemed to soften the atmosphere. The other wives, momentarily forgetting their previous debate, nodded in agreement.

“Indeed,” Jambavati smiled. “Perhaps you should paint all of us one day. A grand portrait of the family, with all your detailed painting skills, would be lovely.”

Subhadra nodded eagerly, hoping—praying—this would end the conversation.

But Krishna—

Krishna hadn’t said a word about the painting.

He only stood there, watching her silently.

Smiling.

That knowing, gentle smile.

The kind of smile that made her stomach twist in panic.

He knew something.

Subhadra shot him a wary glance, but he said nothing.

And somehow, that made her even more flustered.

She turned back to her painting, her fingers brushing against the edge of the canvas.

Had she really only imagined it?

Or had her dream meant something more?

Krishna’s soft chuckle reached her ears.

And when she looked up—

His gaze was already elsewhere.

As if he already knew the answers she hadn’t even asked yet.

*****

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Yet, the dreams never left her.

At first, they were fleeting—shadows brushing against the edges of her mind, whispers she could barely catch upon waking. But as time passed, the images became clearer, lingering like the scent of jasmine on a warm summer night.

The man—always there, yet never whole.

Each time, her mind only captured a part of him. Sometimes, it was his strong back, broad and unwavering, like a warrior standing firm against the wind. Other times, she caught a glimpse of his hair from behind—dark and flowing, strands falling effortlessly over his shoulders as though kissed by the night itself. And then, there were moments when she saw his smile—a warm, fleeting curve of his lips that made her heart feel light, yet strangely full.

But never all at once.

Never his face.

It was as if the gods themselves were toying with her, offering pieces of a puzzle she did not know how to complete.

And yet, despite this, there was always a feeling. A presence.

She could not explain it, but whenever she dreamed of him, she felt safe. As if, even though she did not know him, even though she had never met him in waking life, he was someone she could trust. Someone she could lean on.

Someone she had been waiting for.

But waiting for what?

Who was he? Why did he appear only in her dreams?

Every morning, as she awoke from those dreams, her fingers instinctively reached for her paintbrush. She tried to capture what she could remember before the images faded like mist under the rising sun. Each painting became a piece of a mystery she did not know how to solve.

The curve of his jawline. The strength in his hands. The way his hair moved as though carrying the whispers of the wind.

She painted them all.

Yet, she kept them hidden.

Tucked away in the deepest corners of her chamber, away from prying eyes. Not even Krishna, with his all-knowing gaze, had seen them.

She told herself it was foolishness. That it meant nothing.

And yet—she could not bring herself to destroy them.

Sometimes, when the moonlight streamed into her room and the city was silent, she would find herself sitting before those paintings, staring at them as if they held an answer she had yet to understand.

Her gaze would drift upward, settling on the moon through the open window, its soft glow bathing her chamber in silver.

She exhaled, tilting her head slightly. "You see this too, don’t you?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "You must know, don’t you? You watch over everything."

The moon, silent and ever-watchful, offered no response.

Subhadra sighed, leaning forward, resting her chin in her hands. "Why do you always pretend to be so mysterious?" she continued, her tone playful yet tinged with frustration. "Kanha bhaiya is like that too, always knowing things and never telling me anything. I think you two would get along well."

She let out a small chuckle at her own words, shaking her head.

"Or maybe…" she trailed off, staring at the paintings again. "Maybe I’m just being foolish."

Her fingers traced the edge of one of the canvases, her touch light, as if she feared that acknowledging it too much would make it real. "He keeps appearing, night after night," she muttered. "But only in pieces. A hand, a smile, the back of his hair… Never all at once."

She looked back at the moon, her brows furrowing slightly. "Why is that?" she asked, tilting her head. "Do you think it’s some sort of trick? Am I meant to guess who he is?"

The moon still said nothing, but its glow remained steady, unwavering, as if patiently listening.

"You must know the answer," she accused, pointing a finger at it. "You must! You were there every night I dreamed of him."

She let out a breath, leaning back on her hands. "Yet you won’t tell me, will you?"

Silence stretched between them. The night breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of the ocean, ruffling the loose strands of her hair.

Subhadra smiled wistfully. "That’s alright," she murmured. "Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I’m not supposed to know yet."

She rested her head against her knee, watching the moonlight dance over her paintings. "Maybe I’m just imagining things," she admitted softly.

Or maybe… something awaited her beyond what she could see.

The moon gave no answers, but it stayed with her, listening, watching, just as it always had.

She exhaled, turning away from the window. "You won’t tell me anything," she said with a tired smile. "But if you know something, at least promise me this—watch over me, will you?"

The moon remained steady in the sky, its glow neither brightening nor dimming.

Subhadra took that as a yes.

She was still young, and there was much to do. Lessons to learn, duties to fulfill, memories to make with her family.

Her life was here, in Dwarka, surrounded by those she loved.

If fate willed it, then one day, she would meet him.

Until then, she would wait.

To be continued

Note : I publish 3 bcs I can't help it. I don't want to cut the story and let you wait. Well I'm actually the one that cannot wait. I want to share this as soon as I could possibly manage. It's never perfect but hope you love it still ❤😆