The MARTA train rumbled beneath their feet, the car swaying gently as it sped through tunnels etched in steel and shadow. The world outside was a blur of graffiti-tagged concrete, patches of Atnta skyline, and fshes of te-autumn trees shedding color like a sigh.

  Bharath sat near the window, his arm draped over Marisol’s shoulder, fingers tracing zy circles into her upper arm. Marisol leaned into him, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her silky hair tickling his chin.

  Neither spoke for the first few minutes. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was full-rich with all they’d left behind and all they still didn’t know how to name.

  "I keep thinking about her," Marisol said finally, not lifting her head.

  Bharath didn’t need to ask who. "Yeah."

  "She was so close to breaking."

  He nodded slowly. "I felt it too. That edge. The kind of edge that doesn’t show itself until you’re already halfway over it."

  Marisol shifted slightly, lifting her face to look at him. "We can’t let her go back there, Bharath."

  "We won’t," he said without hesitation. "She’s with the gang tonight. That’s a start."

  "She should be ughing now. Dancing. Being goofy with Cami and Tyrel and Jorge. That’s good. She needs that energy."

  He smiled faintly. "And she needs us."

  "We’re her roots now," Marisol murmured. "And we can’t let her feel like she has to beg for that love."

  He tightened his hold on her. "I don’t think she will again. Not after today."

  Marisol was quiet for a long moment, then added, "We’ll keep reminding her. Every day. Until she doesn’t just believe it-she knows it."

  They reached their bus connection and slipped into two empty seats near the back. The hum of tires on asphalt joined the soft drone of quiet conversation from the front rows.

  As the bus pulled away from the station, Bharath turned to her.

  "Can I be honest with you?"

  Marisol raised an eyebrow, amused. "You’re naked around me most of the time. You better be."

  He grinned, but it faded quickly.

  "I’ve been thinking about what your mom said st time."

  Marisol’s body stilled, her posture shifting upright. "What part?"

  "About… reality. About what it means to love someone outside your world."

  Marisol turned toward him fully now, her eyes steady. "You mean how none of your friends or family know about me. Or Sarah."

  Bharath winced. "Yeah."

  She didn’t flinch. "It’s okay, Bharath. I get it."

  "I want to change that," he said. "Eventually. But it’s going to take time."

  "You’re scared," she said softly.

  He hesitated. "I’m scared of them not seeing you both the way I do. Of them seeing you as-"

  "Foreign," she finished for him. "American. Christian. Brown, but not the right kind of brown."

  He swallowed. "It’s not fair."

  "No. But it’s true."

  They sat with that for a while. The bus passed a pyground, empty and shadowed in the afternoon light.

  "I haven’t told them anything," Bharath said. "Not even about you. Not because I’m ashamed-but because I don’t know how."

  Marisol nodded. "And if they don’t accept us?"

  He reached for her hand. "I’m not going back home for a long time. We have time to figure it out. But I know this much already-"

  He leaned closer, forehead to hers.

  "I can’t live without you. Either of you."

  Her breath hitched. "You really mean that."

  "I do."

  She drew in a breath, her voice quieter now. "Tell me about them. Your family. The real story."

  Bharath was silent for a beat. Then he said, "I’m an only child. My dad runs an IT company. My amma’s a homemaker. They’re old-school. Educated, loving, generous... but they live in a world with expectations."

  "Which you’re already defying by just being here," Marisol said gently.

  "Exactly. And if I tell them I’m in love with not one but two American girls? One of whom is Catholic and the other Jewish by ancestry, both outspoken, beautiful, proud, and not Tamil?"

  Marisol gave a soft ugh. "Their heads would explode."

  "I don’t want to spring this on them," Bharath said. "Not without a pn. Right now, they’re just happy I’m doing well. Making friends. Top of my css. Settling into Atnta. I want them to be able to see us and the love we have first - not just make judgements hearing about you."

  "You’re not hiding us," Marisol said. "You’re protecting everyone from emotional combustion."

  He nodded slowly. "But I never want you-either of you-to think I’m not proud of you. That I’m ashamed. You’re my whole world now."

  Her eyes softened. "We know. But let’s come up with a strategy. We have time."

  Marisol tilted her head toward him, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand as the bus rattled forward. Her lips pursed slightly, thoughtful, like she was already assembling a pn in her head - something tender, stubborn, and fiercely her.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

  Bharath raised an eyebrow, wary and charmed. “Do I get a vote?”

  She ignored him. “Sarah and I are going to start learning. Not performative, not surface-level. I mean real learning. About your life. Your culture. The nguage, the food, the stuff you miss but never talk about. We’ll figure out what your parents value, and we’ll meet them there.”

  “Marisol-”

  “I’m serious,” she interrupted gently, squeezing his hand. “We don’t need to become someone we’re not. But we can understand where you came from. Because if we’re going to be with you-really be with you-then that means loving your world too.”

  He blinked at her. “You’d really do that?”

  She smiled. “Of course. And not just for your parents. For you. We’re already building a life together - but I want to build it on solid ground. Sarah and I were talking about it the other day, actually. Joking, mostly, but… the truth was there.”

  He tilted his head. “What truth?”

  “That if this keeps going the way it’s going,” she said, softer now, “someday we might follow you. Even back to India. If you don’t stay here after school.”

  He was stunned silent.

  “I mean, obviously not tomorrow,” she added, ughing at his expression. “But you said you weren’t sure where you’ll end up long term. And Sarah and I already agreed - we’re not letting you go wherever that is, we’re going with you.”

  Bharath’s throat went tight.

  “So,” Marisol continued, “we figured we better start preparing. If you ever go back, your world won’t bend for us. We’ll have to meet it halfway.”

  He stared at her, his heart thudding.

  “We’ll start small,” she went on, more practically now. “You teach us the basics of Tamil. Just enough to make your amma smile if she ever hears us try. You tell us what comfort food tastes like for you - and we’ll cook it together. You show us what rituals mattered growing up..”

  Bharath swallowed hard. “You’d do all that?”

  Marisol looked him straight in the eye. “Of course. Because loving you doesn’t stop at you. It’s the you that was shaped by Chennai, and ritual, and tradition.”

  Bharath smiled, but there was a wetness in his eyes.

  “I haven’t had my amma’s rasam since I left. She used to make it whenever I got sick. She’d sit by my bed, rubbing my head with oil and humming this old P Sushee song.”

  Marisol’s fingers ced through his. “Then teach us how to make it. We’ll mess it up the first time. But I want to know what comfort tasted like for you.”

  His breath shuddered out.

  “But,” she added with a little grin, “we’ll need your help. You have to be patient with us. I can’t pronounce half the stuff you say when you’re flustered. And I don’t even know where to begin with your food. I once thought paneer was a type of bread.”

  He ughed. Loud and warm, his forehead falling to hers.

  “You don’t have to do any of that just to prove something to my parents.”

  “We’re not doing it for them,” she corrected gently. “We’re doing it because we love you. But if they see how much we’re willing to learn, to try - maybe that’s what opens the door.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly.

  “Sometimes I worry,” Bharath said softly, “that if this ever gets too hard - too Indian, too complicated - you both will decide it’s not worth it.”

  She kissed his chest. “That’s not even on the table.”

  Marisol looked up, voice fierce but calm. “We didn’t fall in love with ease. We fell in love with you. That means we stay-even in the storm.”

  “You deserve every ounce of love we give you. And more.”

  He reached for her, pulling her close. The leather seat creaked as she slid into his p sideways, arms around his neck. He kissed her hair, her cheek, the edge of her jaw.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  Marisol kissed him back, slowly, deeply. “I know.”

  When they pulled apart, she added, “And for the record, Sarah’s already making fshcards.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “She made me guess five Tamil words yesterday. I got one right.”

  He chuckled again, stunned and moved. “You two are unbelievable.”

  “No,” Marisol murmured. “We’re yours. That’s the difference. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up like your backup dancers-ssh-devotional wives. Sarah’s already making pns.”

  Bharath choked. “What? That’s a weird thing to joke about.”

  Marisol shrugged, smirking. “I mean, you do have a certain cult-leader charisma. We’re just saying… hypothetically, if Mia ends up at Tech too-”

  “Absolutely not,” Bharath said quickly, hands up. “That’s wrong. That’s… she’s your sister!”

  “Rex,” Marisol teased. “We’re kidding. Mostly.”

  Sarah’s voice, faint in his memory, echoed: But it wouldn’t be the worst thing to watch.

  He shifted in his seat. Bad idea to remember that while sitting on vinyl.