Selene's POV
The living room was filled with an easy kind of chaos—the kind that comes before a grand celebration. Luggage lay half-zipped, travel pouches scattered, dresses carefully folded on backs of chairs. Ayra was buzzing with excitement, packing and repacking her sandals while Mira and Amara fought over who got to carry the polaroid camera.
Antonio stood at the doorway with his suitcase already ready, watching the rest of us like we were a sitcom. He chuckled and walked over, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"Still can't believe Luna's getting married," I whispered, leaning into him.
He kissed the side of my head. "And we get to be there for it. With everyone."
Earlier that morning, we'd all congratulated Luna over breakfast. Devina had pulled her into a tight hug, whispering blessings only mothers could give. Ayra danced with her like they were twelve again. Even Antonio's usually reserved father smiled and told her, "Make sure the man is brave enough to stand next to your fire."
And now we were hours away from flying to India. Goa. Beaches. Haldi. Sangeet. Love in full bloom.
The flight from Paris felt like a dream stretched over soft clouds and laughter.
We flew as a group—Antonio, me, Ayra, Mira, Amara, and our parents. Devina had her novel open the whole time, but I noticed her glance up often with a fond smile whenever Antonio and I shared headphones. My dad slept most of the journey, and Ayra's mom—Aunt Melinda—traded memories with my mom like they were old schoolgirls catching up.
When we finally landed in Goa, the warm air kissed our skin, and the scent of salt and hibiscus welcomed us like home. A wedding planner stood at the arrival gate holding a card with our names, and a trail of vibrant marigold garlands led us to waiting cars.
Antonio grinned as we slid into the back seat. "Ready for three days of dancing, sunshine, and Luna in full bridezilla mode?"
I laughed. "As long as you're dancing with me, I'm ready for it all."
He reached into his pocket and held out a tiny seashell pendant. "Then consider this your pre-wedding good luck charm."
My heart swelled as I clasped it around my neck.
Outside the window, the palm trees swayed and the sun dipped behind pastel skies. Inside the car, our fingers were laced tightly, our journey woven into the golden roads of Goa.
Luna's wedding had begun.
The wedding unfolded like a dream painted in vibrant hues—Day 1 started with the Mehendi ceremony beneath swaying palms, the ocean breeze carrying the scent of henna and jasmine. I sat in a circle of women, my hands etched with intricate vines that held Antonio's initials hidden deep within the swirls. Laughter echoed as Mira and Amara danced barefoot in the sand, Ayra twirling with a flower crown, and Luna glowing in lime-green silk, cheeks flushed with joy. Day 2, the Haldi, was chaos in the best way—turmeric paste smeared across cheeks and arms, our skin glowing under the golden sun, as Luna shrieked and laughed, drenched in love and rosewater. Antonio pulled me aside after, brushing a thumb over the yellow streak on my neck before whispering, "You'd look beautiful even in full haldi armor," making my heart leap. And then came Day 3—the wedding. Luna walked down a candlelit aisle in a crimson lehenga, her groom waiting with tear-filled eyes. The beach held its breath as vows were exchanged under a mandap draped in ivory silk. We clapped, we cried, and under a moonlit sky, Antonio and I stole a moment by the shoreline, barefoot in the waves, his forehead resting against mine as music echoed behind us. "Someday," he murmured, "this will be us." And for once, I didn't fear the future. I embraced it.
The reception night glittered with fairy lights and slow dances, the Goan sky embroidered in stars as Luna—now Mrs. Luna Shrestha—glowed beside Aarav, her half-Nepali, half-Indian groom who looked at her like she held the universe in her palms. I watched them sway to soft music, Aarav whispering in her ear as she laughed, and my heart warmed knowing Luna had found the kind of love that felt like home.
The next morning was bittersweet.
After tearful hugs, endless group selfies, and promises to reunite soon, we boarded the flight back to Paris. Antonio laced his fingers with mine the entire way, occasionally pressing soft kisses to the back of my hand while Ayra leaned against Mira, fast asleep. Amara was busy sorting through her photos, already planning her wedding Pinterest board.
Back in Paris, the city felt colder—but comfortingly familiar. Our apartment welcomed us with its wooden floors and the faint scent of eucalyptus from the diffuser I'd left behind. As Antonio unlocked the door, he looked over his shoulder, smirked, and said, "Back to our little world, firefly."
I stepped inside and turned to face him. "And ready for whatever it holds next."
He kissed my forehead gently, his arms closing around me in the warmth of coming home—not just to a place, but to each other.