Destiny's Game : The Ending He Wrote

Copyright

© All Rights Reserved [2026] By Desidreamer_KK

This story means a lot to me. Every character, every emotion, and every scene in Destiny’s Game comes from my imagination and my heart.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

Please do not copy, repost, translate, or adapt this story without my permission.

This story is originally published only on Wattpad and Inkitt. Any copying, adaptation, or reposting on other platforms without my consent is strictly prohibited.

If you are reading this anywhere other than my official accounts, then it has been shared without my permission.

Thank you for respecting my work and supporting me. Your love, votes, and encouragement are the reason stories like this continue to exist.

Content Disclaimer

This story contains themes related to trauma, emotional struggles, coma recovery, and societal judgment. It also includes mature themes and explicit romantic scenes intended for mature audiences.

Some scenes may be sensitive for certain readers. Please read at your own comfort and discretion.

Prologue

“You asked why I stayed with you till now?” he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, clearly enjoying how flustered I was.

I nodded, suddenly serious again. He gave me a reassuring smile, the kind that felt steady, grounded, and continued, “once, my father told me that there are seven stages in love.”

My brows pulled together in curiosity.

Seven stages?

Only my Yash could turn love into a lecture.

He gently lifted my legs and placed them across his lap, massaging them with practiced ease. His touch was warm, steady, familiar. My heart softened at how naturally he took care of me.

“The first stage,” he began thoughtfully, “is dilkashi - attraction.”

He looked up at me, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath slow. “Your hazel eyes always did something to me,” he said quietly.

“They haunted my dreams. I used to search for them in crowds without even realizing it. And when I saw you in Guruvayoor… standing in that lake… with my tulsi mala around your neck…”

His hands paused over my legs. “That was the first time my cherished dream touched reality. I was not just intrigued anymore. I was drawn to you.”

I stared at him, stunned. He remembered everything. Not just the moment, but the feeling.

“The second stage,” he continued, resuming the gentle massage, “is uns - attachment.”

He gave me a small, knowing smile.

“When Professor Sharma asked you to mentor me, you started monitoring me like I was some project. You were strict. Annoyingly observant. Always correcting me.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I was doing my job.”

“Yes,” he said calmly, “and without my knowledge, I became attached. To your presence. To your voice. To the way you spoke with conviction. I started looking forward to your scoldings.”

I shifted closer, resting my chin on my knees while my legs remained in his lap. I watched him with quiet affection as he spoke. “The third stage,” he said softly, “is mohabbat.”

He chuckled under his breath, almost embarrassed. “It sounds childish when I say it out loud. Maybe even dramatic. But it was real.”

“Hey,” I warned playfully, already sensing he was about to say something vulnerable. “No editing your feelings now.”

He reached forward and pinched my nose. “Do not tease me, honey.”

I gasped dramatically and swatted his hand away. “Yash! Do not pinch it like that.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “My apologies, my queen.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to stay serious, but a smile betrayed me. And then, shamelessly, he pinched my nose again.

“Yash!”

He ignored my glare completely.

“You are becoming reckless and stubborn day by day,” I declared. “I will teach you a lesson later. But for now, tell me - when did you fall into mohabbat? When did it turn into love?”

For a second, his ears turned red. He looked down, suddenly very interested in my ankles.

“When you kissed me in the archive,” he admitted quietly.

I blinked. “That was an accident,” I protested.

“You kissed me,” he said firmly. “Accident or not.”

I could feel my own cheeks warming.

“That was the moment I realized it was not infatuation,” he continued. “It was not admiration. It was love. My heart did not race because I was surprised. It raced because it recognized something.”

I quickly composed myself and leaned back, smirking. “Oh please,” I teased. “You fainted just because I kissed you. My poor, fragile baby.”

I reached up and touched his neck gently, pretending to soothe him. His face twisted in shy embarrassment.

“It was your fault,” he muttered under his breath.

“My fault?” I raised a brow.

“Yes,” he said, finally looking at me again. His voice was low but steady now. “Your eyes alone are enough to undo me. And that kiss… it made me lose every ounce of sense I had.”

I shook my head at his confession and gently ruffled his hair, trying to lighten the sudden weight in the air.

“Okay,” I said softly, shifting closer and pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Tell me. What is the fourth stage?”

He looked at me, but something in his eyes had changed. The teasing warmth was still there, yet beneath it lay something heavier. My brows furrowed at the shift.

“The fourth stage is akidat,” he said quietly, a faint, almost regretful smile touching his lips. “Faith. I failed at it once.”

The words settled between us. Before I could respond, he took my hands in his and lifted them to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to my knuckles.

His voice steadied. “But I will not fail again. Not with you. I promise.”

Something inside me softened completely. Without thinking, I leaned forward and kissed his forehead, letting that simple gesture carry all the reassurance I could not form into words.

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against mine.

“The fifth stage is ibadat,” he continued, his voice low and sincere. “Worship. I began to worship you without even realizing it. Your breath. Your eyes. Your voice. Your touch. Your truth. I worshipped your existence so much that I started sketching you into the pages of my diary. Every line I drew felt like a prayer.”

My heart clenched. Before he could continue, I kissed him. Not playfully. Not teasingly.

I silenced him with my lips, swallowing the intensity of his words because if I let him go on, I was certain I would break first.

He froze for a breath, then his hand slid into my hair, holding me close, as though afraid I would dissolve into air if he loosened his grip.

The kiss deepened, not rushed, not desperate, but filled with something steady and consuming.

When we finally parted, our foreheads rested together, lips still brushing.

“The sixth stage is junoon,” he whispered, brushing his mouth against mine once more. “Madness.”

His hand trailed down to the back of my neck, anchoring me there. “I have crossed six stages with you, Charu. Attraction. Attachment. Love. Faith. Worship. Madness.”

His gaze locked onto mine, fierce and unwavering. “And the seventh stage… is death. The kind where love stays even after everything else fades.”

My breath caught.

“After all this,” he continued, his voice firm now, “do you really think I would leave you because of your scars? Because of your past?”

There was no hesitation in him. No doubt.

Only certainty.

I shook my head slowly, surrendering to the depth in his eyes.

“Then do not ever doubt my love again,” he said. “Not even in your worst overthinking moments.”

And when his lips met mine again, it was not playful or teasing.

It was a vow.

His hand tightened slightly at my waist, as though holding on to something fragile and precious, I realized something unsettling.

He had crossed six stages. And he was ready for the seventh.

I did not know whether to feel safe in that certainty….or terrified of how far we were both willing to go.

Dedication

Aesthetics

Yash Menon

He is a quiet, confident bookworm with principles stitched into his spine.

He is a first-year PhD Literature student who takes research seriously, life seriously… and unfortunately, his feelings very seriously too.

He can handle pressure. He can handle arguments. He can handle academic debates like a perfectly composed gentleman.

But one look from her… and he folds like a shy schoolboy (I am not blaming him though 🤭).

He speaks fluently in seminars. Quotes philosophers without blinking. Argues theories like a pro.

And yet, he forgets how to form proper sentences in front of one girl (And unfortunately, it is not because he is bad at talking, he speaks perfectly fine with everyone else. It is simply because he loves her 😮‍💨)

And honestly?

He has absolutely no idea how obvious it is. 👀🦋

Charusheela Ruthu Prabhu

She is bold. Confident. Strong enough to stand in front of this dramatic society and its endless judgments.

She's a final-year PhD Literature scholar.. and trust me, she is brilliant. Too brilliant sometimes. The kind of woman who knows her worth, owns her past, and walks like she answers to no one.🎀

And honestly? She was too good for her own good.

Her type?

Older men. Mature ones. The calm, emotionally stable, “I-have-my-life-together” kind.

What she did not know was that destiny had other plans.😉

Because somehow, out of all the mature men in the world… She was going to fall for her shy, blushing, first-year junior who forgets how to breathe properly around her.

And no, she absolutely did not see that coming.❤️‍🔥

Charu × Yash

(A Small Glimpse Into Their Chaos.🤫)

She (calm and clear) :

“Yes, we can be friends. Only friends.”

He (confused already) :

“Why only friends?”

She (exasperated) :

“Yash, don’t start again.”

He (genuinely curious) :

“Why not?”

She (with dramatic clarity) :

“Because you’re practically a kid in front of me.”

He (offended) :

“Kid? Are you serious right now?”

She (firm, folding her arms) :

“Yes. I’m your senior. You’re my junior. That’s how it is.”

He (in disbelief) :

“I’m only three or four years younger than you!”

She (teasing) :

“Four years is still four years, Mr. Bookworm.”

He (done with life) :

“First I was a nerd. Then a junior. Now a kid. What’s next? Baby brother?”

She (trying not to laugh) :

“If you keep sulking like that… maybe.”

He (dramatically wounded) :

“Unbelievable.”

Tropes

• Red thread of destiny

• Age gap (4 years)

• Senior × junior

• Shy boy × bold girl

• Soft romance

• University love story

• Past trauma

• He fell first (and she fell harder)

Warning

This man does not fall in love casually. He falls permanently.😉🤭

Author's Note

Hi, my lovely readers💗

Welcome to Destiny’s Game. If you’re here, just know you’ve officially stepped into a world of red threads, shy boys, bold divas, and emotions that refuse to behave properly.

I hope this story gives you butterflies, comfort, and maybe a little bit of chaos (the good kind).

And about updates… 👀

See how fast you read this line?

That’s how fast I wish I could shower you with chapters.

But don’t worry.. as long as you stay, support, and scream in the comments, I promise I’ll keep feeding you moments that make you blush at 2 AM.

Stay patient. Stay dramatic.😌

And most importantly… don’t fall too hard for Yash. (Or maybe do. I won’t judge.)

With love,

Your emotionally unstable but consistent author..

Desidreamer_KK

🤭🦋