The Map of 2026 for Nasdaq

Poonam first noticed the year the way she noticed Krishna’s silences—quietly, from the corner of her vision, before it became the whole room.

It was late, the kind of late where the world doesn’t end so much as it fades, and the street below their apartment had turned into a ribbon of amber lights. The fan above them hummed in steady circles, and Krishna sat at the dining table with his laptop open, shoulders slightly forward, as if his spine had agreed to carry the weight of tomorrow.

Poonam watched him from the kitchen doorway, her hands damp from rinsing cups that didn’t need rinsing. She had been married to Krishna long enough to know the difference between his tiredness and his focus. Tiredness made him slow. Focus made him still.

Tonight he was still.

On the screen, an Excel sheet glowed like a pale moon. Rows of dates. Columns of tickers. Numbers that looked small until you understood how loud they could become.

She walked over without making sound. She didn’t want to startle him. She didn’t want to break the spell he lived inside when he studied, when he chased patterns with the kind of devotion other men reserved for gods.

Krishna looked up anyway, as if he could feel her approaching the way a trader can feel a market shift without seeing the candle.

“You’re awake,” he said softly.

Poonam leaned over his shoulder and pretended she was looking at the sheet, not at the line between his eyebrows, not at the slight dryness of his lips, not at how the lamp made him look almost carved out of light.

“You were too quiet,” she answered. “That’s always suspicious.”

A faint smile touched his face and disappeared quickly, the way profits do when you stare at them too long.

Poonam read the header on the file and the words made her blink, as if she’d found a diary. NASDAQ 100 Stocks – Intraday Seasonality.

“Is this your new obsession?” she asked, because teasing was her safest way to step close to his seriousness.

Krishna’s fingers hovered over the trackpad. “It’s not obsession,” he said, but his voice betrayed him. “It’s… a map.”

Poonam let the word settle between them.

A map.

She didn’t speak like that about numbers. She spoke like that about people. About love. About the little lanes in her hometown, about the route you take in a storm because you know which corners flood and which ones don’t. For Krishna to call an Excel sheet a map meant it had become something more than data; it meant he trusted it. It meant he feared something enough to hold on to it.

“What are you mapping?” she asked.

Krishna scrolled, slow and careful. Dates flickered past like days of a life. “2026,” he said. “Each trading day. Three longs. Three shorts. Probabilities. Averages. Medians. It’s the market’s memory.”

Poonam’s eyes landed on a date at random: a clean row with tickers arranged like names in a wedding invitation. Some were familiar—AAPL, TSLA, NVDA—famous the way film stars are famous. Some were less familiar, but they still looked like characters. The sheet didn’t feel like an instrument. It felt like a cast list.

“Does it tell you what will happen?” she asked.

Krishna’s mouth tightened. “It tells me what has happened,” he corrected. “Over and over. If I’m humble enough to listen.”

Poonam looked at his profile, at the angle of his jaw, at the calm that didn’t come from certainty but from preparation. She knew that about him: Krishna did not like being surprised. He did not like chaos. He did not like emotions that arrived without warning.

And yet he had married her.

Poonam, whose love arrived like rain—unexpected, unstoppable, soaking everything.

She slid into the chair beside him, their knees almost touching. “So what does your map say about us?” she asked lightly, even though the question was heavy.

Krishna didn’t laugh. He didn’t deflect. He glanced at her and something softened behind his eyes, something that always made Poonam feel both powerful and fragile at the same time.

“It says,” he murmured, “that we have a year.”

Poonam blinked. “That’s all?”

Krishna’s hand rested on the table, palm open, the way he held space for a decision. “That’s everything,” he said.

Poonam’s throat tightened for no reason she wanted to admit. She reached for his open palm and placed her hand on it, warm skin against warm skin, her wedding ring cold for a second before it warmed to him. She liked how his palm always felt steady. She liked how steadiness could be a kind of romance.

“You should sleep,” she told him, because she loved him more than she loved her own desire to keep him close. “Your eyes are red.”

Krishna looked at her like he was trying to decide what to obey: her words or the pull of the sheet. Then, as if making a trade, he closed the laptop—slowly, deliberately, like placing a lid on a fire.

“Okay,” he said.

Poonam felt relief so sharp it almost hurt. She didn’t show it. She just stood, pulled him up by the hand, and guided him to bed the way she guided him through stress: gently, without making him feel he was being carried.

In the dark, Krishna lay on his back, and Poonam curled into him, her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing absent-minded circles on his chest. His heartbeat was strong, a constant rhythm. Poonam closed her eyes and listened to it.

She thought about the sheet.

Three longs. Three shorts. UP%. DOWN%. Average move. Median move.

The market’s memory.

And then she thought about Krishna’s memory: the way he remembered her tea preference without asking, the way he remembered the date they met, the way he remembered the one time she cried in a movie and pretended it was the popcorn.

Poonam loved Krishna more than herself. It wasn’t dramatic in the way novels make it—no grand declarations every day, no constant fireworks. It was quieter than that. It was the way she woke before him and checked whether the blanket covered his feet. It was the way she swallowed her own worries if it meant he could breathe easier. It was the way she could feel his stress rise like a tide and she would become shore.

“Poonam,” Krishna said, voice sleepy.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

He turned his face slightly, lips brushing her hair. “For being the one place I don’t have to predict.”

Poonam swallowed, her eyes suddenly wet in the dark. She kissed the hollow at his throat because it was the closest place she could reach and because she needed to do something with the love that was too large to stay inside her.

“Always,” she whispered. “I’m yours. Even on red days.”

Krishna’s arm tightened around her.

Outside, the city slept.

Inside, the year began.

• 
  

January arrived not like a single moment but like a slow opening of curtains.

It was the first trading week of the year, and Krishna woke early every morning, not because he wanted to, but because his mind did not understand rest when there was a market to face. Poonam would wake a few minutes after him, like a shadow made of devotion, and find him at the table with the laptop open again.

The sheet was their third presence at breakfast.

Krishna would sip coffee and scan the rows. Poonam would butter toast and glance at the tickers the way someone glances at names in a dream.

Some mornings Krishna spoke to her in numbers. “This day has strong long bias,” he would say. “Historically. But the short side is sharp too. Don’t get arrogant.”

Poonam would nod, but her mind translated: strong long bias meant a day that wanted to rise, a day that might be kinder. Sharp shorts meant hidden blades.

Sometimes she watched Krishna’s face more than the sheet. She saw how his shoulders loosened on certain dates, the way a man relaxes in a room he trusts. She saw how he tensed on others, especially when certain names appeared—TSLA again, MSTR again—like recurring storms.

“You’re frowning,” she said one morning, sliding a plate toward him.

Krishna didn’t look up. “TSLA is there,” he murmured. “But not where I want it.”

Poonam leaned over. She saw it: TSLA sitting on the list like a spark near dry grass.

“To me,” she said lightly, “TSLA looks like a lover who doesn’t know how to be faithful.”

Krishna finally smiled. “That’s not wrong.”

Poonam loved that she could make him smile. She loved that she could do it even with tickers and percentages. She loved him so much she felt it in places she didn’t know love could live—in her wrists, in her knees, in the small hollow behind her collarbone.

By mid-January, Krishna had taken trades that worked and trades that didn’t. He handled both the same way: quietly, with the discipline of someone who had learned that celebrating too much could be as dangerous as panicking.

Poonam tried to match him. She tried to be calm when he was calm, and soft when he was sharp.

But love has its own volatility.

One night, after the market closed and Krishna looked up from his notes with eyes that seemed older than morning, Poonam asked, “Are you happy?”

Krishna blinked as if she’d asked him something absurd.

“Of course,” he said. “Why?”

Poonam didn’t know how to explain. She wanted to say: You look like someone fighting a war every day. You look like someone who can’t rest even in victory. You look like someone who thinks love is another chart he has to read.

Instead she said, “Just… tell me. Sometimes.”

Krishna reached across the table and touched her cheek with his fingertips. His touch was light, reverent.

“I’m happy,” he said, and his voice was steady enough that Poonam believed him. Then he added, softer, “I’m happiest when you’re near. Even if I don’t say it.”

Poonam’s eyes burned. She covered his hand with both of hers, like protecting a flame.

“Say it anyway,” she whispered. “Because I love you more than myself, Krishna, and sometimes I need to hear that you’re still here with me.”

Krishna’s gaze changed. It wasn’t the gaze he used for charts. It was the gaze he used for her, the one that made Poonam feel like she was the only safe asset in his life.

“I’m here,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Poonam nodded, pretending the promise didn’t shake her.

Outside, January moved forward.

Inside, Poonam began to realize that the year wouldn’t just test trades. It would test tenderness.

• 
  

February arrived with a gentler light.

Krishna said it was statistically one of the better long climates—days that leaned upward more often than not, at least for the top long picks the sheet suggested. Poonam didn’t understand the mathematics deeply, but she understood the tone. Krishna’s voice changed when he spoke about February. It softened, as if the month had already given him permission to breathe.

On a day when the sheet showed unusually high confidence—numbers that looked almost perfect—Krishna closed the laptop before market open.

Poonam stared. “What happened? Did the map break?”

Krishna’s mouth twitched. “No. I’m taking a day.”

Poonam’s chest warmed with surprise. “Why?”

Krishna stood, walked around the table, and pulled her gently out of her chair. “Because the map doesn’t matter if I lose what I’m walking for.”

Poonam’s throat tightened. She looked up at him. Krishna rarely spoke like a poet. He didn’t know how to be dramatic. When he said something beautiful, it was because it was true.

They went out.

Not far. Just a long walk through the city streets, where the winter air was still present but softer now, and the sun felt like it was trying again. Poonam held Krishna’s hand in her pocket, both their fingers tangled under the fabric as if hiding.

At a small tea stall, Krishna ordered for her without asking. Poonam watched him and smiled because she loved how his love showed up in these small certainties.

They sat on a low wall near a park, sipping tea, watching children run in circles like the world had never learned fear.

Krishna looked at her and said, “Tell me something.”

Poonam blinked. “What?”

“Tell me something you want in 2026,” he said.

Poonam’s heart sped up. She could have said many things: a trip, a new home, peace, health. But the truth rose out of her like breath.

“I want you,” she said simply. “I want you to be okay.”

Krishna’s eyes held hers. “And what about you?”

Poonam swallowed. “I’m okay if you are.”

Krishna’s brow tightened. “That’s not fair,” he said softly.

Poonam tried to smile. “Love isn’t fair.”

Krishna reached out, thumb brushing her knuckles. “Poonam,” he murmured, “you don’t have to disappear to love me.”

Poonam looked away, suddenly embarrassed. She didn’t know how to explain the depth of it—how her love for him felt like the first and last truth of her life, how she would sacrifice her comfort without thinking if it meant he slept one more hour.

Krishna’s voice grew even softer. “Promise me something,” he said.

Poonam looked back. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll love yourself too,” Krishna said. “Because I don’t want a life where you’re only a shadow behind me.”

Poonam’s eyes stung. “I don’t know how.”

Krishna leaned closer, forehead touching hers. “Then we’ll learn,” he whispered. “Together.”

Poonam closed her eyes and breathed him in. She wanted to believe she could learn.

But even if she couldn’t, she knew one thing: she would try, because Krishna asked.

That was the power of his love. It made her want to become whole.

February passed like a warm hand at the small of her back.

• 
  

By March, the air shifted again.

Not outside—the weather was still gentle—but inside Krishna. The market began to feel sharper. The sheet warned of stronger short climates. Poonam saw the way Krishna’s jaw tightened on certain mornings, the way he spoke less, the way he stared at the tickers like they were enemies he needed to understand before they hurt him.

MSTR appeared again on the short list.

NVDA appeared again, sometimes on the short side like brilliance that had climbed too fast.

WBD appeared like drama, persistent, unavoidable.

Poonam began to think of the short list as the list of temptations and betrayals.

One evening, Krishna came home later than usual. He wasn’t out at an office—he worked from the same table, same chair—but he had stayed inside the market longer than he should have. Poonam could tell by the way his shoulders slumped, by the way he stood in the doorway without entering, as if crossing into home required effort.

She walked to him immediately and took his bag, even though it was light. She guided him to the sofa and sat beside him, her hand on his knee.

“Hard day?” she asked gently.

Krishna exhaled. “Bad execution.”

Poonam hated that phrase. It sounded like a crime. She wanted to tell him he was allowed to be human. Instead she said, “I made dinner.”

Krishna nodded, eyes unfocused. His mind was still in the candles.

Poonam’s love rose like a tide. She wanted to climb inside his head and pull him out. She wanted to wipe the stress off his skin with her hands.

She moved closer, her head against his shoulder. “Talk to me,” she whispered.

Krishna’s voice was hoarse. “I don’t want to scare you.”

Poonam almost laughed, the sound broken. “I married you, Krishna. I’m not made of paper.”

Krishna turned his face to her, and she saw it—fear. Not of the market. Of failing her.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to do this right.”

Poonam cupped his face with both hands. “You don’t have to be perfect,” she said. “You just have to come back to me.”

Krishna’s eyes softened. “I always come back,” he whispered.

Poonam kissed him then, slow and steady, not because she wanted romance but because she wanted to anchor him in something real.

For a moment, Krishna melted into her.

For a moment, the market vanished.

That night, when he finally slept, Poonam lay awake and stared at the ceiling. She thought about the sheet. About the months. About how certain seasons were kinder and some were crueler.

And she thought: if the market had seasons, love did too.

If March was sharp, then she would become softer.

If September would be harsh—as Krishna’s numbers hinted—then she would become stronger.

She would do anything.

Because she loved Krishna more than herself.

• 
  

April arrived like a clean breath after tension.

Krishna’s mood steadied. The sheet’s tone softened. The long lists seemed less chaotic. Poonam watched Krishna regain his rhythm, his rituals returning: wake, coffee, scan, plan, execute, note.

One evening, Krishna surprised her by bringing home a small plant in a clay pot.

Poonam blinked. “What is this?”

Krishna shrugged, a little awkward. “Something green. Something that grows even if you don’t predict it.”

Poonam’s heart fluttered. She held the plant like it was a gift from another lifetime.

“You bought me a plant,” she said, smiling.

Krishna looked almost embarrassed. “Don’t make it big.”

Poonam laughed. “Everything you do is big to me.”

Krishna looked at her, gaze steady. “That’s what scares me,” he admitted.

Poonam’s smile softened. “Then let me scare you,” she murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

In April, they started talking about small dreams: painting the bedroom a different color, visiting her parents again, taking a short trip somewhere with water.

Krishna listened. He didn’t promise everything, but he didn’t dismiss it either. For Krishna, listening was a form of love.

And Poonam, who had spent years offering love like oxygen, began to realize she was receiving it too, in quiet doses.

April held them gently.

• 
  

May arrived with heat.

Not just weather, but movement. The market’s energy changed. Krishna spoke about May’s long strength, about how the sheet often suggested strong upward tendencies in this month, and how certain days had unusual bursts—big average moves, the kind traders chase and fear.

Poonam saw the effect on Krishna. He became more alert, more alive, as if the month had poured electricity into him.

One morning, Krishna looked at the sheet and said, “This day has fire.”

Poonam leaned in. “Fire like good fire or bad fire?”

Krishna’s mouth lifted. “Both.”

Poonam watched him trade that day. She sat beside him quietly, not interfering, only existing as a steady presence. She saw his hands move with practiced precision, his eyes tracking, his mind calculating.

By afternoon, Krishna leaned back and exhaled, his shoulders dropping.

“Good?” Poonam asked.

Krishna nodded once. “Good.”

Poonam felt relief flood her.

She realized then how much of her own emotional climate depended on his. When he was okay, she was okay. When he was hurt, she bled too.

That night, May’s heat softened into something intimate. Krishna came to bed earlier than usual. He pulled Poonam close and held her like he was afraid she might slip away.

“Poonam,” he whispered into her hair, “why do you love me like this?”

Poonam’s eyes filled. She didn’t know how to explain. She could list reasons—his integrity, his discipline, his quiet kindness. But love wasn’t a list.

“It’s just… you,” she said, voice trembling. “You feel like home.”

Krishna’s hand slid up her back, slow, calming. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

Poonam lifted her head and looked at him fiercely. “Don’t say that,” she said. “You don’t get to decide you don’t deserve me. I chose you.”

Krishna stared at her, stunned.

Poonam’s voice softened. “And I will keep choosing you,” she whispered. “Even if the market is cruel. Even if the year is hard. Even if I have to love you through storms.”

Krishna’s eyes glistened. He kissed her forehead like a vow.

May wrapped around them like heat, like momentum.

• 
  

June brought balance, the mid-year pause that felt like a breath held and released.

Krishna became more careful. He said June’s tone was moderate, not as explosive as May, not as soft as February. He spoke about protecting profits, avoiding overconfidence, respecting the market.

Poonam respected his respect. She loved how disciplined he was, even when it meant he refused to chase what looked tempting. She loved how he could say no to greed.

She wished she could say no to fear.

One afternoon, while Krishna was on a break, Poonam brought him lunch and sat across from him, watching him eat. She noticed the faint dark circles under his eyes. She noticed the way he chewed slowly, mind elsewhere.

“Krishna,” she said quietly, “are you tired of this life?”

Krishna paused mid-bite. “No,” he said, but his voice was careful.

Poonam leaned forward. “Then what are you tired of?”

Krishna swallowed. He set the fork down. He looked at her like he was standing at the edge of a truth.

“I’m tired of feeling like I have to be strong every minute,” he admitted.

Poonam’s chest tightened.

She reached across the table and held his hand. “You don’t,” she whispered. “Not with me.”

Krishna’s eyes softened. “But you look at me like…” He stopped, searching for words. “…like I’m the sun.”

Poonam’s throat burned. She looked down at their hands. “You are,” she whispered.

Krishna’s thumb brushed her knuckles. “Poonam,” he said, “I want to be your husband, not your god.”

Poonam laughed softly, broken. “Then be my husband,” she said. “And let me love you too much sometimes. It’s the only way I know.”

Krishna’s gaze held hers. “Then I’ll learn to receive it,” he said. “Even when it scares me.”

June passed with small gentleness, like a market that doesn’t move dramatically but still demands attention.

• 
  

July arrived warm and steady.

The long lists continued to show strength in many places, and Krishna’s mood stayed mostly stable. Poonam began to relax, a little. She began to believe they could have a year without breaking.

They started taking evening walks again. Sometimes Krishna talked about tickers like people—TSLA as passion, AAPL as reliability, NFLX as drama, AVGO as silent strength. Poonam loved it when he did that, because it meant he was letting her world into his. He was letting romance leak into his numbers.

One night, on a quiet street where the air smelled like rain, Krishna stopped walking suddenly.

Poonam looked up. “What?”

Krishna’s gaze was fixed on a small jewelry shop window. Inside, a ring sparkled under harsh light.

Poonam blinked. “We’re already married,” she said, amused.

Krishna looked at her. “I know.”

Poonam’s smile softened. “Then why are you staring at rings like you’re planning a proposal?”

Krishna’s throat moved. He looked almost embarrassed. “Because I want to do it again,” he admitted. “Not for legal reasons. For… us.”

Poonam’s eyes filled instantly. “Krishna…”

He stepped closer, taking her hands. “I didn’t propose properly,” he said quietly. “I was stressed. I was rushing. I was thinking about money and timing and whether I could take care of you the way you deserve.”

Poonam shook her head, tears falling. “You already did,” she whispered. “You married me. That’s enough.”

Krishna’s eyes burned. “It’s not enough for me,” he said. “Because you love me more than yourself, and I…” He swallowed. “I want to love you in a way that makes you feel safe, not just loyal.”

Poonam’s chest ached. She squeezed his hands so hard she thought her fingers might break.

Krishna leaned in and kissed her knuckles. “So,” he said softly, “will you marry me again? In the way I should have asked the first time?”

Poonam let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh. “Yes,” she whispered. “A thousand times yes.”

Krishna smiled then, full and real. He pulled her into his arms and held her on the sidewalk like the world didn’t exist.

That night, when they returned home, Krishna opened the sheet briefly and looked at the date.

Poonam peered over his shoulder. “What does the ledger say?”

Krishna smiled. “It says,” he murmured, “that tonight was a good entry.”

Poonam laughed through tears and kissed his cheek.

July wrapped them in warmth.

• 
  

August drifted in with softer edges, quieter days.

Krishna traded less aggressively. Poonam sensed his caution, and she admired it. She had learned: the market punished arrogance and rewarded patience. Love worked the same way.

They traveled to her parents’ home for a short visit. Her mother watched Krishna with quiet approval, and her father asked him blunt questions about money, about stability, about whether he planned to keep Poonam happy.

Krishna answered honestly. He didn’t overpromise. He didn’t perform. He simply said, “I love her. I will take care of her. I will keep trying.”

Poonam watched him and felt her chest swell. She loved him more than herself, and seeing him stand in front of her family like a man who had chosen her openly made her feel both proud and safe.

One evening, her mother pulled Poonam aside and whispered, “He is a good man. But don’t lose yourself in him.”

Poonam smiled politely, but the words stayed in her mind like an echo.

Don’t lose yourself in him.

Poonam didn’t know if she could promise that. She didn’t know if her love was the kind that could be moderated. It wasn’t a faucet. It was a flood.

But she looked at Krishna across the room, laughing softly at something her cousin said, and she thought: if I have to drown, I want it to be in this.

August passed gently.

• 
  

September arrived like a shadow moving across sunlight.

Krishna’s sheet had warned him. Poonam had seen it in his face when he scanned the late-summer dates. The short climates often grew stronger. Down tendencies sharpened. The market seemed to enjoy testing confidence.

The first week of September was rough.

Krishna had a losing day. Then another. Then a day where he recovered half and lost it again.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t throw anything. Krishna wasn’t that kind of man.

He became quiet.

And Krishna’s quietness was what scared Poonam most.

Poonam tried to soothe him with food, with touch, with small jokes. But the quietness stayed, heavy and unmoving.

One night, Krishna sat at the table staring at the sheet without scrolling. His hands were still. His eyes looked tired in a way that made Poonam’s stomach twist.

She walked over and stood behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

“Krishna,” she whispered, “come to bed.”

Krishna didn’t respond.

Poonam leaned forward, her mouth near his ear. “Please.”

Krishna finally spoke, voice flat. “What if I ruin us?”

Poonam’s heart stopped.

She stepped around to face him. “What?”

Krishna’s eyes lifted to hers, and Poonam saw something she rarely saw there: panic.

“I’m responsible,” he whispered. “For you. For this life. And sometimes the market—” He swallowed. “Sometimes it feels like it’s waiting to prove I’m not enough.”

Poonam’s throat tightened painfully.

She knelt beside his chair, took his face in her hands, forced him to look at her.

“Listen to me,” she said fiercely. “You are not the market.”

Krishna blinked.

“You are not a candle,” she continued. “You are not a percentage. You are not a win-rate. You are Krishna. My husband. My home.”

Krishna’s jaw trembled.

Poonam’s voice softened, trembling too. “And if you lose money, we will adjust. If you lose confidence, I will hold you. If you lose your way, I will bring you back.”

Krishna’s eyes filled. “Why?” he whispered. “Why are you like this?”

Poonam pressed her forehead to his. “Because I love you more than myself,” she confessed, voice breaking. “And I don’t know how to love you less.”

Krishna’s breath caught. He closed his eyes.

Poonam kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, small steady kisses like stitches.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Krishna’s hands finally moved. He gripped her wrists gently, as if holding on to her could anchor him.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered.

Poonam shook her head, tears streaming. “Never,” she promised. “Not in any month. Not even September.”

Krishna pulled her into his arms and held her so tight Poonam could barely breathe, and yet she felt safer than she had all week.

That night, Krishna came to bed. He slept with his forehead against her shoulder, like he needed her heartbeat to remind him that life existed beyond the market.

Poonam lay awake, staring into the dark, thinking about her mother’s warning.

Don’t lose yourself.

But she couldn’t imagine saving herself if it meant letting Krishna sink.

So she did what she always did.

She became shore.

• 
  

October arrived with a sharper clarity, like a storm that has passed and left the air clean.

Krishna began to stabilize again. He reduced his size, tightened his rules, listened to the sheet without worshipping it. He returned to discipline, and discipline returned to him.

Poonam watched him recover with quiet pride. She loved him not just when he won, but when he rebuilt. She loved the man who could accept pain and still stand.

One evening, Krishna closed the laptop and looked at Poonam with sudden seriousness.

“Poonam,” he said.

She froze. “What?”

Krishna’s eyes were steady. “I want to make rules,” he said.

Poonam blinked. “For trading?”

Krishna shook his head. “For us.”

Poonam’s chest tightened.

Krishna reached for her hands. “Rule one,” he said quietly. “If I’m sinking, I tell you. I don’t hide.”

Poonam nodded, tears rising.

“Rule two,” Krishna continued, “you don’t carry me alone. You tell me when you’re tired.”

Poonam swallowed. “I’m not tired,” she whispered automatically, because it was the truth and also a lie.

Krishna’s gaze softened but didn’t let her escape. “Rule three,” he said, “your love can be big, Poonam, but it cannot erase you.”

Poonam’s breath caught.

Krishna’s thumb stroked her knuckles. “I love you,” he said, voice low. “And I need you alive inside yourself.”

Poonam’s tears spilled over. She nodded, unable to speak.

Krishna leaned forward and kissed her hands. “Rule four,” he whispered, “we celebrate small wins. Not just money. Moments.”

Poonam laughed through tears. “I can do that.”

Krishna smiled. “Good.”

October gave them structure, the way a good system gives a trader peace.

Poonam clung to it.

• 
  

November arrived like a blessing disguised as an ordinary month.

The sheet—Krishna’s map—had always spoken warmly about November. Strong long climates. Better average moves. A sense of upward drift that felt like the year’s apology for September.

But for Poonam, November wasn’t about the market.

It was about Krishna’s second proposal.

He had planned it quietly. He didn’t make a scene. He didn’t call people. He didn’t hire a photographer. Krishna didn’t like spectacle.

He chose a simple evening. Candles. Her favorite music. A small box in his pocket.

Poonam knew something was coming because Krishna couldn’t hide his nervousness the way he could hide his fear. Nervousness made him fidget. It made him swallow too often. It made him look at her like he was measuring something that mattered more than money.

After dinner, Krishna took her hand and led her to the balcony. The city lights below looked like a field of stars.

Krishna inhaled, slow.

Poonam’s heart pounded.

He didn’t kneel, because they were already married, because this wasn’t about tradition. But he did open the box, and the ring inside caught candlelight like a promise.

“Poonam,” Krishna said, voice trembling slightly, “I’ve been thinking about the year. About how I try to predict everything, and how life still surprises me.”

Poonam’s eyes filled.

Krishna swallowed. “You love me more than yourself,” he said, and the words were heavy with both gratitude and guilt. “And I don’t want your love to be the reason you disappear. I want it to be the reason you grow.”

Poonam’s breath caught.

Krishna held the ring out. “So,” he whispered, “will you marry me again? Not because we need to. But because I want to choose you properly. I want to choose you out loud.”

Poonam’s sob escaped before she could stop it. She nodded, again and again, tears blurring the city.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Krishna. Always yes.”

Krishna slid the ring onto her finger, and then he pulled her into his arms and held her like he had been holding fear for too long and now he was finally letting it go.

Poonam rested her cheek against his chest and listened to his heartbeat.

It sounded like home.

• 
  

December arrived like a quiet closing, not an ending but a gentle folding of time.

Krishna traded carefully. Poonam watched him with calmer eyes now, less terrified of every red day because she had seen him survive. She had seen them survive.

One night near the end of the year, Krishna opened the sheet one last time and scrolled slowly, as if reading the year’s spine.

Poonam sat beside him with her head on his shoulder.

“What does it say?” she asked softly.

Krishna’s voice was quiet. “It says the year had seasons,” he murmured. “Good long climates. Strong short climates. Days that wanted to rise. Days that wanted to fall.”

Poonam smiled. “And us?”

Krishna turned his head and kissed her hair. “It says,” he whispered, “that we had volatility.”

Poonam laughed softly. “That’s one way to describe it.”

Krishna’s gaze met hers. “And it says,” he continued, “that you were my edge.”

Poonam’s chest tightened.

Krishna’s hand cupped her cheek. “You were the thing I couldn’t calculate,” he whispered. “You were the thing that kept me human.”

Poonam’s tears came easily. She didn’t wipe them away. She didn’t need to hide them from him anymore.

“I love you more than myself,” she said again, because it was the deepest truth she had.

Krishna’s eyes softened, shining. “Then let me love you back,” he murmured. “In a way that makes you bigger. Not smaller.”

Poonam closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

Outside, December air moved quietly over the city.

Inside, Poonam felt the year settle in her bones—not as a map of tickers and probabilities, but as a story of two people who had learned what it meant to hold a position through storms.

The market would always have seasons.

So would love.

But Poonam knew, with a certainty that didn’t come from a sheet, that if she had Krishna’s hand in hers, she could walk through any month.

Even September.

Even fear.

Even herself.

She kissed Krishna’s palm, where his lifeline ran like a quiet river.

“Next year,” she whispered, smiling through tears, “we’ll do it again.”

Krishna pulled her closer. “Yes,” he said. “But next year, we do it with you included.”

Poonam’s heart trembled at the thought.

She didn’t know how to love herself the way she loved Krishna.

But she knew she could try.

Because Krishna asked.

Because Krishna stayed.

Because love—real love—was not a prediction.

It was the decision to choose the same person, again and again, across every season, until the choosing became a life.

And as the last days of 2026 drifted into silence, Poonam held her husband’s hand and felt something rare, something steady.

Not certainty.

Not perfect probability.

Just peace.

A quiet, golden peace, like a candle that refuses to go out.