Elena D’Souza
Part 1
The rain had not stopped for two days, and the city seemed wrapped in a damp, secret rhythm. Meera stood by her apartment window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching rivulets slip down as if they carried away thoughts she could not name. She was thirty-two, successful enough in her work as an interior designer, with a reputation for bold palettes and modern textures, but lately her life felt like a corridor with closed doors. The phone rang with client demands, emails stacked up with deadlines, yet inside her body there was a thrum that had nothing to do with work. It was desire, uninvited, restless, like a stranger tapping at her shoulder.
She had met Arjun only twice before—once at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner, and again in the showroom where she had been finalizing fabrics. He had leaned against the counter, the faintest smile on his lips as though he knew something about her she had not confessed to anyone. There was nothing dramatic about his appearance—tall, yes, but not ostentatious, his hair always slightly disheveled, his shirts rolled at the sleeves. But there was a way his eyes lingered, never hurried, and when he spoke his voice had the calm gravity of someone who measured silences as much as words.
That night, the storm swelled, and when the doorbell rang Meera startled. She opened it to find Arjun standing there, rain dripping from his jacket, eyes glinting with mischief and need. “Power’s out in my building,” he explained, though she guessed there was more. For a moment she considered hesitation, but loneliness and curiosity opened the door wider than her hand did.
Inside, the lights flickered, shadows stretching and curling against the walls. She handed him a towel, their fingers brushing in that accidental yet charged way, and for an instant neither spoke. He dried his hair slowly, watching her in the dim yellow light of a single lamp. There was no hurry in him, and that unhurried gaze unsettled her more than a bold advance might have.
They sat on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee. The rain hammered the balcony railings like impatient drums. Conversation stumbled between trivial things—how the city was always unprepared for monsoon, how generators failed, how projects delayed—but beneath the words there was another conversation, silent and insistent. She felt it when his knee brushed hers, when he leaned just a little too close to set his cup down, when her breath caught at the scent of rain on his shirt.
Arjun’s hand finally settled on her wrist, light as a question. He did not move further until she turned her palm upward, inviting him. Then he traced the lines of her skin as though reading them like a secret map. Heat rose between them, not in a sudden blaze but like embers long hidden finding air.
“Do you always let strangers into your home during storms?” he asked softly, a smile curling at the edge.
“You’re not a stranger,” she replied, though her heart beat fast enough to contradict her. “And maybe I was waiting for someone to knock.”
The space between them dissolved. His lips brushed hers tentatively at first, as if tasting a forbidden fruit, then deepened with a hunger restrained too long. She felt the world narrow to the pulse at her throat, to the slide of his hand at the small of her back, to the fire racing through her veins. The kiss was not polite or careful; it was messy with need, urgent and vulnerable, and she surrendered to it with a gasp.
They broke apart only because the thunder cracked so loud it shook the windows. She laughed nervously, but he caught her face between his hands, eyes searching hers. “Meera,” he whispered, and her name in his mouth felt like a promise.
Later, when he rose to leave, the storm had softened to a drizzle. She watched him from the doorway, her lips still swollen, her body still humming with what had awakened. “Will I see you again?” she asked, surprising herself with the boldness.
He grinned, water catching on his eyelashes. “You won’t have to wait for rain next time.”
As the door closed, she leaned against it, heart racing, knowing something irreversible had begun. The city outside smelled of wet earth and renewal, and inside her the corridors of her life no longer felt closed. Somewhere, a door had opened.
Part 2
The following days unfurled with a strange electricity, as if every small act of routine carried a secret thread that pulled her back to the night of the storm. Meera found herself touching her lips absently when sketching designs, remembering the urgency of Arjun’s kiss, the warmth of his hand against her spine. She scolded herself for being distracted—there were clients to meet, invoices to finalize—but desire was not a thing that obeyed schedules. It haunted her in the way light poured through blinds in the afternoon, in the way a song on the radio seemed written for her.
On the third evening, she returned home to find an envelope slipped under her door. No name, only her own written in a firm, deliberate hand. Inside was a small card, blank except for one line: Tonight, at the café near the park. Seven. She did not need a signature to know who it was from. Her first instinct was caution—what if this was too sudden, what if she misread the storm of longing as something deeper? But even as she debated, her hands were already searching her wardrobe for something that made her feel both beautiful and brave.
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, its windows fogged from the rain that had returned. When she stepped inside, the smell of roasted coffee beans and vanilla curled around her. Arjun sat at a corner table, his sleeves rolled, a book open but unread in front of him. He looked up as if he had been expecting her for hours, his eyes catching her like a net.
“You came,” he said simply, rising to pull out a chair.
“I told myself not to,” she admitted, sliding into the seat. “But here I am.”
Conversation began cautiously, like water testing the shape of a vessel. He asked about her day, her projects, she asked about his work as a photographer—he spoke of light and shadows, of moments caught unposed. Yet beneath the surface civility, there was the same current, tugging, daring. She felt it when his hand brushed hers on the table, when he leaned closer to hear her over the café’s low music.
When they stepped back into the drizzle, the city was glowing with wet streets and blurred headlights. He walked beside her without hurry, umbrella tilted more toward her than himself. They paused beneath the canopy of a closed shop, raindrops pattering in silver curtains around them.
“I thought about you,” he confessed quietly, as if speaking it aloud might alter the air.
“So did I,” she replied, her throat tight with honesty.
Then his lips found hers again, slower this time, lingering, tasting, claiming. The kiss deepened until the world narrowed once more, until she forgot the rain, the people hurrying past, everything but the press of his body and the way her own melted against him.
They ended up at her apartment, almost without deciding. The door closed behind them with a finality that made her pulse leap. The storm outside had become a backdrop, their own storm rising inside. He reached for her gently, fingers tracing her jaw, as if memorizing every angle. She leaned into his touch, unbuttoning the damp fabric of his shirt with trembling hands.
The first moment of his skin against hers was like stepping into fire and water at once. She gasped, not from surprise but recognition, as though her body had been waiting. He kissed her collarbone, her shoulders, his mouth exploring with reverence and hunger intertwined. She felt her own hands roam across his chest, down his back, gripping, needing. Clothes scattered like petals across the floor, forgotten in the urgency.
They found the bed by instinct. The air was thick with rain and heat, with breaths that came faster than reason could follow. His weight pressed her into the mattress, grounding her and yet making her feel lighter than air. Their bodies moved together in a rhythm as old as the world, a rhythm that made her moan softly, clutching at his hair, his shoulders, surrendering to waves that broke and remade her. He whispered her name against her skin, over and over, as though it anchored him.
After, they lay tangled in sheets, skin still damp, hearts refusing to slow. She turned her face into his chest, listening to the strong thud beneath. He kissed the crown of her head, his fingers trailing lazy circles along her arm.
“I don’t usually do this,” she murmured, eyes half-closed.
“Neither do I,” he said. And the quiet conviction in his voice made her believe him.
They drifted into silence, the kind that needed no filling. Outside, the rain softened into a hush, like the world was conspiring to leave them undisturbed. Sleep tugged at her, but before it claimed her fully, she thought: This is only the beginning. Something dangerous, something beautiful.
Part 3
The morning light crept into the apartment hesitantly, as though it too were intruding on something private. Meera stirred before Arjun, her body aching in ways that were not exhaustion but memory—her skin held the imprint of his touch, her lips tingled with the echoes of his kisses. She lay there watching him breathe, his arm still draped across her waist possessively even in sleep. It was a strange intimacy, this quiet after such reckless surrender. She should have felt guilt or panic, but instead there was a calm that unnerved her, like stepping onto unfamiliar ground and finding it steadier than expected.
When he finally opened his eyes, there was no embarrassment, no awkwardness in his gaze. He smiled in that slow way of his, as if dawn itself answered to him. “Good morning,” he said, voice rough from sleep.
She laughed softly. “Is it?”
“It is now.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder before rolling onto his back, stretching like a cat. The sheets slipped, revealing the lines of his body, and she flushed at the sight, surprised by the wave of desire that came so easily again.
They lingered, trading kisses and lazy touches, until the hum of her phone shattered the spell. A client’s name flashed on the screen, reminding her of the world outside these walls. She silenced it quickly, guilt brushing her spine, but Arjun caught her hand. “Go,” he said gently. “You have your life. I don’t want to steal it.”
His words struck her more deeply than she expected. She realized then that what unsettled her was not the physical intimacy—they had both given themselves to that freely—but the emotional vulnerability he brought without asking. It terrified her how natural it felt to fold him into her space, her morning, her silence.
They dressed slowly, the casualness belying the storm of thoughts beneath. At the door he paused, kissing her once more, and whispered, “I’ll call you.” She watched him leave, the absence heavier than the rain that still clung to the streets outside.
The day passed in a blur of meetings and fabric swatches, but nothing seemed solid. She kept seeing flashes of his face, his mouth, the curve of his back. Work colleagues asked if she was all right, and she nodded, hiding behind smiles, but inside she was restless. That evening, she stood in front of the mirror, touching her reflection like she might find answers in her own eyes. What am I doing? she thought, though the question already carried its answer: she wanted him, and wanting was no longer optional.
That night he called. His voice on the phone was low, hesitant, almost shy. “I didn’t want to wait,” he admitted. “Can I see you again?”
She agreed before reason could interrupt. They met not at her place this time but at his studio, a loft tucked above a row of shops. The walls were covered in photographs—black and white prints of streets, strangers, faces caught mid-laughter, mid-tears. It smelled of chemicals and dust, and she felt like she had entered another map of his mind.
Arjun stood watching her as she moved through the space, his camera hanging loosely from his neck. “I like capturing people when they don’t know,” he said softly. “That’s when they’re most real.”
“Am I real to you?” she asked, half-teasing, half-serious.
He crossed to her, lifting the camera, focusing it on her face. The shutter clicked, sharp and final. “Now you are,” he said.
She flushed, the intimacy of being seen in that way making her pulse quicken. He set the camera aside and stepped close, his fingers brushing the line of her jaw. “You are more than I expected,” he murmured, and then his lips were on hers again, urgent, hungry.
They did not bother with the bed this time. He lifted her onto a table scattered with prints, his hands sliding beneath her blouse with an impatience that mirrored her own. She gasped as his mouth traced the column of her throat, as his fingers worked at buttons and zippers. The world shrank to the scent of developer fluid, the rustle of paper, the heat of his body pressing hers down. She clutched at his shoulders, surrendering to the fierce rhythm they found together, a rhythm that stole her breath and left her trembling in its wake.
After, they lay on the floor among scattered photographs, sweat cooling, laughter surprising them both. She picked up a print that had fallen beside her—an image of a child running through rain, face lit with unguarded joy. “You see beauty everywhere,” she said.
“Not everywhere,” he corrected, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Only where it exists.”
And in the way he looked at her then, she felt stripped bare, seen not just as a body but as something luminous. It frightened her, this depth. She had wanted adventure, a fling to color the monotony. But this—this was no passing indulgence. This was a man who was folding himself into her story as if he belonged there.
When she left his studio that night, the city lights blurred around her. The air smelled of wet asphalt and jasmine. She realized she was smiling, not the careful professional smile she wore for clients, but something unguarded, almost childlike. Yet beneath it, fear curled—a fear of what she was risking, and a fear of what it would mean if she could no longer imagine her days without him.
Part 4
The days that followed blurred into a rhythm of stolen moments. Meera found herself rearranging her schedule with a slyness she did not recognize in herself, slipping away early from meetings, inventing excuses to clients, all so she could find herself in Arjun’s orbit. Their encounters became a secret architecture, woven between obligations, as though the city itself conspired to give them hidden hours. They would meet in dim cafés, in the shadowed corners of bookstores, in the silent recesses of his studio where photographs hung like witnesses to their hunger.
It was not only desire that drove her, though the physical urgency was unrelenting. It was the way he made her feel uncovered, every pretense unnecessary. She had built her life on polish and control—rooms designed to perfection, schedules mapped to the minute—but Arjun thrived in the raw, the unpolished. He made her laugh without warning, challenged her opinions without malice, kissed her like the world outside no longer existed. Each time his hands found her skin she felt both fragile and powerful, as if she had discovered a version of herself she had long hidden.
One evening, he invited her to join him on a shoot by the river. The sun had just begun to fall, staining the sky with fire, and the water glimmered with restless gold. He moved easily with his camera, crouching, rising, his eyes always searching for angles. She watched him, marveling at the quiet intensity he carried, and when he finally turned the lens toward her, she felt exposed in a way more intimate than undressing. He clicked without asking her to pose, capturing her as she leaned on the railing, as she tilted her face to the wind.
Later, sitting on the embankment, their shoulders brushing, she asked, “What do you see in me?”
He studied her, not with his camera but with that unflinching gaze. “I see a woman who is afraid of herself,” he said, his tone gentle. “And I see someone who is ready to stop being afraid.”
His words unsettled her, because they were true. She wanted to deny them, but instead she leaned into him, kissing him as the river whispered below. His hand slipped beneath her dress, fingers tracing fire along her thigh, and she moaned softly, uncaring of the dusk or the world around them. They were half-hidden by shadows, the city distant, and when he entered her there on the grass, her back arched with a rawness that startled even herself. It was reckless, dangerous, yet in that recklessness she felt more alive than she had in years.
After, they lay together, the damp earth beneath them, the scent of river and sweat mingling. He rested his head against her stomach, his hair tickling her skin, and she threaded her fingers through it, both tender and possessive. She knew this was no longer casual, no longer something she could confine to whispers and shadows. It was carving itself into her life like a permanent mark.
But with that realization came unease. She had always kept control, always balanced desire with reason. Now reason seemed a distant echo, and desire had taken the wheel. She wondered how long this could last before it demanded more than she was willing to give.
The next day at work, she caught herself staring at the reflection of her own face in a polished glass surface. She looked different—glowing, unsettled, younger somehow. A colleague teased her about her “secret happiness,” and she laughed it off, but inside she trembled. Was it written so clearly on her? Could others see the fire Arjun had ignited?
That evening, when he arrived at her apartment, she tried to tell herself she would keep some distance, create boundaries. But the moment he touched her, her resolve evaporated. They made love with a ferocity that left the sheets tangled, their bodies slick with sweat, her voice breaking into cries she had never made before. He kissed every inch of her as though worshipping, and when she whispered his name in the dark, it sounded like confession.
After, lying in his arms, she found herself asking questions she had not intended to voice. “What are we doing, Arjun? What is this?”
He propped himself on one elbow, studying her. “Do you want me to define it?”
“I don’t know.”
He traced a finger along her collarbone. “Sometimes naming things kills them. Can you live with that?”
She turned away, staring at the ceiling, conflicted. Part of her wanted to keep it undefined, free of promises and disappointments. But another part—a quieter, more insistent one—longed for certainty, for belonging.
In the days that followed, she felt the tension growing, not in their intimacy but in herself. She found herself watching him more closely, searching for signs—did he think of her when they were apart, did he imagine a future that included her, or was she only another story in his collection of moments? Yet whenever they were together, the doubts vanished in the flood of his touch, the heat of his mouth, the way his voice dropped when he whispered her name.
One night, as they stood on her balcony watching the rain return, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. “You’ve changed,” he said quietly.
“How?”
“You’re not hiding anymore.”
The words pierced her, both comfort and warning. Because she knew he was right—she was no longer hiding from him, but what about the rest of her life? How long before someone else noticed the storm she carried now? How long before her carefully arranged world demanded answers?
She leaned back against him, closing her eyes. For now, she told herself, she would not think of tomorrow. For now, there was only his warmth, the rain, and the dangerous, beautiful truth that she could no longer stop.
Part 5
The rain gave way to sunlight the following week, and the city glimmered with a brightness that felt almost deceptive. Meera walked through her office halls dressed in a crisp white shirt and navy trousers, her hair pinned in its usual sleek bun, every inch the polished professional her clients knew. Yet beneath the layers of fabric and composure her body still pulsed with the memory of Arjun—his hands, his breath, the way he said her name as though it were both plea and prayer. The more she tried to bury the thoughts under spreadsheets and color palettes, the more insistently they rose.
That evening, she had dinner with colleagues at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the skyline. Laughter rose easily from the table, glasses clinked, and conversations meandered through work gossip and vacation plans. Meera played her part smoothly, yet every so often her phone buzzed in her bag, and her heart jolted, knowing without looking that it was him. She resisted checking until the dinner wound down, then slipped into the washroom and read his message: Come to the studio. I can’t stop thinking of you.
She returned to the table, made polite excuses, and left, her pulse racing like a teenager sneaking out. The streets were alive with traffic and neon, but the world seemed to narrow until it was only the distance between her and him. When she reached the studio, he opened the door almost before she knocked, pulling her inside with an urgency that made her knees weaken.
He pressed her against the wall, his mouth devouring hers, hands sliding under her shirt as though he needed proof she was real. She gasped into the kiss, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, surrendering to the wave that crashed through her. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs circling his waist, and carried her to the table where photographs still cluttered the surface. Prints scattered to the floor as he laid her down, unbuttoning, unzipping, each motion reckless with need.
Their lovemaking was fierce, untamed, nothing like the careful explorations of their first nights. She cried out as he moved inside her, the edge of the table biting into her back, yet she pulled him closer, nails raking his skin, wanting more, always more. When release came it was like drowning, then breaking the surface again, gasping for air that tasted of him.
Afterward, they lay on the floor among the fallen photographs, sweat cooling, laughter bubbling unexpectedly between them. He traced shapes on her stomach with lazy fingers, while she stared at the ceiling, her chest still rising and falling. “We’re reckless,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he agreed, smiling. “But I don’t care.”
Her smile faded into something quieter. “What happens when we can’t hide anymore?”
He rolled onto his side, propping himself up to study her. “Do you want to hide?”
She hesitated. The truth was complicated. She wanted him, wanted this fire that made her forget the rest of the world. But she also feared it—the intrusion of gossip, the judgment of friends, the way it might unravel the careful order she had built. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
He kissed her forehead, as if sealing the uncertainty with tenderness. “Then don’t decide now. Just be here. With me.”
The simplicity of his words undid her. For that night, she let herself believe it was enough.
In the following days, however, reality seeped back in. A colleague mentioned having seen her near the river one evening, “with someone interesting.” Another asked if she was dating, the question laced with curiosity sharper than politeness. Meera laughed it off, but beneath the veneer her heart tightened. The walls of secrecy were beginning to thin.
Her parents called too, reminding her of a family gathering, dropping hints about how long she had been single, the gentle pressure of expectations never far away. She listened dutifully, making vague promises, but when the call ended she sat staring at her reflection, wondering how much longer she could balance two worlds that wanted different versions of her.
That night, she went to Arjun’s again. He was developing prints in the red glow of the darkroom, his focus so intense that he did not notice her at first. She watched him quietly, admiring the concentration etched into his face, the care with which he handled each sheet of paper. When he finally looked up, his smile lit the dim room. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” she replied, though her voice carried an edge she had not meant.
He noticed. He always noticed. “Something’s wrong.”
She shook her head, but he set aside the photograph and came to her, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Meera.”
Her defenses broke. “Everyone’s beginning to notice. My colleagues, my family… I don’t know how long I can pretend nothing’s happening.”
His eyes searched hers, steady, unwavering. “Why pretend?”
“Because this—” she gestured around, at the studio, at him, at the fire between them “—is fragile. It feels like if I let it into the world, it will shatter.”
He pulled her closer, his lips brushing her temple. “Or it will become stronger. Don’t you trust what we have?”
She closed her eyes, leaning into him, torn between fear and longing. “I want to.”
He kissed her then, slowly, deeply, as though answering her doubts with his mouth, his hands, his body. They made love on the floor of the darkroom, the red light casting their skin in hues of desire, shadows swaying around them. She clung to him as though he were the only anchor in a world tilting beneath her feet.
When it was over, she lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. In the silence, she realized that the question was no longer whether she could continue, but whether she could stop.
Part 6
The monsoon finally withdrew, leaving the air heavy with heat and the smell of damp earth. For most of the city, it was a relief. For Meera, it felt like exposure. Without the curtain of rain, the world seemed clearer, sharper, and every glance from colleagues or neighbors carried the weight of unasked questions. She told herself it was paranoia, but she could not shake the feeling that people were beginning to see through her. The late evenings at the office, the sudden weekend absences, the glow on her face she could not conceal—these were threads of a story she had tried to keep private.
Arjun, by contrast, seemed untouched by such concerns. He lived as he always did, moving through the city with his camera slung casually at his side, unhurried, unbothered. He called her when he wanted to see her, and she always came. Their encounters had become more than passion now; they were rituals of escape. She would step into his studio, close the door, and shed not just her clothes but the weight of expectation. With him she was raw, undone, yet whole in a way she had never known.
One evening, he brought her to an abandoned cinema on the edge of town, a place where peeling posters clung to walls and rows of seats gathered dust. “I found this years ago,” he said, his voice reverent in the cavernous space. “It’s where I come when I need silence.”
They sat together in the second row, their hands brushing, the vast emptiness around them making their connection feel even sharper. When he leaned in to kiss her, the echo of their breath filled the hall, as though the building itself bore witness. His hands slid beneath her dress, lifting fabric with deliberate slowness, until she was straddling him in a seat that once held strangers watching films. She gasped as he entered her, the squeak of the chair mingling with her moans, their bodies moving in rhythm to a song only they could hear. It was reckless, decadent, and when she collapsed against him after, trembling, she laughed breathlessly.
“We’re insane,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he murmured into her hair. “And isn’t it beautiful?”
In moments like these, she believed him. But outside, the questions grew louder. Her mother pressed harder, suggesting introductions to “suitable men.” Her closest friend, Neha, studied her with an intensity that made her squirm. “You’re different these days,” Neha remarked over coffee. “Happier, maybe. Or distracted. Who is he?”
Meera deflected, but her heart raced. She had never been good at lying. That night she told Arjun about it, expecting him to share her anxiety, to reassure her. Instead, he only smiled. “Let them notice. Why hide what makes us alive?”
“Because life isn’t just about being alive,” she snapped, more sharply than she intended. “There are consequences.”
His expression cooled, though his voice remained calm. “Consequences exist only if you let fear dictate them.”
She looked away, ashamed of the distance opening between them. She did not want to fight, but the truth was she needed more than passion. She needed to know what this was leading to, where it fit in the map of her future. Yet every time she tried to ask, he slipped away with philosophy and touch, and she let herself drown again.
One night, lying tangled in his sheets, she found courage. “Arjun,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “do you see this as something temporary?”
He propped himself up, studying her with unreadable eyes. “Does it feel temporary to you?”
“No. That’s the problem.”
He brushed her cheek with his thumb, silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I don’t think in terms of forever. Forever is an illusion. But I know this—I want you, here, now, as long as the wanting lasts.”
The words struck her like both gift and wound. She nodded, though her chest ached. She told herself to accept it, to live in the present, but in the quiet hours afterward she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was building her life on quicksand.
Her distraction seeped into work. She missed deadlines, made errors in calculations, things she had never done before. A client snapped at her during a presentation, and she found herself unable to summon her usual composure. When she returned home that evening, she sat in the dark, phone buzzing with Arjun’s name, and for the first time she did not answer.
But silence was unbearable. Within an hour, she was in a cab to his studio, anger at herself mingling with longing. When he opened the door, relief crossed his face, followed by the inevitable pull between them. They argued first—about her fears, about his refusal to promise—but the fight dissolved as always into kisses, into hands tugging clothes away, into bodies demanding what words could not resolve. Their passion was both balm and poison, healing wounds even as it deepened them.
Later, lying in the aftermath, she whispered, “I don’t know how long I can live like this.”
Arjun pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his voice steady. “Then don’t measure it. Just live.”
She closed her eyes, holding onto him tightly, knowing she was falling deeper into a storm she could no longer control.
Part 7
The weeks slipped into each other with the stealth of tidewater, creeping further into Meera’s life than she had ever intended. What began as a reckless affair was now an anchor and a weight both, something she could neither escape nor fully embrace. Arjun remained constant in his way—steady, unhurried, sure of what he wanted—but his refusal to define the shape of them gnawed at her. Every night she spent with him deepened the bond, every morning she left his bed widened the ache.
Her closest friend Neha finally cornered her one Saturday afternoon. They were sitting in a sunlit café, mugs of cappuccino cooling between them, when Neha leaned forward. “You’re in love,” she said flatly, no question in her tone.
Meera froze. “What makes you say that?”
“You don’t see yourself. But I do. You’re glowing. You’re distracted. You vanish for hours, sometimes days. And when you smile, it’s… different. Who is he?”
Meera stared into her cup, torn between denial and confession. But the weight of secrecy was heavy, and Neha’s gaze was steady. “His name is Arjun,” she whispered finally.
Neha’s eyes softened. “Does he love you?”
The question sliced deeper than she expected. “I don’t know,” Meera admitted, voice breaking. “He says he wants me. Always. But love? He doesn’t use that word.”
“Do you want love?”
“Yes.” The word fell like a stone in water.
Neha reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “Then ask for it. Or you’ll drown.”
That evening, when she went to Arjun’s studio, she carried the weight of the conversation like a stone in her chest. He was developing photographs, bathed in the red glow, when she arrived. She kissed him first, hungry, desperate, her body pressing against his. They made love quickly, almost frantically, as though trying to erase every question in the heat of skin and breath. But afterward, when they lay tangled in sheets, the silence pressed too heavy.
“Arjun,” she said, her voice trembling, “do you love me?”
He stiffened, his arm around her loosening slightly. “Why do you need that word?”
“Because it means something.”
“It means whatever people want it to mean. Desire, possession, fear. Why cage us in a word?”
She pulled away, sitting up. “Because without it, I don’t know what we are.”
He sat up too, his gaze unreadable in the dim light. “We are what we feel. Isn’t that enough?”
Tears burned in her eyes, though she tried to blink them back. “Not for me.”
The argument spiraled, words clashing, sharp with the frustration of mismatched needs. Finally, exhausted, she dressed and left, his voice calling her name as she shut the door behind her. The night air hit her like a slap, and she walked for blocks before hailing a cab, tears spilling silently.
The days that followed were thick with silence. He called, she didn’t answer. He sent messages, she read but did not reply. She buried herself in work, determined to regain control, yet at night the emptiness pressed against her ribs until she could barely breathe.
One evening, after a long day at the office, she found an envelope slipped under her door again. Inside was a photograph of her—taken by him, she realized instantly—her face tilted toward the wind on the riverbank, eyes half-closed, lips parted as though about to speak. On the back he had written: This is what I see. Don’t let fear erase it.
Her resolve cracked. Within an hour, she was at his studio again. He opened the door before she knocked, as if he had been waiting all along. For a moment they only stared at each other, the silence louder than any words. Then she stepped forward, into his arms, her anger dissolving in the familiar heat of his embrace.
They kissed with desperation, as though making up for every second apart. Clothes fell carelessly, and soon she was on his bed, his mouth moving over her skin with reverence and hunger. She cried out, clutching him tightly, every thrust erasing distance, every kiss stitching her back together. When release tore through her, she sobbed into his shoulder, overwhelmed by the intensity of it.
After, lying in the aftermath, she whispered, “I’m afraid of losing myself.”
He kissed her temple. “Maybe you’re finally finding yourself.”
But she wasn’t sure. The line between losing and finding blurred in his arms. All she knew was that she could not walk away. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Part 8
The city slipped into autumn, its heat softening, evenings cooler, the smell of roasted corn drifting from street vendors. For Meera, the season brought no clarity, only a sharpening of the tension coiled inside her. Days with Arjun were intoxicating, nights with him addictive, but in the hours between she found herself haunted by questions that passion alone could not silence. Her work, once her anchor, had begun to fray around the edges. She delivered projects late, missed details she would never have overlooked before. Her boss noticed, her colleagues whispered. She told herself she could manage it, but the truth was undeniable—Arjun had consumed her.
One Friday night, after a particularly disastrous client meeting, she walked into his studio carrying all the weight of her frustration. He saw it instantly. “What happened?” he asked, reaching for her.
“I’m falling apart,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t focus, I can’t work, I can’t think of anything but you.”
He pulled her into his arms, his lips brushing her hair. “Then stop fighting it. Let it happen.”
His certainty infuriated her. She shoved him back slightly, tears rising. “Don’t you see? This isn’t sustainable. I’m losing myself.”
He cupped her face firmly, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Or maybe you’re losing the mask you’ve worn for years. Maybe what’s left is the real you.”
The words silenced her, though anger and longing warred within. She wanted to argue, to demand something he would not give—commitment, definition—but instead she kissed him, hard, desperate, pouring all her turmoil into his mouth. He responded with equal ferocity, lifting her onto the table, pulling her skirt up with rough urgency. She gasped as he entered her, her nails digging into his shoulders, their bodies colliding with a violence that bordered on painful. It was not tenderness but raw release, a storm inside four walls.
When it was over, she collapsed against him, trembling. He stroked her back gently, whispering her name, and she clung to him as though he were the only thing holding her together. But inside, a deeper fracture widened.
The next day, Neha called unexpectedly. “I’m worried about you,” she said. “You don’t sound like yourself anymore.”
Meera tried to laugh it off, but Neha pressed on. “You deserve someone who gives as much as you do. Does he?”
The question lodged like a thorn. That evening, Meera went to Arjun’s apartment determined to talk, to force clarity. He welcomed her with his usual warmth, poured her wine, teased her until she smiled, and for a while she almost forgot her resolve. But as they sat on the couch, her head resting on his chest, she whispered, “Arjun, what do I mean to you?”
He hesitated, stroking her hair. “You are… light,” he said finally. “You are what I look for in every photograph but rarely find.”
Her heart tightened. “But am I yours?”
He looked at her then, eyes shadowed. “Why do you need ownership in order to believe in us?”
“Because without it, I don’t know where I stand.”
He sighed, pulling her closer. “You stand here. With me. Isn’t that enough?”
For him, perhaps. For her, it was both everything and nothing. She wanted to believe it, wanted to drown in his certainty, but the ache of doubt lingered.
Their nights together grew fiercer, as if trying to outpace the questions. They made love in his studio, in her apartment, even once in a hotel room rented on a whim, each encounter more urgent than the last. She lost herself in the heat of his touch, the taste of his mouth, the way he whispered her name as though it anchored him. Yet afterward, lying in the quiet, the emptiness returned, whispering of impermanence.
One evening, after an exhausting day, she came home to find her mother waiting at her apartment. The older woman studied her sharply. “You’re hiding something,” she said. “Who is he?”
Meera stammered, deflecting, but her mother’s intuition was unrelenting. “You’re not a child anymore. If this man matters, bring him to us. If he doesn’t, end it before you ruin yourself.”
The ultimatum rattled her. That night, she told Arjun what her mother had said. He listened quietly, then smiled with a calmness that unnerved her. “Why do you let them dictate your choices?”
“Because they’re my family. Because their opinion matters.”
“Does it matter more than what we have?”
The question gutted her. She had no answer.
Later, when they lay naked in his bed, her body still humming from his touch, she stared at the ceiling and whispered, “I can’t live in shadows forever.”
He kissed her shoulder. “Then let’s make our own light.”
The words were beautiful, but they were not enough. She wanted certainty, permanence, a promise. He offered presence, passion, intensity. And though it filled her in the moment, it left her hollow in the dark.
As autumn deepened, Meera realized she was standing at an edge. Ahead was a plunge into something unknown, dangerous, exhilarating. Behind was the life she had built, safe, ordered, but increasingly empty. She did not yet know which way she would fall.
Part 9
Winter crept into the city quietly, the mornings wrapped in mist, evenings sharper, people drawing their shawls tighter as they hurried through the streets. For Meera, the season carried both comfort and unease. The cool air made Arjun’s touch burn brighter, his warmth a refuge she craved, but with every passing week the weight of questions pressed harder. What was she to him beyond desire, beyond the fleeting poetry of nights stolen from the world?
Her family’s insistence grew louder. At dinner one Sunday, her father asked directly, “When will you settle down, Meera? You’re not getting younger.” Her mother’s gaze was sharper, as if she already knew the truth but waited for it to be spoken. Meera evaded, pushing food around her plate, her stomach knotted. Later, lying awake in her childhood bedroom that smelled faintly of sandalwood, she thought of Arjun’s eyes, his hands, the way he never lied but also never promised. She wanted to believe love could live without definition, but could it survive without recognition?
The next week, she confronted him. “Come to dinner with my parents,” she said one evening, her voice trembling though she tried to sound firm.
He looked up from the photograph he had been framing. “Why?”
“Because they need to know. Because I need them to know.”
He studied her for a long moment, his silence heavier than refusal. Finally he said, “I’m not the man they want for you.”
Her throat tightened. “How do you know what they want?”
“Because I know men like me. I live in shadows, in moments. Your family wants permanence, security. I can’t play that part.”
“Then what part do you play in my life?” she asked, tears stinging.
His answer was simple, devastating. “The one you keep choosing, even when you know better.”
She left that night, not in anger but in despair, walking the misty streets with her coat wrapped tight, the sound of her own footsteps too loud. At home, she poured herself a glass of wine and stared out the window, the city lights blurred through her tears. She loved him—she could not deny that now—but love that could not stand in the open was beginning to feel like suffocation.
And yet, she could not stay away. Days later she found herself at his studio again, unable to resist the pull. He greeted her with no questions, only arms that gathered her, lips that consumed her protests. They made love with a desperation that bordered on violence, her moans echoing against the walls, his body claiming hers as though words were useless. She cried afterward, not from regret but from the unbearable truth that passion alone was not enough, yet it was everything she wanted.
One night, she dreamed of him photographing her in an empty field, her face bare, her body unclothed, the world watching. She woke with her heart pounding, sweat cooling on her skin. It felt like a warning—of exposure, of vulnerability, of inevitability.
The warning arrived sooner than she imagined. One afternoon, Neha appeared at her office unannounced. She closed the door, sat across from Meera, and said quietly, “I saw you. At his studio. You didn’t know, but I was nearby.”
Meera’s breath caught. “Neha—”
Her friend’s eyes were kind, but firm. “I won’t tell anyone. But Meera, you’re hurting. I see it in your face. You want more from him than he will ever give.”
Meera swallowed hard, her throat aching. “I can’t stop.”
Neha reached for her hand. “Then one day, it will stop you.”
That evening, when she went to Arjun, she carried Neha’s words like a shadow. He sensed her mood instantly, but instead of pressing, he simply undressed her slowly, reverently, as if stripping away more than fabric. Their lovemaking that night was different—slower, aching, every kiss a plea, every touch a confession of what neither could say aloud. She wept in his arms after, and for the first time, he wept too, silent tears falling against her hair.
“Do you love me?” she asked again, her voice barely a breath.
He held her tighter. “If love is this—needing you, wanting you, breathing you—then yes. But don’t ask me to call it something I cannot control.”
It was not enough, and yet it was everything. She clung to him, knowing they were standing at the edge of something that could not last, but unwilling to let go.
The winter deepened. Their passion burned hotter against the chill, their secrecy more fragile against the scrutiny of the world. Meera lived suspended between two realities—the life she showed to others, polished and controlled, and the life she shared with Arjun, raw and uncontainable. She knew the collision was coming. She just did not know which life would survive it.
Part 10
The end did not arrive with thunder or storm, but with silence. Meera woke one morning to find the city hushed in winter fog, the streets blurred beneath a veil of white. She sat by the window with her coffee, staring at the outline of buildings, her reflection ghosted in the glass. Inside her chest was the ache of choices deferred too long, and she knew she could no longer drift between desire and fear. Something had to break.
She went to Arjun’s studio that evening with a determination that frightened her. He was there, as always, shirt sleeves rolled, photographs pinned in uneven rows across the wall. He looked up when she entered, his eyes lighting, his mouth curving into that familiar half-smile that had undone her so many times. But tonight she did not melt into his arms. She stood still, her coat still on, her hands clenched.
“Arjun,” she said, her voice steady though her heart raced. “I can’t live in shadows anymore.”
He stilled, the smile fading. “Meera—”
“No,” she interrupted, tears already burning. “I need to know what I am to you. Not just in the dark, not just in your bed. I need to know if I have a place in your life that isn’t hidden.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched, thick as smoke. Then he walked to her, cupping her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. “You are everything I want,” he whispered. “But I can’t be what you need.”
The words shattered her, though she had expected them. She pulled away, shaking her head. “Then this will destroy me. And I can’t let it.”
He reached for her, desperation flickering in his eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t walk away.”
Her tears fell freely now. “I don’t want to. God, I don’t want to. But love isn’t just wanting. It’s choosing. And you won’t choose me.”
She turned, her hand trembling on the door handle. Behind her, his voice cracked. “Meera.”
She looked back once, just once, memorizing him—his eyes shadowed, his body taut with longing, the studio dim behind him like a cathedral of their secret moments. Then she opened the door and stepped into the night.
The weeks that followed were hollow. She threw herself into work, rebuilt the scaffolding of her life, filled her days with meetings and projects. Colleagues praised her renewed focus, her family relaxed their questions, Neha stayed close, quietly supportive. Outwardly, Meera was herself again. Inwardly, she carried an emptiness like a second skin. She missed him with a hunger that no distraction could dull. Some nights she woke with her body aching, reaching for him in the dark. Some mornings she stared at her phone, willing it to ring. But she did not call, and neither did he.
One Sunday, weeks later, she wandered into the flower shop near the café where they had first met. She bought a small bouquet of lilies, her mother’s favorite, and as she turned to leave, her breath caught. Across the street, Arjun stood, camera slung across his chest, photographing the late afternoon light. For a moment the world stilled. He looked up, and their eyes met.
There was no rush across the road, no dramatic embrace. He only lifted the camera, pointed it at her, and clicked. The shutter’s snap carried across the traffic, a sound more intimate than any word. She felt tears sting, but she smiled, a small, trembling smile. He lowered the camera and smiled back, the kind of smile that said he understood.
She walked away then, the lilies pressed to her chest, her steps steady though her heart raced. She did not look back. She knew he would keep that photograph, perhaps hang it on his wall among the hundreds of others. And she knew she would carry him, always, in the hidden corners of her heart.
It was not a fairy-tale ending, not the certainty she had once craved. But it was real. They had lived a love that burned wild and dangerous, a love that had undone and remade her. And though it could not last, it had left her changed—unafraid now of her own longing, unashamed of her hunger.
That night, she stood at her balcony, the winter air crisp against her skin. She breathed deeply, eyes closed, and whispered his name into the dark. It was not a plea anymore, not a wound. It was gratitude, it was farewell, it was love in its truest form—imperfect, unfinished, unforgettable.
END
