Ishita Anand
1
The boxes were still stacked haphazardly in Tara Mehra’s living room, their cardboard edges curling slightly from the humidity of a late-August evening in Hyderabad. She’d spent the whole day unpacking—kitchen first, then her books, then her sketchbooks and pencils—yet the apartment still felt like a halfway house between strangers. From the balcony, she could see the crowded lanes of Banjara Hills curling away into the distance, car headlights already threading the roads as the day’s last sunlight gave way to neon. The air was heavy with the smell of rain that hadn’t yet fallen, and somewhere far below, a street vendor’s brass bell chimed. She leaned on the railing, the hum of the city seeping into her bones, and noticed the stairwell door across from her flat, slightly ajar. Beyond it, she glimpsed a narrow staircase leading up. She hesitated for only a second before curiosity tugged her upwards.
The rooftop welcomed her like an open palm. It was wide, its floor a pale concrete that still held the heat of the day. The edges were lined with terracotta pots, some sprouting half-alive money plants, others holding nothing but dry soil. But it wasn’t the rooftop itself that drew her breath—it was the view. The city stretched endlessly, a living map dotted with the yellow glint of streetlamps and the scattered glow of apartment windows. On the horizon, she could see the faint arc of Necklace Road curving around Hussain Sagar Lake, its lights trembling in the violet dusk. A warm breeze pressed at her hair, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant frying pakoras. She took a slow step toward the parapet, drinking in the scene, feeling a small, unexpected sense of arrival.
That’s when she saw him. A man sat casually on the parapet itself, one leg dangling over the edge as if the drop below was nothing more than a painted backdrop. He was tall, lean, and dressed in a worn grey T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In his hand, he held a glass of deep red wine that caught the last streak of sunlight, turning it almost black. He didn’t notice her at first—he was gazing out over the city like someone trying to memorize every shadow of it. When he finally turned, his eyes met hers, and she saw the faintest trace of amusement flicker there. “New here?” he asked, voice warm but unhurried, as though time moved differently up here. She nodded, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of the paint smudge on her wrist from earlier unpacking. “Just moved in today,” she replied, her tone casual but her pulse oddly quick.
He gestured to the view with his glass. “Welcome to the best part of the building,” he said. There was an ease about him, the kind that didn’t need to be performed, and it made her want to stay a little longer than she’d planned. She stepped closer, careful to keep a safe distance from the parapet’s edge, and glanced sideways at him. “And you?” she asked. “Been here long enough to claim it as your territory?” His smile curved, slow and deliberate. “Long enough to know this is the only place you can actually hear the city breathe.” The line might have sounded pretentious from someone else, but from him, it felt like an observation rather than a performance. For a moment, they stood in a comfortable silence, the wind teasing at their clothes, the lights of Hyderabad blinking like a living constellation beneath them. And though neither of them said much more, something in the air shifted—an almost imperceptible click, like a door opening somewhere deep inside both of them.
2
The day had been long, the kind of slow-burning heat that made every steel beam at the construction site shimmer and every breath feel heavier than it should. Tara had returned home dusty, hair tied up in a loose knot, her white cotton kurta faintly creased from the day’s work. She told herself she’d shower and curl up with one of the paperbacks she’d unpacked, but instead, her gaze drifted toward the stairwell door again. It was almost reflex now — the urge to climb those steps, to let the city’s night air wash away the residue of daylight. When she pushed open the rooftop door, the breeze hit her first, cooler than she expected, carrying with it the faint aroma of fried mirchi bajji from a street vendor somewhere below. And then she saw him again, in his familiar spot on the parapet. This time, he wasn’t just sitting there with a drink; beside him was an unopened bottle of wine and two glasses.
“You’re late,” Raghav said, his lips curving into a half-smile as she approached. She arched an eyebrow, amused. “Didn’t know there was a schedule.” He lifted the bottle slightly, letting the lamplight catch its label. “Shiraz,” he announced. “It’s better with company.” The cork came out with a soft pop, and the sound seemed to settle into the rooftop air as naturally as the hum of traffic far below. She accepted the glass he offered, the stem cool against her fingers, and took a small sip. The taste was bold but mellow, the kind that lingered — not unlike the man handing it to her. They leaned against the parapet side by side, a comfortable distance between them, but their reflections in the glass panes of the rooftop stairwell looked closer than they were.
Their conversation unfolded like an unhurried walk through the city. Raghav asked if she’d visited Charminar yet; she admitted she’d only seen it in passing from a cab window. “Go early morning,” he suggested, “before the crowds wake up. The light makes the stone look like it’s holding secrets.” She countered by asking him about Tank Bund, and he told her about evening strolls there, where couples leaned against the railing, whispering over the lake’s quiet ripples. When she remarked that the monsoon here smelled different from Pune’s, he nodded in agreement, describing the way rain in Hyderabad carried the scent of baked stone and blooming gulmohar trees. They talked about chai stalls, traffic jams that felt like social gatherings, and the peculiar charm of old Irani cafés where time seemed to stand still. Each story felt like a small offering, an unwrapping of a piece of the city — and maybe, of themselves.
When the wine bottle was nearly empty, the conversation slowed, not because there was nothing left to say, but because they both seemed reluctant to push the moment toward an ending. The breeze had picked up, teasing at Tara’s hair, and Raghav reached out almost absently to tuck a strand behind her ear before catching himself and withdrawing his hand. She felt the ghost of that near-touch more than she should have. They stood in silence for a beat too long, eyes lingering, neither quite ready to turn away. Eventually, Tara glanced at her watch and sighed. “I should go,” she murmured, though the words lacked conviction. Raghav only nodded, his gaze steady, as if memorizing her face in the dim rooftop light. She walked toward the stairwell slowly, aware of the faint sound of him exhaling behind her, and before she stepped through the door, she glanced back. He was still there, glass in hand, watching the city — but she knew, somehow, that he’d been watching her leave.
3
The rooftop had become their little ritual, a secret corner of Hyderabad suspended between the mundane hum of city life and the quiet intimacy of the night. Tara found herself looking forward to the climb after long days at the office, the stairwell’s familiar scent of concrete and dust giving way to the warm breeze that always seemed to greet her on the roof. Raghav was already there on most evenings, waiting in his usual spot on the parapet with the wine bottle uncorked, the glass catching the fading sunlight like a jewel. They didn’t need to exchange formal greetings anymore; the nod and the faint smile sufficed. Tara would pour herself a glass, sometimes clinking it gently against his in a silent toast, and then they would settle into their unspoken rhythm — sitting side by side, sometimes perilously close to the edge, laughing and talking as if the world below them didn’t exist.
They had started sharing fragments of their lives in small, deliberate pieces. Tara spoke of the projects at her architecture firm, of the long hours spent drawing and measuring, of the quiet satisfaction when a design finally took shape. Raghav would listen, occasionally teasing her about the obsessive precision in her sketches or the way she could spend hours tracing a single line. Then he would tell her stories too, about engineering marvels he’d helped build, about cities he’d visited for work, about small family traditions that always seemed to make him smile. And yet, there was a boundary neither dared cross — a subtle restraint that hinted at old wounds, regrets, and betrayals left unspoken. The rooftop became a safe container for their truths and half-truths, a place where they could be vulnerable in measured doses.
Tara often pulled out her sketchbook, spreading it across her lap as she drew the skyline. She captured the curve of Necklace Road, the distant silhouette of Charminar, and the uneven rooftops that lined Banjara Hills. Raghav, noticing the faint tilt of her head, would joke, “You’re trying to get my best angle, aren’t you?” She would glance up, mock offense dancing in her eyes. “Maybe I am,” she’d reply, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. Sometimes, her pencil would stray, her hand brushing against his as they both reached for the wine bottle, and the contact sent a quiet thrill up her spine. They didn’t comment on it, letting the warmth linger like a secret language of fingertips. The wind would carry their laughter into the open air, mingling with the distant honking of taxis and the low hum of life far below.
As nights stretched into weeks, the rooftop became a world apart, a sanctuary stitched together by glasses of wine, shared glances, and the soft brush of hands. Tara found herself lingering, not wanting to leave, savoring the silences as much as the conversations. Raghav, too, seemed reluctant to break the spell of those evenings, leaning slightly closer when she bent over her sketchbook, allowing their knees to touch almost accidentally. They spoke of ambitions, of cities they longed to visit, of the fleeting heartbreaks that had shaped them — all while maintaining the delicate balance of proximity and restraint. Every evening ended the same way: Tara descending the stairs slowly, her pulse lingering from the closeness, and Raghav watching until she disappeared, the city lights flickering across his face like quiet confessions. In the space between rooftop and sky, between words said and unsaid, a subtle intimacy took root, one that neither dared fully name, but both were beginning to feel.
4
The evening air had a weight to it that Tara couldn’t quite name as she climbed the familiar stairwell to the rooftop. It was cooler than the previous nights, carrying a hint of monsoon in its scent, and the city lights of Hyderabad twinkled below like scattered fireflies caught in amber. She found Raghav already there, perched casually on the parapet with the wine bottle between his knees and the glass reflecting the golden streetlights. He nodded at her with a quiet ease, as if her arrival had been expected, inevitable even. Tara poured herself a glass and joined him at the edge, letting the city stretch out beneath them, the hum of traffic and distant laughter forming a backdrop to their small, private world. Tonight felt different, somehow heavier, as though the air itself had sensed the stories Tara had been carrying in silence for too long.
She took a tentative sip of her wine, letting the sharp taste settle on her tongue before she spoke. “I… ended my engagement a few months ago,” she began, her voice low, hesitant, as if speaking the words aloud might somehow make them more permanent. Raghav didn’t respond immediately; he merely leaned back slightly, letting his eyes drift over the skyline before meeting hers. Tara watched him carefully, noting the steadiness of his gaze, the calm patience that made her feel both exposed and strangely safe. “It wasn’t easy,” she continued, “and I kept thinking I’d made a mistake, that maybe I wasn’t strong enough… but I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t pretend anymore.” The words spilled slowly, each one weighted with the years of expectation and the quiet courage it had taken to step away. She exhaled, almost unconsciously, as if releasing a portion of that burden into the night.
Raghav listened without interruption, his face a mask of stillness yet not indifference. There was no rush to fill the silence, no offering of his own story to balance hers, and that absence made her notice the gap in his armor more than any confession ever could. She felt it immediately — the sense that he, too, had scars carefully hidden, stories he had chosen not to share, even in this liminal space suspended between city and sky. His presence was grounding, yet tantalizingly elusive, a quiet tension in the air that made her pulse a little faster. For a moment, she considered probing, asking the questions that would coax the truth from him, but something in the soft curve of his smile and the warmth in his steady gaze told her the timing wasn’t right. Tonight, she was allowed to speak, and he was allowed to listen, and somehow, that was enough.
As the night deepened and the stars emerged above the hazy glow of Hyderabad, their closeness took on an unspoken significance. Tara found herself inching slightly closer, the warmth of his shoulder so near that it seemed to seep into her own skin. Fingers brushed against each other as they reached for the wine bottle, and neither flinched, allowing the contact to linger just a heartbeat longer than necessary. They spoke in fragments now — small jokes about her sketching obsession, teasing remarks about the precariousness of their perch on the parapet — yet beneath the levity was a quiet, insistent pull toward something unarticulated. When she finally stood to leave, the reluctance in her movement was mirrored by the calm, watchful patience in his eyes. Tara descended the stairs slowly, heart still thrumming with the intimacy of the night, and felt a mix of warmth and curiosity — the desire to know him fully, yet the understanding that some edges, some stories, would remain tantalizingly out of reach, for now.
5
The city had gone quiet in a way that felt almost unnatural. One moment the streets of Banjara Hills had been buzzing with honking cars and streetlights flickering like restless fireflies; the next, darkness swallowed everything. Hyderabad was plunged into a citywide blackout, and the familiar hum of electricity vanished as though someone had pulled the plug on the world. Tara had just been pouring herself a glass of wine on her balcony when the lights cut out, leaving her staring at shadows that moved and swayed with the faint, residual glow of the fading dusk. Without thinking, she grabbed her keys and slipped into the stairwell, climbing quickly to the rooftop where she sensed Raghav would already be waiting. Sure enough, he was there, silhouetted against the faint twinkle of distant traffic and stars, a bottle of wine in hand, as if darkness had always belonged to him.
“Didn’t expect the city to sleep all at once,” he said softly, lifting his glass in a quiet toast. Tara laughed, the sound small but bright in the hush around them. “Neither did I,” she admitted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she settled beside him on the parapet. The absence of light made everything feel more immediate — the brush of hands as they reached for the wine, the warmth of proximity that had always lingered at the edge of awareness, now impossible to ignore. They decided against retreating indoors; the blackout had gifted them this unplanned night, a slice of time outside schedules and obligations. Raghav produced blankets and snacks he must have kept hidden for such an eventuality, and together they spread themselves on the rooftop, letting the city fade into a distant hum, replaced by the intimate chorus of their breathing and occasional sips of wine.
Conversations came slower, softer. Words were measured, deliberate, weighted with the stillness around them. Tara spoke of her sketches, of a building she had designed that still didn’t feel like hers, of the quiet loneliness she sometimes carried despite being surrounded by people. Raghav responded in fragments, stories of projects and cities, of experiences he hadn’t shared before, each one dipped in the kind of honesty that only came when the rest of the world went dark. The brush of fingers against fingers became more intentional, lingering longer with each accidental touch. Their laughter, once easy and teasing, now had a depth to it, as though each shared sound confirmed their presence to each other in the absence of everything else. The sky above seemed impossibly vast, studded with stars that felt close enough to touch, and in that starlight, the boundaries between them blurred. The rooftop had become a cocoon, a private orbit outside the reach of routine and expectation.
Hours passed without notice. They leaned back against the parapet, wrapped in blankets, wine glasses forgotten for a moment, simply tracing patterns in the night and in each other’s faces. At one point, Tara felt the weight of the day, the months of quiet longing, the loneliness of her own decisions, and it all seemed to dissipate against the calm steadiness of Raghav beside her. He brushed a hand across her arm in a casual gesture that sent warmth spiraling through her chest. Words failed them, but they didn’t need to speak. The closeness, the subtle electric tension between their bodies, and the shared vulnerability of the night conveyed everything that needed saying. When sleep began to tug at the edges of consciousness, they leaned together, letting the dark sky cradle them, realizing that this stolen night had shifted something profound. The blackout had not only silenced the city; it had illuminated the unspoken desires they had carried for weeks, drawing them irresistibly closer under the indifferent watch of the stars.
6
The darkness of the blackout had stretched hours into something timeless, and the rooftop had become a universe suspended above Hyderabad, where only the stars and their presence mattered. Wrapped in the warmth of shared blankets, Tara and Raghav spoke softly, voices blending with the occasional rustle of wind. They talked about fears, the kind rarely spoken aloud—Tara about the lingering insecurity of stepping away from her engagement, Raghav about the impermanence of his projects and the restlessness that followed him from city to city. Dreams too surfaced, tentative, fragile wishes of travel, of creating something lasting, of connection that didn’t feel fleeting. In the hushed intimacy of the night, there were no interruptions, no expectations, and each revelation was met with a steady, unjudging gaze that made the other feel seen in a way few ever had.
As the conversation deepened, the distance between them diminished almost imperceptibly. Fingers brushed, at first by accident when reaching for the wine bottle, then intentionally, hands intertwining in quiet acknowledgment of the bond forming. Their knees, pressed together on the narrow parapet, sent subtle shivers through them both, a warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets. Words became unnecessary in the spaces between their laughter and shared stories, replaced by glances that lingered too long, by breaths that seemed to match in rhythm. Every accidental touch carried an unspoken weight, a promise and a question at once. Tara felt her heart race in a way that was at once thrilling and terrifying, aware that the fragile line between friendship and something more was being crossed.
The first kiss was hesitant, almost shy, a gentle brush of lips that tested boundaries and invited response. It lingered only for a heartbeat before both pulled back slightly, breathless, eyes searching each other’s in the dim starlight. And then the urgency took over, hands cradling faces, lips meeting again with a hunger that had been building over weeks of stolen moments and unspoken desire. The world beyond the rooftop ceased to exist; the hum of traffic, the distant chatter, even the faint glow of streetlights, vanished into insignificance. Their whispers became urgent, fingers threading through hair, breaths mingling in the intimate space they had carved out for themselves. Each moment was electric, every touch and kiss pulling them deeper into a closeness that neither had anticipated but both had been longing for.
Time became fluid. The city below, sprawling and indifferent, was forgotten entirely, leaving only the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the intimacy of whispered confessions, and the dizzying sensation of falling without end. Tara traced the lines of Raghav’s jaw with her fingertips, memorizing the curve of his smile, the tilt of his head, while he held her like a fragile promise, careful not to let go even as desire surged between them. There was laughter, soft and breathy, mingled with gasps and murmurs of names spoken like mantras in the night. Wrapped in blankets, in the starlight, on a rooftop that had become their world, they crossed the line from yearning to fulfillment, each movement a declaration, each kiss a confession. When the night finally seemed to settle, it left behind the residue of intimacy, the echo of whispered dreams, and a connection that neither could ignore, knowing that the city below had no claim over what had bloomed in the darkness above.
7
The first pale streaks of dawn painted the Hyderabad skyline in soft hues of lavender and gold, and the rooftop felt different in the morning light. The city below was stirring slowly — vendors opening their stalls, the distant hum of engines beginning again, and the scent of fresh bread and brewing chai wafting up from the streets. Tara and Raghav sat side by side on the parapet, the blankets from the previous night still loosely wrapped around them, shoulders brushing, knees touching just slightly, the quiet intimacy of the night lingering like a delicate aftertaste. Neither spoke at first; words seemed unnecessary as they watched the city wake, letting the calm of early morning stretch between them. The rooftop, once a playground for flirtation and laughter, now carried a softer, more reflective air, where the exhilaration of the night gave way to an awareness of reality.
Tara sipped the last of the wine from the bottle, the taste lingering with the memory of last night’s closeness, and felt a warm glow spread through her chest. Yet even as she leaned into Raghav’s presence, the edges of her mind whispered of obligations, distances, and the fragility of such moments. She traced the line of the horizon absentmindedly, noting the way the first light caught the edges of buildings, and realized with a small pang that their rooftop world was temporary, fragile in the face of ordinary life. Raghav seemed lost in his own thoughts too, eyes scanning the waking city below, lips set in a line that was serious for the first time. There was a pause, pregnant with the silence of things unsaid, before he finally turned toward her, a sigh escaping softly.
“I should tell you,” he began, voice low, careful, “I’m leaving soon. Dubai… two years.” The words landed like a sudden gust of wind, chilling and heavy in the warm morning air. Tara blinked, caught between disbelief and the sinking recognition of what she had feared might be true. The city seemed to recede, becoming a quiet backdrop to the sharp ache in her chest. The limitless intimacy of last night, the closeness that had felt infinite under the stars, suddenly seemed marked with a boundary she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. She tried to speak, to respond with something casual, but the words failed, leaving only a fragile nod. Raghav’s eyes held hers, steady, apologetic, and in that gaze she felt both the sincerity of his confession and the inevitable distance that would follow.
The minutes stretched, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions. Tara felt the warmth of their shared blankets and the memory of his touch, but beneath it, an ache of inevitability pressed in. Raghav’s presence was comforting and yet a reminder of the impermanence of this rooftop universe they had carved out together. He spoke again, softly, almost to himself: “I wish it didn’t have to be like this… I wish we had more time.” The vulnerability in his voice mirrored her own unvoiced fears, and for a moment, the city below seemed suspended, as though it too understood the quiet heartbreak of two people forced to confront the limits of circumstances. They stayed like that, sitting close but separated by the looming reality, letting the morning sun witness a connection both tender and transient — a memory stitched into the quiet glow of Hyderabad’s waking skyline.
8
The days after Raghav’s revelation passed in a strange, suspended rhythm, as if the universe itself had slowed to let them savor the fleeting hours left before reality intervened. Each evening, Tara found herself drawn to the rooftop almost instinctively, the stairwell now a well-trodden path that led to their shared sanctuary above the city. The city lights flickered below like distant stars, indifferent to the tension and warmth unfolding above. Some nights, the air was crisp, carrying the first hints of late-autumn chill, and the breeze teased at her hair as she approached the parapet. Raghav was always waiting, glass in hand, a smile that now carried a bittersweet undertone — a mixture of affection, awareness, and a quiet restraint that neither of them wanted to break. They greeted each other with a nod or a laugh, as if acknowledging the unspoken urgency that threaded through their moments together.
Their conversations retained their playful cadence, full of teasing remarks and light-hearted debates about the city, its quirks, and the people who filled its streets. Yet beneath the laughter, a subtle tension had begun to undercut the ease of their meetings. Tara found herself noticing every glance lingered just a second too long, every accidental brush of his hand stirring a pulse of longing she tried not to acknowledge. She questioned herself: should she guard her heart, protect it from the looming absence of the man who had become a constant in her evenings? Meanwhile, Raghav navigated the same tightrope, careful not to make promises he couldn’t keep, aware that the weeks ahead were numbered, and that any claim of permanence would be a lie. Their laughter now carried an undercurrent of desperation, a recognition that time was both a friend and a thief, gifting them closeness even as it counted down to inevitable separation.
The rooftop itself seemed to shift with the changing mood. The air felt colder, crisp enough to draw their shoulders together instinctively, blankets and shared warmth becoming both shield and excuse for lingering touches. Their wine glasses clinked with an almost ritualistic cadence, a subtle echo of the first night they had spent here, now layered with the knowledge of the clock ticking toward departure. Fingers met accidentally and deliberately, knees brushed under the blankets, and they found comfort in the small, intimate gestures that had once been effortless but now felt charged with significance. The city below hummed with its ordinary life, unaware of the tension perched above it, yet it was impossible not to sense that this microcosm on the parapet had become a world where only the two of them existed, a place where desire and restraint tangled together under the indifferent stars.
Despite the underlying tension, they still allowed themselves to savor the joy of the present, clinging to the warmth of stolen moments and laughter that rang more loudly precisely because of the unspoken limitations. Tara sketched the skyline more often in these days, adding details she might have overlooked before — the faint reflection of streetlights in puddles from a brief drizzle, the silhouette of a lone palm swaying in the breeze — and Raghav teased her mercilessly for capturing such trivialities while missing his “best angle,” eliciting a reluctant laugh from her each time. Yet each joke, each brush of a hand, carried the unspoken awareness that these evenings were finite, precious, and tinged with melancholy. In those late-autumn nights, with the city sprawling quietly below, their bond deepened — a delicate, intoxicating mixture of affection, desire, and the bittersweet knowledge that soon, the rooftop would be theirs no longer, and the countdown would finally reach its inevitable end.
9
The night air carried a different weight that evening, dense with the scent of late-autumn jasmine and the faint chill of approaching winter. Tara climbed the familiar stairwell with a mixture of anticipation and reluctance, aware that this would be the last time she would ascend to the rooftop with Raghav before his departure. The city below sprawled quietly, streetlights flickering like watchful stars in the urban expanse, indifferent to the small, fragile universe forming above them. As she reached the top, Raghav was already there, perched on the parapet with the wine bottle they had shared on their first meeting — as if to mark a full circle. His eyes lifted at her arrival, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, warm yet tinged with the gravity of farewell. “One last glass?” he asked, voice soft, carrying a mixture of levity and solemnity. Tara nodded, accepting the ritual, pouring the deep red liquid into their glasses, the color catching the faint moonlight like a quiet promise.
They fell into an easy rhythm, revisiting the jokes and playful banter that had marked their first rooftop conversations. The city seemed to recede further with each shared sip, leaving them suspended in the delicate orbit of shared memories. Tara laughed at his exaggerated stories about traffic mishaps, and he teased her gently about overzealous sketches that captured “the wrong skyline angles.” But beneath the surface, each laugh was weighted with a bittersweet edge, every glance carrying the silent acknowledgment that these moments were numbered. Words became unnecessary in places where eyes met, where hands brushed over the edge of a wine glass or along the blanket covering their knees. There was a gravity in the unspoken, an intimacy that spoke louder than any declaration could, and both of them leaned into it, cherishing the fleeting night as though they could somehow stretch it indefinitely.
As hours passed, the conversation grew quieter, more reflective. They shared small stories of childhood, old scars, hopes for the future, and dreams that now seemed suddenly out of reach. Tara felt the ache of impending absence press against her chest, a hollow that had been quietly forming over the past weeks of stolen rooftop evenings. Raghav’s presence was both comforting and maddeningly distant; his laughter, his steady gaze, and the warmth of his shoulder pressed against hers were the anchors of the night, yet they reminded her that tomorrow would strip them of this cocoon. When she looked at him, she saw the same restraint she had sensed in earlier conversations — the careful boundary between affection and promises he could not keep. Their hands brushed, and she didn’t pull away, letting the contact linger as if memorizing the feeling could somehow stave off the inevitability of separation.
Dawn seeped slowly into the sky, the violet of night dissolving into pale pink and gold streaks over the cityscape. They sat quietly on the parapet, wrapped in blankets and each other’s presence, savoring the last moments without the need for words. Raghav finally drew Tara close in a lingering embrace, long enough to feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest, to imprint the warmth of the night into memory. She rested her head against his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, aware that this was the final touchstone before distance would claim them. When they eventually pulled apart, it was with a shared understanding — the ache of absence would remain, the rooftop would feel emptier, yet the bond formed under starlight would endure in the quiet corners of memory. As the first rays of dawn painted the city in gold, they lingered in a final glance, carrying the unspoken ache of what was, and what would never quite be again.
10
The city hummed beneath Tara like a living, restless organism, indifferent to the small, fragile world she had carved out above it. The streets of Banjara Hills glowed faintly in the evening light, cars winding their way through the familiar lanes, streetlights flickering as though uncertain of the stories they bore witness to. Tara perched on the parapet, her legs dangling slightly over the edge, the familiar weight of the night breeze pressing against her cheeks. It was quieter here, not in sound but in feeling. The rooftop that had once vibrated with laughter, whispers, and the stolen intimacy of shared wine now felt spacious in a way that pressed against her chest. And yet, the emptiness carried a subtle comfort too — this was her domain again, a sanctuary where she could breathe, where the city seemed to belong less to the bustle below and more to the rhythms she chose to create.
She opened her sketchbook and let her pencil wander across the page, tracing the familiar contours of the skyline — the gentle curve of Necklace Road, the distant silhouette of Charminar, and the scattered, uneven rooftops that marked her own neighborhood. Her hand moved with a practiced ease, yet the drawings carried a new softness, a subtle nostalgia tucked into the lines. Tentatively, almost as a private gesture, she added a small figure beside her own — a shadowy representation of Raghav, a memory captured in graphite. It wasn’t about longing, exactly, but about holding onto the warmth of their rooftop ritual, of the nights that had stretched into something timeless. Somewhere in Dubai, she imagined, he might be looking at a night sky not unlike this one, the stars above him mirroring the same constellations she traced with her pencil. That thought brought a faint smile, the ache of absence tempered by the intimacy of shared memory.
Time here felt slower, measured by the rustle of leaves, the distant honk of vehicles, and the occasional laughter carried up from streets far below. Tara let herself linger, sipping from a half-empty bottle of wine they had once shared, the taste bittersweet against her tongue. She recalled the nights when their conversations had meandered across fears, dreams, and playful jabs; the nights when fingers brushed and knees touched, and the rooftop became a universe suspended above the ordinary. Now, each memory felt like a whisper, echoing gently across the expanse of concrete and stars. She drew her gaze back to the horizon, feeling both the weight of what had ended and the quiet freedom of what remained. The rooftop was hers now — a canvas for her sketches, a space for reflection, a silent witness to a connection that had shaped her in ways words could scarcely contain.
As twilight deepened, the city lights flickered on, painting Hyderabad in gold and amber, the hum of life below relentless and persistent. Tara tucked her sketchbook under her arm and leaned against the parapet, feeling the faint press of the breeze and the quiet ache of absence that had softened into something like peace. The rooftop no longer belonged to two, yet it held the traces of their shared nights — a shadow, a laugh, a brush of fingertips — embedded in the air itself. Somewhere far away, Raghav might be thinking of her too, a distant parallel traced by stars and memory. And Tara understood, with a quiet certainty, that while their chapter had ended, the rooftop would remain — a place to return to, to remember, and to find fragments of herself in the glow of the city lights and the cool night air that whispered of what had once been.
End
