Part Three: The rain and the unsaid
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The first time she let me in—really let me in—was on a Sunday afternoon. We had been walking in the park, the golden light filtering through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the pavement. Then the rain came, sudden and heavy, soaking us in seconds.
Instead of running, she laughed, tilting her face up to the sky. The droplets clung to her lashes, sliding down her cheeks like diamonds.
“You’re insane,” I said, shaking my head, grinning despite myself.
“Maybe,” she replied. “But why run from something so beautiful?”
Before I could answer, she grabbed my wrist. “Come on,” she said, leading me toward her car. “I’m not letting you walk home like a drenched puppy.”
Her loft was warm, the air rich with the scent of books and cinnamon. She tossed me a towel, her eyes lingering on mine for a moment too long before she turned away.
I dried my hair, watching her as she moved around the kitchen, making tea. She was still damp, her blouse clinging slightly, her hair messier than usual. And yet, she was breathtaking.
“This isn’t normal,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the rim of a coffee mug.
I swallowed hard. “Maybe normal isn’t for us.”
She looked at me then—really looked at me. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
I took a step closer. “Then tell me.”
And for a long, suspended moment, she hesitated. Then, with a shaky breath, she closed the distance between us.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI , ASSAM INDIA
23/02/2025
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