It is raining heavily when I leave office, and I am already in a rush. I have been calling my auto driver again and again, asking him to come to the back gate, but because of the rain he refuses and reaches Gate No. 1 instead. I haven’t even checked the auto number properly. I just want to reach home somehow. My kids are waiting, my husband is out of town, everyone from my team has already left, and I am carrying my laptop bag, gym bag, tiffin, umbrella, phone—everything at once.

I open my umbrella and step onto the perfectly finished floor outside, and suddenly I slip. Not a small, manageable stumble. I actually fall, right in front of the entire public waiting near reception. My laptop bag lands a little away from me, the gym bag goes in another direction, my tiffin falls, the umbrella turns completely upside down, and my phone drops straight into the water. For a second I just stare at it. It is lying there, completely soaked, almost floating towards the darker tiles.

I try to get up quickly because the embarrassment hits before the pain does, and I slip again. Perfect. I can feel people looking at me. Nobody comes. Rainwater is falling on my face so heavily that I can’t see properly. My hair is stuck to my cheeks, my clothes are dripping, and I am wet from head to toe within seconds. My elbow hurts. My knee hurts. My ankle hurts. I try to stand again, completely humiliated now, and that is when you see me.

You come running. You don’t even care that you are getting drenched too. One hand comes around my arm, the other steadies me carefully, and you help me stand. I try putting weight on my foot and immediately wince.

“Careful.”

You bring me back inside. The first thing I say is not thank you.

“My phone.”

You look towards the rain.

“My phone, please. Auto wait कर रहा है.”

You immediately turn around and go back outside. I watch you walk into the rain and pick it up from the water. When you come back, your shirt is wetter than before. You hand me the phone. Completely soaked. Dead.

I press the power button. Nothing. Again. Nothing. My heart sinks.

“No, no, no…”

I press it again, harder, as if frustration can somehow force electronics to work.

“I have an auto waiting.”

You say something about calming down, but I am already panicking.

“My kids are waiting at home. Husband City में नहीं है. मैं जाऊँगी कैसे? मेरे सारे teammates चले गए हैं. मैं जाऊँगी कैसे?”

You look at me. Really look at me. I must look ridiculous—hair dripping, sleeves soaked, hands shaking, one elbow scraped badly, trying to switch on a phone that is very obviously dead.

“Relax. Relax.”

You raise both hands slightly towards me. I don’t know why that tiny gesture affects me. Maybe because I desperately want somebody to tell me that everything is manageable. Maybe because I am in pain. Maybe because I am embarrassed. Whatever it is, my eyes suddenly fill.

“बैठिए पहले.”

“I am fine.”

“आप fine नहीं हो. बैठिए.”

I don’t have the energy to argue. I sit. That is when you notice my elbow properly. There is blood running down my arm.

“Oh shit.”

You disappear inside. I look down at myself. My elbow has already started turning blue. There is blood near my ankle too. My wrist hurts, and when I turn it slightly I can see the beginning of another bruise. I suddenly become conscious of the people around reception again. Everyone saw me fall. Everyone saw me trying to get up. Everyone saw me slip again. And now everyone can see you running around for me as if I am somehow your responsibility.

You come back with a glass of water, two bandages and a handkerchief.

“Water.”

I take the glass. My fingers are still trembling. You crouch in front of me and look at my elbow.

“थोड़ा लगेगा.”

Before I can say anything, you gently wipe away the blood with your handkerchief. It stings and I hiss.

“Sorry.”

Your voice immediately becomes softer. You clean it slowly this time. For some reason I notice that your sleeve is wet all the way to your wrist because you went back into the rain for my phone. The thought makes something tighten inside my chest.

You put the bandage over my elbow and then look at my ankle.

“यहाँ भी लगी है.”

“I know.”

I suddenly feel stupidly shy. Not romantic shy. Just deeply uncomfortable with somebody taking care of me this closely. You move my bag away from my injured wrist before I even realise I have been trying to hold it.

“छोड़ो इसे.”

“I can hold it.”

“I know. फिर भी छोड़ो.”

You place it beside the chair and bend towards my ankle. The reception is full of people, and you are kneeling in front of me, carefully putting a bandage over my skin as if nobody else exists. I look at you for a second. Why are you doing this? I don’t say it, but I think you notice something in my face because you glance up. Just for a moment our eyes meet, and I look away first.

After almost two months of this ridiculous coincidence series between us—gym, corridors, cafeteria, random office spaces—this is how we finally interact properly. When I am helpless. Of course.

My breathing is still heavy. You notice.

“Relax.”

I almost want to tell you that if you say relax one more time, I will hit you with my functional hand. Instead I just stare at my dead phone.

“I’ll bring my stuff. आप मेरे साथ parking तक चल पाओगी? Let me drop you home.”

I immediately look at you.

“No, no. Please don’t be bothered.”

“It’s fine.”

“Phone थोड़ी देर में on हो जाएगा.”

I press the power button again. Nothing.

“I’ll manage.”

You don’t argue instantly. You just look at me pressing the same dead button again and again.

I hate depending on people. I have always loved being the person who helps. If someone needs anything, I am there. But receiving help? I don’t know what to do with it. Especially now. Lately, depending emotionally on one person I love has taught me just how heartbreaking dependence can become. When you hand somebody access to your softest places and they decide not to stay there gently, you start learning how to survive without asking.

I don’t want to hand another person that kind of power. And I know you have been hovering around me. I have noticed you. Too many times. Enough to make me suspicious. Enough to wonder if all those coincidences were actually coincidences.

I look at you. You are looking at me too. Then, almost absurdly, you crouch lower so that our faces are at the same level.

“Ma’am.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Respectfully, मुझे आपको घर drop करने दीजिए. It’s fine.”

There is no cleverness in your tone. No flirtation. Nothing that makes me feel like you are using the situation. Just concern. Which somehow makes me more nervous.

I look around. People are still sitting there. My phone is dead. My ankle hurts. My children are waiting. Nobody else is coming. I finally nod.

You stand and immediately pick up my laptop bag.

“I’ll take it.”

“No, no, मैं ले लूँगी.”

You move it out of my reach.

“आप बस चलो.”

The gym bag comes next. Then the tiffin.

“Seriously?”

“Relax.”

I glare at you. You laugh very slightly.

We start walking towards the lift. Actually, you walk. I limp beside you. My knee hurts every time I bend it, and suddenly, in the middle of everything, I miss him. Violently.

I want him here. I want to go home with him. I want to call him and say, come get me. I don’t feel completely safe walking towards a car with a man I barely know, even if I have seen you around for months, even if you have always seemed protective near the gym and office, even if your intentions right now appear completely clean. My mind doesn’t work like that. It remains cautious.

“Wait.”

You stop instantly.

“Can I call someone from your phone?”

You hand it to me without asking who. I open the dialler and search.

M.

O.

H.

My thumb stops. I stare at those letters.

What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he says he can’t come? What if he doesn’t want to? What if I hear something in his voice that confirms everything I am afraid of? He blocked me on Instagram. I still don’t know why. There are questions I want answers to until I am standing close enough to actually ask them. Then suddenly I don’t. Maybe some uncertainty hurts less than certainty.

I delete the letters, lock your phone and hand it back. You don’t ask. Thank God you don’t ask.

“Five minutes wait कीजिए. मेरा friend मेरा bag ला रहा है. फिर मैं आपको drop कर देता हूँ.”

I try taking my things again.

“Seriously, I can carry them.”

“Ma’am.”

“What?”

“Relax.”

I almost laugh despite myself. My elbow is still bleeding slightly beneath the bandage. One drop moves down my arm. You notice before I do.

“एक minute.”

You move the laptop bag to your other shoulder and carefully wipe the blood again. I look at your face. Your hair is still damp from the rain. There is rainwater near your collar. For the first time, I become conscious that you got wet because of me. I immediately look away.

I can’t tell anymore whether my face is wet because of rain or because I cried.

We finally enter the lift. I am standing awkwardly beside you, wet, limping, smelling like rain and probably looking terrible. The lift doors close, and for a few seconds it is just us. No public. No reception. No noise except the hum of the lift.

You look at my ankle.

“बहुत दर्द हो रहा है?”

“Manageable.”

“You say manageable जैसे अभी marathon दौड़ोगे.”

I look at you. You smile. I don’t. But somewhere inside me, a little of the panic breaks.

When we reach the parking, you walk slower than before. It takes me a few seconds to realise you are matching my pace. You never mention it. That somehow stays with me.

We reach your car. You open the passenger door. I try getting in and immediately stop because bending my knee hurts. You don’t grab me. You just offer your forearm.

“Hold.”

I do. You wait until I am seated properly, then take the bags from me and place everything behind. When you walk around to the driver’s side, I sit there completely blank.

My body feels cold now. Wet clothes. Wet hair. Cold skin. The car smells clean and faintly woody. You sit down, look at me once, and turn the air towards the windshield.

“Cold लग रही है?”

“No.”

I am obviously lying. You don’t call me out. You increase the temperature slightly. My wet sleeves begin warming slowly against my skin. That tiny comfort almost makes me emotional again.

“Ma’am, location डाल देना please.”

You give me your phone.

“Please call me Onesha,” I say automatically while opening Maps.

Then I press Home and hand your phone back. You put it near the wireless charger. I look at my own dead phone resting in my lap.

You tell me your name.

I almost roll my eyes. I already know. I have stalked you online. Not properly. Actually, I have been so busy stalking him that I have forgotten other men exist. You have just been this person who keeps appearing near me—gym, office, corridors, random spaces. The irritating coincidence. The man I assumed was deliberately hovering around. And yet, despite all my suspicion, you have never actually done anything wrong.

I try switching on my phone again.

“छोड़ दो, ma’am.”

I press the button.

“It’s dead.”

“On हो जाएगा.”

“थोड़ी देर मरने दो.”

I turn towards you. You grin. Then, with ridiculous casualness, you ask—

“Coffee?”

I stare.

“What?”

“Coffee पीने चल सकते हैं.”

I actually laugh because I don’t know what else to do.

“I am married. And I have two kids.”

There. Clear information. Delivered directly to my office stalker.

You don’t even blink.

“तो क्या married बच्चों वाले लोग coffee नहीं पीते?”

I laugh despite myself.

“The audacity.”

You smile.

Outside, the rain is still falling heavily. The wipers move constantly, pushing water away only for another sheet to cover the windshield. We are still inside the office campus, and I keep looking around. Searching. His car. His cap. Anything familiar.

Some irrational part of me is hoping he will suddenly appear and I can get out of this car and go with him. I miss him insanely. I want to call him. I want him to be the one sitting here. That thought hurts.

You notice my hands shaking slightly. Maybe from cold. Maybe from pain. Maybe from everything. You extend your hand towards mine. I instantly pull away.

You stop immediately. No attempt to grab it again. No offended expression. Nothing.

“It’s okay. कुछ नहीं कर रहा मैं. Just breathe.”

Your hand remains between us for a second. Open. Then you start pulling it back.

I don’t know why I stop you.

My fingers touch your palm before I have fully decided to do it.

You look at me. I look straight ahead. You don’t close your hand immediately, and that somehow makes me more aware of it. You are waiting, giving me enough time to change my mind.

I don’t.

Only then do your fingers close gently around mine. Your palm is warm. Mine is freezing. I hate how immediately I notice the difference.

Outside, the rain is violent. Inside, suddenly, everything feels strangely quiet. Your thumb moves once against the side of my hand. Only once. Such a small thing, and I hate how much I feel it.

I look outside immediately. I am married. I have two kids. I am sitting inside the car of a man I was calling my stalker fifteen minutes ago. My elbow is bleeding. My phone is dead. I desperately want another man to be here. And somehow I am noticing how warm your hand is.

Ridiculous.

I start pulling mine away. You loosen your fingers instantly.

That should make things easier.

Strangely, it doesn’t.

We cross the office Fastag barrier and enter the road. Maps keeps giving directions. You switch on music. Of course you do. And of course the songs are romantic, because apparently the universe has no sense of subtlety.

Dark clouds. Wet roads. Rain hitting the windshield. Streetlights blurring into long yellow streaks. My wet hair slowly drying against my neck. The warmth of the car. Soft music. And you sitting next to me as if this is all perfectly normal.

I look ahead and suddenly ask—

“Why coffee with a married, over-obese woman with two kids?”

You glance at me. I don’t know why I asked. Maybe I want you to say something stupid so I can dismiss you. Maybe I want reassurance. Maybe I genuinely want to know.

Your car is automatic, so one hand remains mostly free. I look at both of your hands. No ring.

Interesting.

Not that I care.

Obviously.

There is a small yellow soft toy duck sitting on the dashboard, staring directly at me. I almost feel judged by it. Apparently I forgot to stalk whether you are married. I have been too busy stalking him.

I lean back.

“Sorry. I’m fine now.”

You smile and keep driving.

After a few minutes, I start looking outside properly. Something feels wrong. The road doesn’t look familiar.

“Wait.”

You glance at me.

“What?”

“Why are we going here?”

“Ma’am, आपने map लगाया है. वहीं तो जा रहे हैं.”

I look at you. Then Maps. Then outside. We are heading towards the Noida-Greater Noida Expressway.

“What the fuck?”

You look confused for half a second. Then I realise.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“I pressed Home.”

You wait.

I stare at your phone.

“On your phone.”

You start laughing. I cover my face with my good hand.

“Oh God.”

You grin.

“मेरे घर जाना है आपको?”

I start laughing too. Actually laughing. Properly. For the first time since falling.

“Shut up.”

“मस्त मौसम है वैसे. Romantic सा.”

I turn towards you immediately.

“Excuse me?”

You are still laughing.

“I feel very unsafe with your behaviour, by the way.”

“अच्छा?”

“Yes.”

I say it jokingly, but not entirely, because part of me is still alert. I still barely know you. Kindness doesn’t automatically remove caution.

You don’t argue with that. You simply nod once.

“Fair.”

That one word oddly reassures me.

Then you look at my elbow and your smile disappears.

“Blood आ रहा है.”

I look down. My black top has a darker stain near the elbow.

“Oh God.”

I touch it instinctively. You immediately stop my hand.

“मत touch करो.”

I freeze for a second because your fingers are around my wrist. You realise it too and let go immediately.

“मैंने तुम्हारी car भी खराब कर दी.”

You look down at the seat. Then at me.

“Car धुल जाएगी.”

That’s it. No irritation. No concern for the seat.

“Hospital चलते हैं.”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“Bandage है.”

“और blood भी है.”

I sigh. You pull towards a nearby hospital before I can argue properly.

When we get inside, I limp towards the dressing area.

“Give me your hand.”

“No.”

“I am not disabled.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“आज के लिए pretend कर लो.”

I glare. You grin.

While the nurse does the dressing, I keep trying to switch on my phone. Still dead. When I come out, you are standing near the counter.

“What are you doing?”

“कुछ नहीं.”

Then I realise you have paid.

“Why did you pay?”

“Because I was standing here.”

“That makes no sense.”

“अब हो गया.”

“That is not the point.”

You shrug as if I am making a very serious issue out of nothing.

And maybe that is what affects me.

You do things before I get a chance to protect myself from needing you. You notice my watch is pulling at my injured wrist and silently move it. You remember which ankle hurts. You slow down without announcing it. You open the car door wider because I can’t bend my knee easily.

None of it is romantic.

Not technically.

And maybe that is exactly why it starts feeling dangerous.

Because I notice.

And while I am noticing, I still miss him.

I wish he was here. I miss his clean-shaven cheeks. His eyes beneath that white cap. His voice. His sweet, gentle way of caring for me. I want to kiss his face. I want to ask him why he disappeared behind walls I don’t understand. I want him here badly enough that it almost feels disloyal to be comforted by somebody else.

We step outside the hospital. You look at me walking with Maps open on your phone.

“Ma’am, map भी phone से देखते हो आप? घर का रास्ता याद नहीं है?”

I look at you.

“Husband को बुलाऊँ आपके?”

“वो city में नहीं हैं यार. वरना तुम्हें परेशान नहीं करती.”

“अरे कर लो परेशान. I would be happy to.”

The question comes out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“क्यों?”

You look at me. For once you don’t answer immediately. Then you smile.

“I know पटक दोगी. अच्छा, एक coffee तो पी ही सकते हैं.”

Again.

“क्यों?”

“आपको पट्टी करवा रहा हूँ, घर छोड़ रहा हूँ. एक coffee तो पिला सकते हो.”

“मत छोड़ो. मैं चली जाऊँगी.”

I say it instantly. You look at my limp. Then at me.

“हाँ. बिल्कुल. दौड़ते हुए चली जाना.”

I glare. You laugh and offer your arm again instead of grabbing mine.

“चलो. छोड़ देता हूँ. क्या याद रखोगे आप.”

I cannot believe your audacity.

When I sit inside the car again, I finally notice the dashboard properly. There is a small Shivling with a Rudraksha mala around it. I stare at it and silently start chanting.

Om Namah Shivaya.

Om Namah Shivaya.

Om Namah Shivaya.

Again and again.

Just get me home safely.

Please.

I look at my watch. 5:45. I should have been home by now.

I miss him again. It comes in waves. One moment I am talking to you. The next, his face appears somewhere inside my mind and everything else becomes secondary.

“Can I add my actual home address?”

You hand me the phone.

“Sure, ma’am. Please be comfortable. मैं कुछ नहीं कर रहा हूँ.”

“I know.”

I say it before I can stop myself.

You glance at me. I look down at the screen and enter my address carefully this time.

And then, while I am still holding your phone, you say something that makes my finger freeze over the screen.

“आप मेरी crush हो… six years से.”

I slowly look up.

“What?”

Your eyes remain on the road.

“What did you just say?”

You smile slightly.

I stare at your face. Really stare. And something starts moving inside my memory.

FC4 building. The opposite wing. 2019. Chess boards. Those office chairs. The strange afternoons before Covid. Before marriage. Before so many things happened that changed the shape of my life.

I remember playing chess. Winning two rounds. And I remember someone standing nearby watching.

You.

“Oh my God.”

You glance at me.

“तुम वही हो?”

You laugh softly.

“अब पहचान रहे हो?”

I don’t answer immediately.

For the first time that evening, you stop being the random man from the gym, the person I keep seeing around office, the annoying coincidence. You become somebody who has existed quietly somewhere in the background of my life for years.

That changes something. Not dramatically. But enough. Enough that my shoulders relax a little. Enough that I look at you differently.

“आप बहुत अच्छा chess खेलते थे.”

“अब नहीं खेलते?”

“I do. बस अब खेलती नहीं. कोई खेलता ही नहीं मेरे साथ.”

“किसने सिखाया था आपको?”

“Papa ने. मैं हमेशा जीत जाती थी.”

I smile.

“In fact, मैं अपने manager Kapil के साथ भी खेलती थी. He was also awestruck with my chess-playing capabilities.”

You laugh. I look at you again.

“काफ़ी change हो गए यार तुम.”

“अच्छा वाला या बुरा वाला?”

I hesitate. I don’t know. Maybe both. I smile instead.

“पहचान गए अब मुझे?”

I am still shocked that I forgot you.

“यार, तुम भी मेरे जितने पुराने हो क्या?”

“हाँ. उससे भी पुराने.”

I turn towards you.

“मुझे लगा इतना आस-पास दिखते रहते हो… coincidence है क्या?”

You laugh.

“मैं कभी भी कहीं भी होता हूँ, आप दिख जाते हो.”

“अच्छा! मुझे लगा जान-बूझकर करते हो. मेरा पीछा करते हो तुम.”

“हाँ करता हूँ. बताओ क्या करोगे?”

I immediately laugh.

“POSH लगा दूँगी.”

“लगा दो.”

You pause.

“लेकिन पहले एक coffee पीने चलो.”

I shake my head.

“अच्छा चलो. कल चलते हैं.”

“कल क्यों? इतना romantic मौसम हो रहा है. अभी चलो.”

There it is again. That stupid coffee. That stupid confidence.

You extend your hand towards me. You don’t take mine. You simply leave yours there. Open. Waiting.

The music keeps playing. Rain slides down the windows. I look at your hand, then outside, then at your hand again.

And suddenly I think about him.

Starbucks. All those coffees I imagined having with him. All those conversations I replayed before they happened. All those things I wanted from someone who somehow still occupies so much space inside me without actually being here.

The thought hurts.

Maybe it is the rain. Maybe the pain. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe loneliness makes you vulnerable to kindness. But for one second I think—maybe I should stop waiting for somebody who isn’t here.

The thought scares me.

I place my hand in yours.

Again, you don’t close your fingers instantly. You let mine rest there first, almost asking without asking.

I don’t pull away.

Then your fingers close gently around mine. Your palm is warm. Mine has finally stopped shaking.

Neither of us says anything. The windows are slowly misting from the difference between the rain outside and the warmth inside. Streetlights stretch across the wet road. The song changes. I don’t even know which one it is.

Your thumb moves once across my knuckles.

I feel it everywhere.

Ridiculous.

I look outside.

For somebody who has spent months feeling emotionally starved, a tiny touch can become embarrassingly loud. I don’t want to admit that. I don’t want to admit how comforting your hand feels. I don’t want to admit that being cared for is affecting me.

I have spent so long being someone’s mother, someone’s wife, someone’s employee, someone’s problem-solver, someone’s dependable person. Sometimes I forget I am also just a woman. A lonely one. A tired one. A woman who still wants to be looked at gently.

I turn towards you. You are looking at the road.

There is something different now. Maybe because I remember you. Maybe because you don’t feel entirely like a stranger anymore. Maybe because your restraint is making me more aware of everything than your audacity ever did.

I squeeze your hand slightly.

You glance towards me. Just once. Then back to the road.

My chest tightens.

For some time we drive like that—your hand under mine, my thoughts everywhere. Him. You. Rain. Home. Guilt. Relief. Nothing making complete sense.

At some point, the car stops. I don’t immediately notice because I am watching the rain outside. When I finally turn towards you, you are looking at me.

The car suddenly feels too quiet. The music is still playing softly. Rain taps continuously against the roof. The wipers stop for a few seconds. I can hear my own breathing.

You move slightly closer.

Then stop.

Not dramatically. Just enough for me to understand.

You are waiting.

I can move away. I should move away. I know that. I am married. I have children. I am emotionally entangled with someone whose name I almost dialled from your phone less than an hour ago.

Everything about this is complicated.

And still I don’t move.

For one second, his face appears inside my head. His eyes. That white cap. His clean-shaven cheeks. The way I miss him so badly it makes me angry.

I almost pull away.

Then your fingers reach towards the wet strand of hair still stuck near my cheek. You don’t even push it back fully. You just touch it, very lightly.

The softness of it undoes something.

You lean forward and kiss my cheek.

That’s all.

No rush. No demand.

You move back enough for me to choose again.

And somehow that makes it worse, because I have forgotten what it feels like when tenderness doesn’t immediately ask for something in return.

My eyes stay on your face. My heart is beating too fast. I don’t know whether I am lonely or attracted or simply exhausted enough to stop protecting myself for one second.

Maybe all three.

I turn towards you before I can think myself out of it and kiss you.

Just once.

On the lips.

Warm. Brief. Impulsive.

The second I realise what I have done, I pull back. I sit straight in my seat as if posture can somehow undo decisions. My heart is ridiculous.

You don’t say anything.

Thank God.

You start driving again.

I stare outside as if I have suddenly developed a deep academic interest in traffic.

The evening is darker now. Tiny lights flicker through the mist on the windows. Rain continues outside. My lips remember something I don’t want them to remember.

And worse—somewhere behind that memory is still him.

I feel guilty. Then irritated with myself for feeling guilty. Then guilty about being irritated.

My mind is exhausting.

“कल coffee date done?”

I don’t look at you. I nod. Then I look at my dead phone.

“Phone ही नहीं on होगा तो कैसे आओगे?”

You laugh.

“चावल के डब्बे में डाल देना, ma’am.”

I laugh too. The tension breaks a little.

After a few minutes, my hand finds yours again. This time almost naturally. Your fingers close around mine, and for a while I allow it. The warmth. The silence. The strange comfort of being beside somebody who wasn’t supposed to matter today.

Then his face flashes through my mind again.

Immediately I pull my hand away.

You don’t ask why.

That makes me want to cry for some stupid reason.

You finally reach my house. For a few seconds I sit there, looking outside. I have no words for the last two hours.

I left office thinking I was getting into an auto. Instead I fell in front of everyone, nearly drowned my phone, ended up bleeding in a stranger’s car, discovered the stranger wasn’t actually a stranger, found out I had apparently been somebody’s crush for six years, accidentally navigated us towards his house, got hospital dressing, held his hand, kissed him—and still spent half the evening missing someone else.

My life is ridiculous.

“Ma’am?”

I look at you.

“Number?”

Right.

I take your phone and enter my number. You come around and open the passenger door. I try stepping out. My ankle still hurts. You immediately offer your arm and I hold it.

You take all my bags again.

“Seriously, give me something.”

“No.”

“You are impossible.”

“कल coffee पे बता देना.”

I roll my eyes.

You walk me towards the entrance slowly, again matching my limp without saying anything. When we reach the door, you hand me my things.

“Medicine ले लेना.”

I nod.

“और ध्यान रखना.”

I look at you. For some reason, I cannot hold your eyes for long. Maybe because I kissed you. Maybe because I know I enjoyed holding your hand. Maybe because some part of me is already wondering about tomorrow. Maybe because another man’s face is still sitting painfully inside my heart.

“Thank you.”

It comes out quieter than I intended.

You nod.

I turn away. I don’t wave. I don’t look back. I just limp towards home.

The moment the door closes behind me, I finally breathe. Properly.

I put the bags down. The house is familiar. Safe. Normal. Completely untouched by the strange evening I have just lived through.

I look at my dead phone, then at the kitchen. And because apparently this is what intelligent adults do when technology fails them completely, I open the rice box.

I put the phone inside and close the lid.

For a few seconds I just stand there.

My elbow is bandaged. My ankle is throbbing. My clothes are still slightly damp. My hair smells like rain. My lips remember one brief kiss they absolutely should not be remembering.

My mind remembers another man entirely.

And somewhere between guilt, confusion, pain and exhaustion, one tiny thought refuses to leave me alone.

Tomorrow.

Coffee.