Neel, She called him.
Noori, He named her.
They decided to stick to names that didn't matter much to them or anyone else.
She was running from a horrible vision.
He was running from his existence.
She wished to fly.
He wished to be grounded.
Sh...
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Her hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as she navigated the familiar streets. "Zindagi, kaisi yeh paheli haaye..." Kishore Kumar's soulful voice drifted from a nearby chai stall, the melody weaving its way into her thoughts. This is it, she thought, a nervous smile playing on her lips. Today's the day.
She parked the car, a familiar flutter in her stomach. A young couple, their shoulders brushing, shared a quiet laugh by the chai stall, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of the flickering bulb. That'll be us soon, she thought, a dreamy smile gracing her lips. As soon as he says yes. A giddy excitement bubbled up, making her want to skip, to dance a little jig right there on the sidewalk. She did a small, almost childish twirl, a silent celebration, until a football, black and white and utterly disruptive, came barreling towards her, nearly sending her sprawling.
"Hey!" she gasped, her hand flying to her chest, the bubble of her happy moment burst. She tried to glare at the group of kids chasing after the ball, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Watch it, you little rascals!" she called, her voice more teasing than stern. With a playful flick of her foot, she sent the ball soaring back, a deliberate, exaggerated arc that sent it far beyond them. "Oops," she said, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Looks like you'll have to run for it, huh?"
The kids groaned, a chorus of mock-outrage, and scrambled after their wayward ball. Vandita, her smile still lingering, turned towards the high-rise, their future, she hoped. Inside her car, the ring box, velvet and waiting, lay on the passenger seat. As she pulled the box out, a clatter sounded from the glove compartment. A small bottle of pills, her emergency stash, and her blue passport tumbled out, landing on the floor mat, forgotten in her rush.
Inside the elevator, the numbers blinked, each ascending floor a beat in her quickening pulse. Just breathe, Vandy, she told herself, the words she'd practiced echoing in her mind. A new, bolder improvisation sparked, and she mouthed it silently, a mischievous glint in her eyes. The doors slid open, and she stepped out, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm on the polished floor. Flat 708. Her fingers hovered over the doorbell, then curled into a playful fist. No, not yet.
She reached for the paneling beside the door, her fingers tracing the familiar contours until they found the hidden key. A triumphant little dance, a silent victory jig, as she slipped the key into the lock. The door creaked, a soft, betraying sound, and she bit her lip, holding her breath. Inside, the apartment was a familiar scene: scattered magazines, the lingering scent of coffee, a black t-shirt draped carelessly over a chair. He's here somewhere.
She moved towards the bedroom, her footsteps light, a mischievous plan forming. Then, the sound—a muffled groan, a whimper, a moan. What...? Her smile faltered, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. She held her breath, straining to hear. The voices, familiar and unfamiliar, intertwined, thick with lust.
