33||we are living once

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Dedication

For all those who are learning to let go of the grudge locked in their heart.

What does a woman need in her life? Having a heart that is hard to tame, possessing that soft layer inside her that cares a lot, especially about her lover's opinions

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What does a woman need in her life? Having a heart that is hard to tame, possessing that soft layer inside her that cares a lot, especially about her lover's opinions. Her eyes search for him because he offers comfort that can never be replaced.

Her gaze intensifies with ignorance when anyone looks at someone other than her man. Her eyes seek him in the crowd, holding a hope she herself may not fully understand. What hope do her eyes carry?

Maybe the hope that he looks at her the way she looks at him. Or perhaps the hope of being looked at differently, in a way he has never looked at anyone, a selfish desire echoing from somewhere, not even his mother.

My lips stretch into a mirthless smile as I comb my fingers through Veer's hair. He lies flat on his stomach, cheeks squashed, long eyelashes framing his eyelids.

A woman's love is pure, but what about a man? I have heard a man loves only once, intensely enough to imprint himself with the patterns of love, resembling the woman he loves. If women are nectar and petals, men are the stem and leaves, harsh but playing a vital role in keeping the flower ever blooming. Men or women, both need love, and the concept of love is different for everyone - for you, me, and the millions of people spread across the world.

I place a kiss on Veer's forehead, covering him with the blanket. Grabbing my hair in a messy ponytail, I go to freshen up. Patting my face dry with a towel after brushing my teeth, I exit my room.

"Kabir?" I descend the remaining stairs, surprised to see him up early. "You're up early?"

I plop down on the couch before him.

He doesn't look up from his phone. "Yeah, I've," his voice fades away, lost in whatever he's doing on his phone. I don't probe, knowing he must be chatting with Navya, his determination evident.

I take my phone. Still, there are no messages. I've switched it on and off three times, thinking it's some network issue. But he has indeed ignored my dropped message. I open WhatsApp, opening his chat, where only my message sits with two blue ticks, signifying it's been delivered and most probably read.

Have I texted the right number?

But Tavir did say this was his number. I click on his profile picture, and instantly, a smile spreads across my face. He sits comfortably in a bustling cafeteria or maybe a restaurant, surrounded by the lively hum of people. His posture is calm, yet there's a rugged charm to his appearance, evident in the stubble gracing his jaw and the faint lines etched around his eyes. Dressed in his black shirt, his brown strands framing his forehead, a smile spreads on his face.

This picture must have been clicked without his knowledge. He becomes quite rigid, and for him, giving his life is better than getting his picture clicked.

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