The Fierce Flame

63||Will it be?

~Happy Raksha Bandhan~

-Will it be?-

Until you lose it, you will never understand its value. Unless you are deprived of it, you will never know how greedy, desperate, and thirsty you are for the thing. This births desires.

Some wishes you crave. Something you know you are never going to have, yet still, you hope for them, and while wishing, you end up desiring them.

Kiraz wants a world where her lover and her baby would unite. Reyansh wants to bring her into his world and swears to protect her. Veer wants his papa, a family. Rishabh wants Amaya to overlook whatever he did to her. If only he was asking it from a robot. Amaya desires a love like the one Reyansh has for Kiraz. No, she doesn't desire Reyansh. She desires the kind of love not every man is able to possess. In the end, not everyone is destined to be loved the way we desire to be. The way we deserve to be. The way we crave.

Lost things are always meant to be lost, unless destinies to be found. Scars litter on humans; what good have they ever brought, as all they brought are buckets of memories of our failed battles? Maybe to remind us in times of war. A hundred battles I lost, and the war I win.

The war has just started, and some hearts are going to lose, and some hearts, even after winning, will they ever be the same? Kiraz is Reyansh, and Reyansh is Kiraz.

With a thud, Rishabh closed the book. The morning is no more pleasing. The bright weather appears least appeasing. And the subtle glaring of the sun is not helping him in any way to stop the agitating burn of his lungs. The reason is simple. The woman who sits before him, fidgeting with her fingers. Words on the tip of her tongue but no voice breaks out.

Suddenly, he was hit with the realization of what was coming his way. And suddenly, the fracture of his arms, the lacerated skin, wasn't burning that much; the stitches on his thigh were ignored by the thudding of his heart, almost rattling his ribcage. He shifts in the chair, wincing when the stitch stretched his skin. That makes her look at him from the curtain of her eyelashes.

Her heart squeezed at the man whom she once loved, desired like a desire for air. But some people fall in love with the wrong person. Her falling in love with Rishabh was not wrong. What was wrong was the person she fell for.

"I hope it is not paining that much," she asks discreetly.

He shakes his head. "No."

Silence danced between them; the chirping of birds did little to wipe away the awkwardness they let themselves be engulfed in. Amaya sucks a deep breath, her fingers fisting the cotton fabric of her dress, trying to muster up courage for the next words.

"Rishabh,"

Rishabh pushed the porcelain cup towards her. "The tea is getting cold."

She ties her tongue, taking it, her hands curling against the warm cup, trying to seek warmth from the myriad of cold storms that have wreaked havoc inside her. Why is letting go so hard?

Bringing the cup to her lips, she takes a sip; the spicy hotness from the ginger melts on her taste buds, calming her parched throat. She sets the cup down, licking her lips, and brings her warm fingers to her belly in a comforting manner.

Rishabh observes her posture, smiling, knowing that no matter what the situation calls for, Amaya is never going to lose her posh, lady-like demeanor. Her shoulders straight, her spine upright, the sweetheart neckline emphasizing her collarbones, her shoulder-length hair clipped together with not a strand out of place.