Heal the Heart

47.

"What the fuck is this?" Syama's loud mutters came from behind the closed door of my bedroom. "Your clothes are seriously atrocious. You need to go shopping."

"Yet you continue to raid my wardrobe," I mumbled to myself, sinking lower on the couch.

The raiding my wardrobe was just a farce, of course. Who would raid my meagre closet for fifteen whole minutes? You could upend my entire apartment in that time. Thoroughly. No, what he really wanted was to raid and confiscate my cigarette and weed stash. Idiot. He wouldn't find anything. I wasn't about to hide it in my closet. What kind of dumbass did that? I had finished smoking up whatever dope I had left last night, and the two packs of cigarettes were safely hidden behind the couch cushion I was currently sitting on.

I had no mind of bringing it out again. It was just my momentary weakness three nights ago that led me to seek some fast fulfillment. And, of course, Syama chose that exact moment to barge in and smell the remnants of nicotine in my living room.

I had quit. I really did. After my surgery, I'd stopped indulging in pretty much everything which contributed to shortening my life-span. But recently my agitation kicked up a few notches, and I wanted some reprieve.

Which was pretty contradictory because I hadn't seen Beck after the meeting at Beena's place, apart from the one time we stumbled into each other. Even then, it wasn't really his fault. It was mine. Brij's car was at the mechanic's, and he'd somehow gotten the wrong idea that I was his personal Uber, and straight up ordered me to drop him off at the venue to have one last look before paying the second deposit. Tristan and Beck were there, too. I ignored Beck as much as was allowed without making it too obvious and stood in a corner while the groom and his future brother-in-law finalised the decorations.

Beck stayed true to his word. I didn't run into him at the centre, nor at the apartment. I should've been relieved, but all this not knowing just led to more what-ifs and the constant stress (anticipation?) of turning a corner and seeing him there.

Whenever I thought I heard his voice, or saw someone with the same shade of dark red hair, it made my heart beat involuntarily faster. It made my skin hot and my hands shake. I hated myself for it. I hated how somewhere inside, some parts of me still wanted him. How I still wanted to see him. I wanted to turn a corner and see him there, waiting for me. But, I also wanted to keep him wanting. To keep him waiting. To keep him at length and see him suffering with my own two eyes.

He didn't know it, but from my bedroom window, I had a clear view of his huge balcony. Every night, he would just stand there, forearms on the railing, neck tilted up to watch the starless night sky, and I would stare helplessly at him, convincing myself this was the last time I indulged in such depravity. And then, my shaking hand would slide past the waistband of my boxers to further push the fact that I was a pathetic pushover who got off on the mere sight of the man who took away the best years of my life.

Each night, when I crawled back into bed, shame coating every inch of my skin, I would tell myself this was the last time, and each night, Beck would haunt me in my dreams. I dreamt of his soft fingertips caressing my spine, his gentle whispering in my ears, his lips worshipping my body. And each morning, I would wake up in my bed, alone and ashamed and so fucking tired of this ritual. I wondered if leaving this goddamn continent would finally put an end to this vicious cycle.

I thought Beck returning was bad for me. As it turned out, Beck keeping his distance was even worse.

"Alright. How do I look?" Syama finally stepped out of my room, hands raised by his sides.

"Tell me you're joking."

All this motherfucker did was wrap a white dhoti around his waist. No, seriously, the dhoti was the only change. From jeans to a dhoti. The baby pink kurta he wore on top was his.