WHERE HE REMAINS

5

It was finally Sunday. Usually, I had a mock test scheduled on this day or a class for a subject where the syllabus was lagging behind the deadline. But fortunately, today I had neither a class nor a mock test, which meant I could wake up a little later than usual. My mother wouldn’t call me today because she knew exactly what my schedule was like on holidays. She would wait until the afternoon to check in. But today, unlike every other Sunday when I would sleep in until 9:00 AM, I found myself sitting on my bed, all curled up. My legs were pulled close to my chest, my back supported by a pillow propped against the wall, with a thin blanket draped over me. I had been talking to Rahul on a call early in the morning, around half past seven. He had woken me up at precisely six o'clock with his morning call, thinking I would already be awake at that hour. I didn’t regret it; instead, I enjoyed talking to him about everything and anything we could think of.

"Good morning, dear," a soft voice greeted me as I groggily answered the call. "Are you still asleep?"

I blinked, disoriented. "No—" I paused, realizing the truth. "I mean, yes. It's Sunday, I don’t wake up early on Sundays." My voice betrayed me, sleepy and slurred.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry!" He sounded genuinely concerned. "I thought you were an early bird. I’ll let you go, we can talk later."

"No, no—it's fine," I mumbled, fighting the urge to sink back into my pillow. "We can talk. Really." But God, how badly I wanted to sleep.

Since then, it had turned into hours of non-stop conversation. We talked about everything and nothing, weaving through topics with a comfortable ease. His voice, deep and alluring, had a way of pulling me in, making me smile almost unconsciously. Despite the age gap, there was something magnetic about the way he spoke—sarcastic, sharp, and witty. Every time he made a joke, I’d stifle my laughter under the pillow, not wanting him to hear just how much he could make me laugh.

He flirted effortlessly too. At first, I expected the usual cheesy lines, but the way he slipped them into our conversations was so smooth, I couldn’t help but blush. His words weren’t over-the-top; they had a teasing charm that made it hard to resist smiling. I found myself leaning into the phone, caught in his rhythm, enjoying the playful banter that felt so natural. Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, he’d go quiet, and I’d hear him humming softly on the other end. Curious, I’d ask, "What song is that?" But instead of answering, he would start singing—his voice rich and melodic, filling the silence between us. I would lay there, eyes closed, listening to him sing the entire song as if he were right beside me. The world outside felt distant, as if it had faded away, leaving only his voice and the warmth it brought. When the song ended, there was always a brief, comforting pause, as if we were both savoring the moment before diving back into our conversation. And then, without missing a beat, we’d pick up right where we left off—talking, laughing, and getting lost in hours that felt like minutes.

It was nearly nine o'clock by the time we hung up—three hours had passed in what felt like minutes. He had to leave for the hospital, and I needed to finally drag myself out of bed and start my day. But something had shifted in me. I felt alive, as though the crisp breeze of spring had swept away the lingering gloom of pre-fall. I couldn't stop thinking about him, replaying parts of our conversation in my head.

"If only he wasn’t married," I whispered to myself, sighing deeply.

Every now and then, the selfish thought crept in: *What’s the harm? Just because he’s married doesn’t mean we can’t be together.* But the moment it surfaced, I pushed it away, reminding myself of the inevitable mess it would create. I didn’t want to be part of a life where he had to split himself between me and someone else. He already led that kind of life with others—I refused to be another secret.