Siya's life in Chandipur was marked by resilience and solitude, her days consumed by nurturing the vibrant blooms of her flower shop. Abandoned at birth and haunted by the mystery of her parents' disappearance, she had grown accustomed to the whispe...
📖 "She sent 52 roses, I sent back my heart, waiting for her to take it." ﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ ˚ ༘♡ 🪷🪕🪞🦢⋆｡˚ ❀
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Siya, Siya, Siya. She's driving me absolutely insane, and she knows it. The way she drapes herself in those sarees, like she's casting a spell on me. She flaunts those curves, lets those red velvet bangles sing around her wrist, knowing full well how the sound haunts me. Yesterday, she had the audacity to wear that red saree, hugging her so tight it was as if she wanted me to lose every ounce of control I have left. And those curves-damn, the way her melons presses against me while she pouts, insisting I compliment her? Hmph, if she only knew how hard I fight not to pin her to the nearest wall every time she plays her little games.
And one more m, here she often, hovering around Rithvik again, acting like my younger brother can't live without her constant supervision. It's as if she's taken over raising my siblings. Rithvik clings to her like a lost puppy sometimes, and Priya....well, she's practically glued to Siya's side too. It's like they're her personal shadows, following her every move.
And the elders? Maa-sa and Dadi-sa, once so stern and skeptical when Siya first came back, now adore her as if she's some kind of golden child. She's got them wrapped around her little finger. It's almost impressive how effortlessly she's become the heart of the household. And sure, she uses her own money to keep everything in order, make sure every little detail is perfect for the family. It's one of the many things l've come to admire about her, even if I'll never say it out loud.
But right now? Right now, l'm irritated as hell. And she better make it up to me for all the times she's acted like I'm just... there. She better give me more attention than to anyone in the family members!
In the early morning, I'm on the terrace, going through my morning routine, sweat dripping down my chest as I power through crunch after crunch. My track pants hang low on my hips, and my chest is bare, soaking in the warmth of the early sun. It's the only way I can burn off this pent-up energy-every muscle, every ounce of tension, until I'm in control again.
And then, chhan-chhan, the-unmistakable sound of her anklets cuts through the morning air. I don't even have to look up to know it's her. She's planned this. I glance up anyway, and there she is-dressed as if she's about to dazzle the gods themselves. A sheer white kurti, clinging in all the right places, sleeves that just graze her elbows. Her chiffon salwar moves with the breeze, teasing me with flashes of her smooth calves. And that dupatta... oh, that multicoloured strip of cloth, barely covering her chest, leaving plenty for me to admire.
Her lips are painted a glossy pink, and silver bangles chime with every step she takes, like she's some kind of siren. But I won't give in. I focus back on my crunches, refusing to let her win this game. She steps closer, her presence demanding my attention, but I keep my head down, my muscles straining as I push through each rep.
