BOOK ONE OF THE SWEET AND SOUR SERIES
Vanya Sharma hated marriages. Growing up seeing troubled and failed marriages carved a bitter spot in her heart, especially when one of them belonged to her parents. While escaping the shadows of her past, she f...
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༘⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ
𝐈𝐬𝐡𝐪 𝐃𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐫
सोहाने रंग दे रांझिया तेरे ही जैसे लगते हैं सारे,
डर लगता ना हो जाए यारी, सोहाने रंग दे रांझियापूछ ले तू चाँद से गिनाती हूँ तारे
📓
V A N Y A
03:14 p.m., 17th May, Saturday, Luxura Apartments, New Delhi
Some feelings come quietly.
They don't burst into your life like fireworks. They seep in, slow and patient, until you realise you're drowning.
It's been days since that night in Mahir's car, and yet the memory stays pressed against my skin like something permanent, something that refuses to fade even when I will it to. His words, so simple, so unguarded, replay in my head, looping without mercy.
"I don't know what it is... but I'm not going to pretend this isn't happening."
I close my eyes, but it's worse.
Because then I can see it, the way he looked at me, like I was something precious and terrifying all at once. Like he was afraid to want more, and even more afraid not to.
And suddenly, all the lies I told myself about this being attraction, about it being a momentary lapse, shatter into something brittle and useless at my feet.
Because now I know.
Now we both know.
There is something.
Something real.
And it terrifies me more than anything ever has.
We haven't spoken about it since.
We haven't needed to.
The air between us is heavier now, a charged, fragile thing neither of us knows how to carry.
I catch him looking sometimes, when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I see the way he turns away too quickly, like he's afraid of being caught wanting.
And I'm no better.
Every time I'm near him, my body becomes a battlefield, my heart tripping over itself, and my lungs forgetting how to breathe.
We don't avoid each other outright. That would be easier. Cleaner.
Instead, we stumble through rooms like strangers clinging to the ruins of something unnamed. Awkward silences stretch long and tense. Accidental touches leave us both skittish and raw.
