Too old.
Too tall.
Too rich.
Too out of my league.
That's Aryan Arora, the billionaire CEO for me. But apparently, he is the perfect marriage material guy according to the world's pushiest parents of mine.
Getting married was neve...
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Blind in drunk anger at my dislike towards her weird food and movie choices, Ria yelled in my face to get out when she accidentally kicked the glass table in front of her.
"Ow!!" She clutched her foot and curled it near herself before inspecting it. Under her breath, she mumbled, "This hurts... Why am I so clumsy?" She frowned, her eyes becoming glossy with newly formed tears.
When I had first talked to her on a call after I had unintentionally deserted her on our first meeting, I never thought I would see a girl like her, so guarded and closed, sitting on my couch on a Saturday night, crying her heart out.
Sitting there in the rattiest sweatpants with her face red from weeping, she still looked like a vision as she picked out a tissue from the dispenser and noisily cleaned her nose with it.
Before I could ask her if it had hurt too bad, she let out, "Can you-" hiccup- "Can you bring me some ointment?"
Rubbing her foot with one hand, she wiped her tears with the other. I extended my hand towards her. She put her hand in mine as I shifted a little closer to her. "Let me see." I touched her foot at the place where she had the strain.
With only the light coming from the television, it became difficult to see if there was any major damage or not.
Without a word, I went to my bathroom to pick up the ointment cream. I switched on the living room lamp as I sat beside her.
As I applied balm on her injury, she played with a loose thread on the pillow and whispered, "I am sorry for being such a troublesome person. You must detest me for it..."
To say that I was shocked to hear the raw desperate insecurity that laced her tone would be an understatement.
Contrary to the sober, stoic Ria, Drunk Ria was a whole other person. Sometimes enraged, Sometimes sobbing, Sometimes insecure.
As silent tears trailed their way down her cheeks, she snuggled deeper into the cushion. Her occasional whimpers echoed throughout the silent apartment.
Closing the lid of the balm, I asked, "Does it feel better?" She nodded, curling herself into a ball.
I sighed, thinking of an appropriate way to deal with this sensitive situation. She blew her nose into the tissue again before crumbling it and throwing it in the dustbin beside the sofa. Why is the dustbin beside the sofa?
Of course, she had kept it there. So responsible even when drunk.
I scooted nearer to her as she glanced at me with those brown, doe eyes. I softly wiped the never-ending tears on her cheeks and consoled her, "I don't detest you. And no, you are not a troublesome person." The former being true but the latter being false, just to reassure her.
She was a troublesome person. We never saw each other eye-to-eye on anything. I never had anybody contradict me the way she does. I knew that our personalities clashed strongly.
