Lavina
The small yellow bulb above the window flickered once, then steadied, bathing the room in a tired, pale glow.
Our room looked exactly the same our iron cupboard with the slightly bent door, the bedsheet I had folded but not spread, the damp towel hanging behind the door but something in the air felt different.
Fragile. Trembling. Like us.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees.
His shoulders were bent not defeated, but hesitant, like someone afraid that one wrong breath might break everything we had managed to hold together.
I stood at the doorway for a moment longer, curling my fingers around the frame.
Watching him.
My throat felt tight, and not from crying. From wanting.
From wanting him back.
His back rose and fell slowly.
When he finally sensed me there, his head turned a little, not fully.
Just enough for me to see the outline of his jaw, the slight roughness of stubble he had forgotten to shave.
My voice came out smaller than I intended.
“Thodi der pehle tak mujhe laga tha tum wapas nahi aoge.”
(A while ago, I thought you wouldn’t come back.)
He turned fully then.
His eyes God, his eyes look tired, red around the edges, as if he’d fought with the world outside and himself inside.
But they were still familiar. Still mine.
“Main kahin ja sakta hoon kya?”
(Could I ever go anywhere?)
Something in my chest cracked—
not painfully, but like relief bursting through a tightly shut door.
I took one step toward him.
Then another.
My voice stayed silent; everything else inside me screamed.
When my hand brushed against his knuckles, the silence broke open between us not with a sound, but with a feeling. A soft, trembling relief.
He didn’t pull me close suddenly. No harsh grip, no desperate clutch.
It was such a slow gentle touch.
Like forgiveness learning how to breathe.
His hand slid into mine. Large, warm, a little cold at the tips.
I exhaled shakily.
He stood up, and for a moment we simply looked at each other.
The bulb buzzed. A drop of water slid from my hair onto my shoulder.
Something shifted in his expression at that an ache, a longing, a quiet exhaustion.
He leaned his forehead against mine.
Our breaths tangled. Soft, ragged
There were no perfect words between us, just small ones that tried their best.
“Sorry ” I whispered holding his hand.
“Me too ” he murmured, his voice breaking in the middle.
My hand slid up to the back of his neck. His skin was warm, his breath smelled faintly of chai, and when his thumb brushed my cheek, the world felt lighter
