Siri's POV
The first thing I noticed was the sound of the birds.
Not the shrill, desperate caws that usually jarred me awake at 6:00 AM, but the soft rustle of wings and the melodic warble of sparrows hopping along the terrace railings. Their chirps weren't chaotic or loud. They had rhythm. They had… joy. They almost sounded like they were laughing.
I lay still, my ears drinking in that delicate harmony. Somewhere in the distance, a koel added a curious trill. It reminded me of childhood summers—of mango trees and half-finished library books, of simpler mornings.
The second thing I noticed was the breeze—cool and whispering, gentle like a sigh against my skin. It danced through my tangled hair and curled around my ears, brushing against the nape of my neck with a light, knowing touch. The scent that carried with it was faint but distinct—wet cement from the previous night's rain, mixed with the faintest trace of jasmine from the downstairs garden. The kind of scent you'd only notice if you stopped running for a moment.
I opened my eyes slowly.
The sky above me looked like a secret—one it was slowly, shyly, unfolding. A soft canvas of watercolor hues: fading indigo bled into lavender, then blush pink, then a forgiving orange that clung to the clouds like reluctant goodbye kisses. Thin wisps of white drifted lazily, unhurried, like thoughts that had nowhere urgent to be. It was the kind of sky that poets tried to write about, but rarely saw for themselves.
And then I realized what was beneath me.
Not a pillow. Not the backrest of Amma's couch. Not even my own arm.
Warmth.
Real, human warmth.
Bhargav.
His lap.
My breath caught—not in panic, but in awe. I didn't move. I wasn't ready to. His presence beneath me felt grounded, steady. His thigh supported my head like it belonged there, like my weight was something he'd been expecting. His palm rested lightly on my upper arm, fingers occasionally brushing the fabric of my kurta with unconscious ease.
A part of me wanted to believe I was dreaming. But the cool air, the birdsong, the slight ache in my back—all of it told me this was real.
And for the first time in weeks, the ache inside my chest wasn't a scream. It was a whisper.
Still there. Still raw. But dulled, like someone had taken the sharpest shards and wrapped them in soft cotton. The pain hadn't disappeared, but it had been acknowledged. Witnessed.
I stirred slightly.
Bhargav's hand adjusted, not pulling away, not freezing. Just… shifting, like it had been waiting for me to move. As if he was saying, You're safe. Even now.
"We're still on the terrace?" I asked, my voice scratchy with sleep.
He let out a low hum, deep and quiet. "Yeah. You fell asleep halfway through calling me a charming idiot."
I blinked up at him, my brows furrowing. "Did I actually say that?"
His smile curled gently at the edges. "Verbatim. You even poked my chest to emphasize the 'charming' part. Very assertive."
I groaned and buried my face slightly against his leg. "Please tell me you're lying."
"I could…" he mused, teasing lacing his voice. "But where's the fun in that?"
I tilted my head up again, squinting at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"I really am," he said, eyes gleaming.
He looked exhausted.
There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and the faint stubble on his jaw had darkened overnight. His hair stuck out at odd angles, clearly the result of fingers run through it one too many times. And yet, despite all of that, he looked… content. Present. Like someone who had chosen to be exactly where he was.
I found myself watching him longer than I meant to, wondering how on earth this man—the same one who once made me want to strangle him with his own guitar strap—had become the only person I could fall apart in front of without shame.
"You stayed," I said softly, almost to myself.
Bhargav looked down at me, eyes gentle. "Of course I did."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was thick with unspoken things—gratitude, confusion, fear, maybe even the first fragile hints of hope.
A sudden gust of wind carried the scent of damp earth again. I pulled my arms around myself, not from cold, but to hold the moment together a little longer.
"I don't remember falling asleep," I admitted.
"You were talking about how unfair it was that I get to eat dessert and not gain weight. Then you cried. Then you laughed. Then you insulted my playlist. And then you passed out."
I winced. "Please tell me you're lying now."
He shrugged. "It's all on record. I even considered live-streaming it."
I narrowed my eyes, swatting lightly at his knee. "You're the worst."
"And yet," he said, leaning down slightly, "here you are. Using me as a pillow."
I laughed—quiet, breathy, but real.
The sound startled me.
It had been a while since I'd laughed without it tasting bitter at the edges.
We sat there for a while longer, watching the sky morph into a clearer blue. Somewhere, a bell rang—a temple, maybe. The clang of steel plates echoed from the kitchen downstairs. The world was waking up. Which meant this moment had an expiration date.
Bhargav stood up first, groaning as he stretched. I watched him arch his back, fists pressed into the small of it like an old man. Then he rubbed at his eyes, yawned into his wrist, and glanced at me with a lopsided grin.
"Come on," he said. "Let's sneak back before Amma wakes up and files a missing person report."
I took the hand he offered. His palm was warm, his grip steady. He didn't pull. He didn't rush. He just held on.
As we crept toward the staircase, every creak felt like a gunshot. We both winced when the railing groaned. He looked back and mouthed Oops, and I bit back a laugh, covering my mouth with the edge of my dupatta.
We slipped back into our rooms with the precision of two well-practiced fugitives.
---
Inside, I leaned against the locked door, heart fluttering.
It wasn't panic. Not guilt. Something else.
A kind of exhilaration. Like I had just come back from somewhere I wasn't supposed to be, but didn't regret going.
I looked around. My room was as I had left it—my journal open, ink from yesterday's entry slightly blurred. The faint smell of lavender oil lingered in the air.
I walked to the mirror and braced myself.
Messy hair? Check.
Smudged makeup from crying? Check.
Puffy eyes? Tiffin stain near my lips?
Double check.
And still… I didn't hate what I saw.
I sat down on my bed, picked up my pen, and opened to a fresh page. The words came slowly. Not neat. Not lyrical. But true.
> I think I'm slowly letting go of the version of love I thought I needed.
Maybe it's not fireworks.
Maybe it's someone who shows up at 2 a.m.
With silence and a steady hand.
I underlined that last line twice.
Because that's exactly what Bhargav had done.
---
An hour later, a knock at the door.
"Hmm?" I called out.
Amma peeked in, her eyes scanning me for a second. No judgement. No interrogation. Just observation. She walked in quietly and placed a steel tumbler of coffee on the desk.
"I'm making lemon rice," she said casually. "You want some?"
I looked at her for a long moment.
That was Amma-code for I know you cried last night, and I know someone held you through it. But I'll wait until you're ready to talk.
I nodded. "Yeah… that sounds nice."
She gave a single nod back, then left the room.
No questions asked.
---
It was almost noon when I was packing my bag that my phone buzzed.
> Bhargav: Terrace tonight?
I stared at the screen, feeling a small smile tug at my lips.
It wasn't adrenaline or confusion that bloomed in my chest. It was something quieter.
Trust.
> Me: Only if you bring actual food this time. I'm not crying just to get fed again.
The reply came almost instantly.
> Bhargav: No crying required. I'll even bring dessert.
My thumb hovered for a second before I replied.
> Me: Chocolate or I walk.
> Bhargav: Fine. But you're carrying your own pillow this time.
> Me: Deal. And don't forget a spoon this time, idiot.
> Bhargav: Charming idiot. Get it right.
I laughed out loud, pressing my phone to my chest.
And maybe… that was how light gets in.
To be continued...