Desire doesn't just live in the body.It spreads.
To thoughts.To gestures.To how you cut fruit, how you climb stairs, how you watch the sky.
Rekha had entered a season where even her breath felt sensual.Even solitude tasted like waiting.
But it wasn't for him anymore.
It was for herself.
It had been ten days since that night on the floor.
Ten days of unsaid things.Of quiet messages.Of stolen afternoons.
Their rhythm had settled into something unspoken: he never asked for permission. She never gave it.
And yet they kept finding each other.
On Wednesday, it rained.
Not the usual Hyderabad drizzle — a full monsoon downpour.
Ashok wasn't home. Gone to Vizag for a conference. Two nights, minimum.
Rekha stood barefoot at the balcony, arms resting on the railing, her thin cotton kurta clinging to her skin.
Thunder cracked.She didn't move.
Then the doorbell rang.
Not the knock.Not the key.
The bell.
She turned, heart quickening.
Opened it.
He stood there, drenched. Hair slicked to his face, shirt transparent, lips parted.
"You rang the bell," she whispered.
He looked down. "I forgot how to pretend."
She pulled him in by the collar. Slammed the door shut behind them.
They didn't talk.
Didn't undress gently.
They kissed like argument — biting, pulling, punishing.
She dragged him to the kitchen.Bent over the counter.Lifted her kurta.No words.
He didn't ask.He entered her like he was angry at himself.Like he needed to lose.
The sound of skin against skin echoed over the rain.
She came fast.Hard.Guttural.
He followed. Mouth open. Hands trembling.
They collapsed on the floor, panting, slick with sweat and rain.
After a long pause, she said, "You didn't wipe your feet."
He laughed so loudly she felt it in her bones.
Later, as they lay on the living room rug, sharing a single biscuit, Ishan whispered, "You've changed me."
She turned her head. "I hope not."
"No, I mean— I feel things now. Things I didn't ask for."
"Like?"
"Jealousy. Fear. The need to be seen."
Rekha looked away.
"That's not change," she said. "That's remembering."
Two days later, her phone buzzed with an unknown number.
Vani.
The bold cousin with short hair and sharper eyes.
Vani: Coffee this weekend? Just us women.
Rekha didn't hesitate.
Rekha: Where?
Vani: Anywhere no one knows us.
They met at a quiet art café near Banjara Hills.
Paintings on the walls. Jazz in the air. Women without husbands.
Vani wore a black turtleneck and eyeliner like war paint.
"You smell like risk," she said, hugging Rekha.
They ordered cold brew and sat in a corner booth.
Vani got to it quickly.
"I know what's happening."
Rekha stirred her drink. "Do you?"
"You're sleeping with someone. And it's not your husband."
Rekha didn't flinch. "You're very sure."
"Because I've been there."
Rekha looked up.
"You?"
Vani nodded. "Three years ago. A younger man. Married man. Doesn't matter. Point is — I know the look. I know the walk. You're not hiding it as well as you think."
Silence.
Then: "Do you regret it?"
Vani sipped. "No. But I mourned it."
"Why?"
"Because once a woman knows what she wants — she can never unknow it."
They talked for two hours.About men.About mothers.About the loneliness of doing everything right and still being invisible.
When they hugged goodbye, Vani said, "Call me if the world burns."
Rekha said, "I'm the fire."
On Sunday morning, Rekha received a call from her mother-in-law.
A rare one.
"Rekha beta," came the tired voice. "Ashok says you've been unwell."
Rekha frowned. "I haven't."
"Oh. Well, he said you were behaving strangely. I just thought— never mind."
Rekha paused.A beat too long.
"Maybe I have been strange," she said finally. "But not unwell."
"Well, as long as the home runs..."
"Of course," Rekha said. "The home runs. Like a machine."
She ended the call.
And didn't feel a thing.
That evening, Ishan didn't come.
Didn't message.
Didn't call.
She waited until 2:00 a.m.Sat by the door.Book open, untouched.
At 3:12, her phone lit up.
Ishan: I can't do this anymore.
She froze.
Read it again.
Then replied.
Rekha: Do what?
No answer.
She didn't cry.
She got up.Washed her face.Lay on the bed.
Didn't sleep.
Next morning, she didn't text him.
Didn't call.
Didn't fold.
She cooked. Went to the store. Chatted with the vegetable vendor. Watered the plants.
But every sound from the hallway made her heart stop.
By evening, she broke.
Rekha: Say it clearly.
Five minutes later:
Ishan: I can't keep touching you and pretending it means nothing.
Rekha: Who said it means nothing?
Ishan: You never say what it means.
Her fingers hovered.
Then:
Rekha: Because I don't know. And I don't want to lie.
Long pause.
Ishan: Then what are we?
She stared at the screen.
Typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Finally:
Rekha: Hungry. That's what we are.
No reply.
That night, she didn't sleep again.
Not because of heartbreak.
But because she realized — this was the first time someone had asked her what she wanted and she had no answer.
She wasn't in love.
Not in the way stories wrote it.
But she was starving.
And she had tasted too much to go back.
The next day, he didn't show.
Nor the next.
On the third day, she left the door open.
Just slightly.
At 10:37 p.m., it creaked.
She didn't turn.
He walked in. Quiet. Slow.
Stopped behind her.
"Say something," he said.
She stood. Faced him.
"I'm not sorry."
"I didn't ask you to be."
"But I can't love you like a woman who's free."
"I don't want you to."
Silence.
Then he took her hand.
Placed it on his chest.
"Just be the storm. I'll drown if I have to."
She kissed him.
And this time, it wasn't sex.
It was surrender.