The Temple Courtyard
The temple bells thundered like a heartbeat. Smoke from incense curled into the sky, mixing with the dust of sandalwood and marigolds. Devotees pressed shoulder to shoulder, voices rising in a tide of chants.
Ananya walked with her family through the throng, her mother serene, her cousin a shadow at her side—watchful, suffocating. His hand hovered near her arm as though he expected her to flee at any second.
The crowd swirled. Colors flashed. And in that living tide, her gaze caught fire.
There he was.
Riyan.
Not in his usual dark hoodie, but in a simple kurta that clung to him, his jaw taut, his eyes searching. When they met hers across the crush of people, the world narrowed to a single thread of connection. The chants dulled, the bells muted—her pulse was louder than everything.
Her cousin's grip brushed her elbow. "Stay close."
She nodded, lowering her lashes. But her every step angled just slightly, subtly, toward where she had seen him.
He spotted her the moment she entered, green sari glowing like a flame among the tide of devotees. His chest seized. He almost moved too quickly, but Kabir's hand clamped his arm.
"Steady," Kabir whispered. "One wrong move and it's over."
But Riyan couldn't breathe steady. His entire body ached toward her, the crowd both a shield and a prison. He edged closer, sliding between groups of men with offerings, keeping his head low.
And then—like fate itself tilted the earth—the crowd surged, a push from behind carrying him forward.
Straight into her.
The Collision
Her hand brushed his chest. His fingers caught her wrist. The world roared, but it felt like silence.
For a heartbeat, they stood pressed together by the tide of bodies, close enough to feel the rush of each other's breath. Her cousin's voice snapped somewhere behind, sharp and searching.
Her eyes lifted to his, wide, desperate, alive. He squeezed her wrist once—quick, a signal, a promise. She answered with the faintest tilt of her bangled wrist, slipping it free into his palm like a secret gift.
The crowd shifted again, pulling them apart. Her cousin's hand clamped on her shoulder, yanking her back into place.
Riyan stumbled with the tide, her bangle now burning in his grip.
They didn't speak. They didn't dare. But the fire of that touch, that reckless stolen moment, seared deeper than any words could.
As the drums pounded and chants rose higher, her cousin's eyes swept the crowd with suspicion. Riyan vanished into the throng, the bangle still clenched in his fist. But both of them knew: the gods had given them one reckless brush of connection—and it would not be enough.