The Edge of Us

Through the dim shimmer of the window glass, she watched him—the man who had unknowingly become her universe. Every tilt of his smile, every quiver of his lips, the playful rise of his eyebrows when he caught her staring—it all drew her in like air to lungs. He consumed her simply by existing, as natural and necessary as breath itself.

When his friend left and the door closed softly behind, he walked to her with that quiet gravity only he carried. Without words, he placed his palm gently against her cheek. His raised brows asked silently, “What do you see?” She lowered hers in reply, blush blooming like dawn across her face. He pressed his palm a little firmer, grounding her, as if to say—I am here.

Her heart leapt. She rose from her seat and, with all the tenderness she could summon, wrapped her arms around his neck. Her small frame stretched upward, her toes lifting, her red dupatta tangling around his neck like a thread of fate tying itself into an eternal knot. He circled his arms around her, lifting her slightly, and buried his face in the hollow between her ear and shoulder. She closed her eyes, shivering softly as his breath warmed her skin through the fragile veil of fabric.

No words were exchanged. None were needed. Their silence was louder than speech, filled with the hum of two souls finally resting in each other. Their hearts spoke in the secret language only they understood—an exchange of emotion, of belonging, of timeless recognition. She tightened her arms as though afraid to let go; he responded, holding her closer, their bodies surrendering to a gravity beyond their own.

In that surrender, they tumbled, falling onto the bed. The embrace loosened, but not entirely—her head still nestled against his shoulder, his arm refusing to let her go. They looked into each other’s eyes then—two oceans meeting, deep and endless, drowning in every unspoken confession. His hand reached up to gently sweep a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch reverent, as though he feared breaking something sacred.

Her breath faltered, caught between nervousness and serenity. She gripped the collar of his shirt tightly, clinging not to fabric, but to the moment. Their closeness was not a storm—it was a quiet dawn, tender and sacred. Desire was present, yes, but tamed, beautified, transformed into something higher, something divine.

He bent down, his lips pressing softly against her forehead—a seal of reverence, not possession. Her lips parted slightly, her grip on him tightened, yet he moved no further. Instead, he whispered against her skin, his voice low and trembling with sincerity:

"Humare paas bahut waqt hai. Jab hum dono ready honge. Yeh koi zimmedari nahi hai. Hai na?"

She nodded, tears filling her eyes, not of sorrow but of pride—of being loved in the purest way, where respect walked hand in hand with passion. This, she thought, is love—not rushed, not burdened, but sacred, divine, patient.

He pulled her gently against his chest, her tears soaking into him as though they belonged there. Beneath a ceiling embroidered with stars and through the soft sighs of the night breeze, they drifted into sleep—two souls wrapped in each other, untouched by the world outside.

And then—
“Wake up! It’s 7 already!” her sister’s voice pierced through.

Her eyes opened. The dream dissolved into daylight, but the aftertaste lingered sweetly. She lay there smiling, realizing she had just lived her truest love—hopelessly romantic, achingly tender—inside the chambers of her own heart, where he had always belonged.