I stop not because he wants me to stop. I like him like this: a bit out of control. I stop because I can’t be this much out of control. My body feels as if it’s his to take: wherever, whenever, however.
‘We should stop talking,’ he orders.
And I listen. He closes his eyes and tries to calm down. It doesn’t help. I can see his bulge from where I’m sitting. I close my eyes because I don’t want to struggle for breath any more. We sit in silence for ten minutes or more. I feel the air a little less charged, my body more in the present, my mind a little rested. When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me.
‘Aanchal.’
‘Daksh.’
‘What are we going to be?’ he asks, his voice deeper than I have ever heard before.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What will we be now?’
It’s not an empty question. When I look at him closely, I realize he has the answer to the question. I let the question rest in the air. I hope it will dissipate on its own. The kind of question that doesn’t need an answer. But Daksh’s eyes are resting on me, waiting. Like he has always been waiting.
‘What do you mean by that, Daksh?’ I ask, a part of me scared at the depth of his sincerity.
He turns his chair towards me and leans forward. ‘What I feel for you is not a crush, maybe not even love but something far greater.’
‘Daksh . . . I . . . do we really need to talk about this?’
‘I know what it is.’
‘Is all this . . . too early? I just . . .’
‘It’s been four years, and I know I will spend every single moment of my life obsessing over you. I don’t think I have ever wanted anything else in my life as much as I have wanted you.’
‘You don’t even know me, Daksh.’
‘I know enough. And everything I have done, everything I have been through, it ends with you. It all led me to you. As cheesy as it might sound to you, and trust me, it sounds the same to me, but you’re the destination, you’re the home I had been looking for. I have been made for Aanchal. You’re . . . you’re my purpose.’
‘Daksh, that’s a bit—’
‘Aanchal, I love you.’
‘Daksh—’
He reads in my eyes what I haven’t said yet. He knows what’s in my heart.
‘Aanchal, I really do.’
‘Daksh,’ I mumble. ‘You know I can’t. I . . . I can’t.’
‘Aanchal.’
‘Daksh, I’m sorry. I can’t give you what you’re looking for. I . . . just can’t.’
Just then, the door opens and the managing director walks in with two constables. I watch the sadness on Daksh’s face reappear once more. But I know this time my heart won’t rule my mind.
I can’t.
PART 3
THREE YEARS LATER
1.
