She studies me for a second, suspicion and amusement warring on her face. Then, unexpectedly, her lips curve into a small, mischievous smile. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s play.”
Something in her expression tells me she’s already won.
“And what will that be?” I ask casually, even as I move to sit beside her on the bed—careful to leave a respectful distance, even though my heart doesn’t appreciate it.
Her scent hits me then.
Warm. Soft. Something like vanilla and cacao—comforting and intoxicating at the same time. I inhale without meaning to, and my heartbeat stumbles like it’s forgotten its rhythm.
She turns toward me slightly, the light catching her face, and for a moment I forget how to speak.
She’s still in her saree. The fabric drapes over her like it belongs there, rich and elegant, hugging her curves in a way that feels almost unfair. Her hair is open, cascading down her back in dark waves, framing her face and brushing against her shoulders. There’s a softness to her right now, unguarded and luminous, that makes my chest ache.
She looks… stunning. As always. But tonight, there’s something else too—vulnerability layered beneath grace, uncertainty beneath humor.
“How about we draw each other?” she says, raising an eyebrow, her smile widening into something playful.
I fake a frown instantly. “You could have just told me you want to win. I would have accepted my loss gracefully.”
She laughs, the sound light and genuine, and it does something dangerous to me. “What’s the fun in that?” she counters. “Besides, this way I can evaluate how bad you are, Mr. Perfectionist.”
I smile despite myself, leaning in slightly so I can look directly into her eyes. The proximity makes her breath hitch—I notice because I’ve memorized the way she breathes when she’s nervous.
“My strokes would never do justice to how beautiful you are, Sitara,” I say softly, honestly.
Her smile falters for just a second.
Her inhale is deeper this time, her chest rising as her cheeks flush pink, and I almost hate myself for noticing everything. For wanting to notice everything.
She recovers quickly, though—she always does—tilting her head and narrowing her eyes at me. “You… you are just a sore loser, Dhruv Singhania.”
I chuckle, leaning back slightly, giving her space before I cross a line neither of us is ready for.
You have no idea.
Because the truth is—I’ve been losing for years.
I lost the moment she walked into my life and turned it lighter without even trying. I lost the moment I decided that having her as a friend was better than risking losing her altogether. I lost every time I chose silence over confession, restraint over honesty.
And I would lose again.
Every single time.
If it meant she smiled like this. I open the drawer and take out a paper and pen, "Let's play," I whisper, because I fear if I don't busy myself with something else I may make this worse.
Nightlight Confessions
SITARA
I am hyperaware of the fact that Dhruv Singhania is lying right next to me.
Not touching. Not crowding. Just… there.
It’s ridiculous, really, how loudly my mind insists on announcing it, as if I might somehow forget. As if the steady rise and fall of his chest inches away from me, the warmth seeping through the mattress, the faint scent of soap and something unmistakablyhimisn’t enough of a reminder.
I stare at the ceiling, counting invisible cracks that aren’t really there, and catalogue facts instead—small, domestic facts I never thought I’d know about him.
Fact one: Dhruv sleeps without a pillow.
