He opened the door and stepped out. The birds were chirping, there was a quietness to the Sunday afternoon, and everything was still. He inhaled. The vast gardens were blooming, the kind of bloom that Amaal deserved. She had wilted in that flat in Srinagar where everything was suffocating. More so now, with her gone.
Samar strode to her door and pressed on the bell. His heartbeat spiked. Excitement, nervousness, anxiety, joy, fear like he had never felt before coursed through him. They had spoken over calls and video calls regularly, at least once a week. But those had been limited to check-ins and routine talks of work, life, domestic things like geyser woes. They had both, consciously, stepped away from going any deeper. The only exception being his health. She had taken constant updates on his physical recovery, his slow transition from remote working to part-time office, and then his half-day sprints to the KDP headquarters. He had driven to Baramulla this month, attended an event with Atharva, and even taken his car to Matayen in Dras for a karyakarta meet.
Even if it was taxing, he was officially back to work. And ready to go to Himachal and throw himself back into the gruelling party building that he had abandoned.
Samar stared at her door. No answer. Was she not home? He had told her he was coming in the afternoon. He raised his finger to push the bell again when the door pulled open. The wind from outside threw her hair off her face and there she was, a sight for his sore eyes. Samar stared. Her hair was wet, pyjamas clinging to her body where water dripped, a towel in her hands.
“Hi.” She whispered, those blue eyes suddenly smiling, then going wary.
Samar adjusted his specs. “Hi.”
“Come in.”
He stepped inside as she made way for him and closed the door. The inside of the house was cool, calm, balmy, smelling of her shampoo and whatever creams she used after her bath. His flat used to smell of it once. Now it didn’t. And it was only now that he realised it.
“How was your flight?” She walked inside the house.
“Good.” He slipped his hands inside his pockets because he wanted to gather her close.
“And the car?”
“I went to Jammu office first.”
“I thought you were coming at lunchtime.” She rubbed the towel over her hair, swinging droplets of water around her, but not at him.
“I texted you last night that I will go to the office first.”
She turned, the towel frozen in her hands over her hair — “Shit, I just woke up.”
His mouth curled. It was after ages that he heard such a childish statement from her mouth. Samar stepped closer, but did not cross into her space. “What were you doing all night?”
She smiled shyly, then shrugged. “Watched two movies back to back.”
“Which ones?”
She widened her eyes at him, her cheeks red.
“Should I be worried?” He cocked his head.
“Fuck you!” Her smile widened, her cheeks reddening even more. “It was Fifty Shades.”
“What’s that?”
“A romantic comedy.” She rubbed her hair and jerked her head upside down to dry it. Samar inhaled.
“Do you want to eat something?” She asked, pulling straight and looking so fresh, so pure, so dewy that his hands twitched inside his pockets. Her eyes were extra blue today, sparkly; but her words did not open up to him. And he did not want them to open up because he did not want them to take a direction where the bad side of him got a chance to come out. Not today, not right now at least.
“No.”
“What did you eat?”
“Can’t remember.”
She scowled.
“I mean…” he raised his eyebrows, trying to come out of this trance. “It was rajma chawal.”
That dimple dented her cheek. He wanted his mouth on it.
