Anjali was the kind of girl who radiated warmth even in silence — but lately, that warmth was a dying flame, and it flickered. Her beauty wasn't the kind born of being perfect; it was in the manner in which her eyes held a storm and a sunrise at the same time. They were dark brown, almost black, yet if the light hit them right, you'd see something softer — a quiet tenderness she didn't show to the world, only to me.
Her hair, long and dark, fell around her face like a shadow that refused to let go. Sometimes she tied it back lazily, strands slipping free to dance across her cheek — those tiny imperfections made her more real than anyone I'd ever met. Her skin was pale, fragile almost, but it carried its own kind of strength — like light surviving in a room full of darkness.
She never tried to stand out, never needed to. Loose blouses, colors subdued, soft fabrics — all of it communicated she did not want to be noticed, and yet, you couldn't help noticing her anyway. There was something sacred in the simplicity of it, as if she were not part of the chaos of the world outside of her.
But it was not beauty that attracted me to her — it was calm. The sort of calm that made you, for a moment, remember what anarchy was. She possessed this listening thing, actually listening, as if every word you uttered was the most important thing. She judged not, interrupted not, just understood — and sometimes that was more terrible. Because when one calls your bluff and yet stays on, it makes you question who you are.
I'd known enough girls before. They wept to be heard, they laughed too hard to cover up what they were feeling. I could manipulate emotions, turn words, make people fall and then abandon them. But with Anjali, I couldn't find the strings. She looked at me — not like I was damaged, not like I was fatal — but like I was someone who could still be rescued.
And that is what frightened me.
She made me — bare of all that I had wrapped around myself just to make it. She did not ask for anything, did not command my time, but she absorbed it all. Her love was not clingy; it was quiet, steady, relentless. The type that smolders low, without even needing to be seen.
She was kind to other individuals — polite, poised, aloof. But to me, she was other. She was the calm before every storm, the hush that made you remember the rest of the world didn't even exist anymore. She saw all the sides of me — the good, the cruel, the broken — and yet, instead of fleeing, she stayed.
Maybe that's why I started to fall, not that I realized it at the time. It wasn't love in the way I'd ever experienced it before. It was something slower, more profound — like the feeling before rain, when the atmosphere shifts and suddenly everything feels alive.
But security, for her, never accompanied love. It was belief — blind, agonizing, perpetual. And for me… it was the first time that I couldn't tell if I was manipulating someone, or if I was being changed too.
We were still at the café.
The air between us wasn't oppressive any longer, just silently unsure — like rain-washed silence. The unease dissipated when we began to discuss family, as though those tiny harmless facts were a tentative bridge between two worlds that didn't know how to reach out to each other yet.
I began first. "So, my father's Arjun Das," I said, sipping coffee, "he's a government officer. My mom, Vidhi Das — she's a bank manager. And my older sister, Priya… she's three years older than me, already in final year of her highschool ."
Anjali smiled kindly, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's nice," she said. "Sounds like a very stable family."
"Stable?" I laughed. "Perhaps. Or perhaps merely strict.
She laughed, that soft tinkle that caused even the clattering of the café to recede for an instant. "Let me tell you about mine, then," she said. "I'm an only child. My father, Rishi Malhotra, he's a businessman — he owns Malhotra Collections."
I nearly spilled my cup. "Wait— that's Malhotra Collections?"
She nodded, smiling slightly. "Yeah. The largest clothing firm in Bihar."
"Shoot," I said before I could catch myself, reclining in my seat. "That's… some huge company."
She chuckled once more, obviously delighted with my response. "It's not huge. He just works a lot."
I grinned, but in my mind, my thoughts went into hyperdrive.
A man that big… one misstep and her father would destroy my life without even breaking a sweat.
Nevertheless, I managed to keep my face light. "If your dad ever gets wind of me," I teased, "I'm a goner."
She laughed, grinning with the kind of faith that only comes from trust. "Don't worry. He won't hear about it — not yet. I'll let him know when the time is right."
That phrase — when the time is right — lingered in my head longer than it ought to have.
It wasn't a threat. It was a countdown timer.
She told me afterward, about her mother, Nisha Malhotra — a housewife, gentle-mannered, very devout. About her best friend Sweety, who happened to be the daughter of her father's business partner. The name stuck with me, though I did not think much of it at the time.
When she talked, I observed her hands. She had a tendency to wave her hands just a little, her fingers sketching the air as though what was on her mind needed to expand. I hadn't even known I was staring until she caught me and smiled. "You always seem like you're analyzing me," she said teasingly.
Perhaps she wasn't mistaken.
We changed to lighter subjects after that — hobbies, interests, anything not serious.
I enjoy stitching," she replied. "And video games. Racing and puzzle games, mostly."
"Stitching and video games?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's. not a combination I saw coming."
She smiled. "I enjoy making things. And demolishing virtual ones."
I chuckled, leaning forward. "That's kind of awesome. I game too."
"Sure you do," she replied, eyes sparkling with humor. "You seem like the kind of person who never loses.
She wasn't mistaken there either. I hadn't enjoyed losing — at anything.
We chatted like that for nearly an hour, give and take, light and effortless. Every sentence out of her mouth was unguarded, spontaneous. She never hesitated over what to say. I envied her — simplicity of honesty.
But under it all the chatter, I was still observing, still reasoning. Every detail she told me — her family and friends, her habits — added another tile to the puzzle. Not because I didn't believe her, but because I'd long since stopped believing entirely.
And yet. there was something else about her. The more she spoke, the more difficult it was to maintain that emotional distance I generally had. She wasn't like them. She didn't try to impress or compete. She simply was — real, earthed, and kind.
Perhaps that was what frightened me most. Kindness was always the most perilous weapon.
When we were done, I insisted on seeing her home. She protested, saying it was close by, but I wanted to know where she lived — curiosity, perhaps, or something more. The streets were empty, bathed in the golden light of early evening. The air was faintly scented with rain and something sweet from the bakery on the corner.
We walked past something going on...