He grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, lifting her onto the table. His finger slipped under her chin, lifting he face ever so gently. His eyes dropped to her lips, hungry, desperate, like she was the only thing he needed.
Slowly, he leaned in.
His lips brushed hers.
First, the lower.
Then the upper.
Soft. Warm. Addictive.
His fingers tightened around her waist as the kiss deepened
I stopped typing.
My hands froze over the keyboard.
No.
This isn't right.
I deleted the whole line.
Again.
Why do the easiest scenes feel impossible to write?
HI I am Inaaya Roy
I am talkative, a little clumsy, and a hopeless romantic-but only with the right people.
And why am I clumsy? Later on, you'll learn.
I am also a writer, specifically a romance author, and I primarily write slow-burning, dark romances.
But few years ago, I went through a heartbreak.
I broke up with my boyfriend.
Since then, romance isn't my cup of tea.
I write every day. New scenes. New drops.
But every time I close my eyes, I still feel that pain, that heartbreak.
It's not that I haven't moved on. I have. I don't need him anymore.
But somehow a corner of my heart still holds that pain.
I can't feel love the way it's supposed to be, bright, happy, like a sunflower in sunlight.
Instead, love feels like pain.
Like rain on a lonely night, when you are alone , when everything seems dark.
And maybe that's why I struggle with emotions now.
I am 24, from Hyderabad, though I live in Bangalore now because of my dad's work transfer.
Currently, I am working on a story. I've named it "Bas Tumse Milne Ki Der Hai".
But while I try to write it, every imagination is fading away.
I have to leave this place soon to pursue my further education in Hyderabad. I have spent my entire life with my parents, but now I am moving to a new city with just myself and my dreams.
For the purpose of clearing every thought my head and experiencing love once more, I must leave everything behind.
My friends all advise me to try dating apps like Snooze, Hinge, and Tinder, but I refuse.
Love, in my opinion, cannot be found in swipes. Love should be destined.
Like one day, a man will come into your life, and everything will change.
It will all feel like, yes, he is the one.
A man who is destined to be with you, again and again, not just in this life, maybe even in another.
This is the kind of love story I have written. I have dreamed of it.
And I still believe I can find it.
But according to my friends and family, I am living in a delusion.
The delusion that one day the prince charming of my dreams will come into my life, and everything will be exactly how I imagined.
I don't know if it's delusion, confidence, or a sign of destiny.
Right now, I am literally pausing my story.
They say when you don't look for love, love finds you.
Let's see if I stop looking, will love find me?
A little about my Family:
I live in a small family, just me, my brother, my mom, and my dad.
My dad is a government employee, and we have a small house in Bangalore.
"Inaaya, come, my mom calls me."
"Why are you calling me, Mom? I asked, Who is speaking on the phone?.
"Kriti Aunty."
"Kriti Aunty?" I repeat with a little surprise.
Let me explain, Kriti Aunty is my mom's very good friend. She used to be our neighbour back when my dad was posted in Hyderabad. Her husband, Mohit Uncle, is my dad's colleague. And they have a son, Darsh Singhaniya.
He is a few years older than me.
But you know why I am surprised?
It's been 15 years since we last had any contact with Kriti Aunty.
And the memories of my childhood are so vivid in my mind.
Because of my dad's constant postings and transfers, we left Hyderabad almost 18 years ago.
Back then, phones and connections weren't like they are now.
At first, my mom and Kriti Aunty used to write letters to each other.
Then, as we grew up, the letters stopped.
Maybe she had her own life, her own responsibilities.
Raising my brother wasn't a small task for my mother either.
But now, 15 years later, how does she get our number?
Probably because we haven't changed it since then.
But why now? I don't know.
On the phone, Kriti aunty asks my mom, "What is Inaaya doing now?"
My mom says, " Now that Innaya has graduated, she always uses her laptop or phone to write dumb things. However, this year she plans to pursue higher education in your city."
My Mom asks, "What about Darsh?"
On the phone, Kriti Aunty says, "Innaya is coming to Hyderabad. Wow! It's great news."
"Darsh? He is in the USA now. He works for a big company. He got a promotion recently, and he will be returning to India this year. His company has opened a branch here."
My mom responds, "Wow, that's cool. Look at my daughter here, I don't even know what she does on her laptop. Despite purchasing a lot of books, None of them is suitable for studies. I don't know today's generation."
I lower my voice. "They are my slow-burning, gloomy romance books. Don't say that about them. They mean everything to me. They're my treasure."
Kriti Aunty laughs. "Don't say that about your girl! It's been so many years since I last saw her."
My mom asks, "But how did you get our number?"
Aunty explains, "Today, I was cleaning my old almirah and found a box full of our old letters. One of them had your number. So I thought, why not call?"
"I thought maybe you changed your number, but you didn't. So I called you," she says.
Mom smiles. "Yes, really, I feel so good talking to you after so long."
"And now we are going to talk almost every day, okay?" Kriti Aunty laughs.
"Okay," Mom replies.
I go to my room when my mother is occupied talking to Aunty.
There are some planters, a bed, a study table, and an almirah in my room. That's all. extremely basic room
I grab an album from the top shelf of my almirah. I was a little child when this album was recorded eighteen years ago. When I try to take it off the top rack, I bump my head against the almirah. I seem to get hit by something every day, so it's pretty normal for me. I am not sure; perhaps some sort of magic occurs, and I simply collapse. For me, it happens regularly.
I then begin turning the pages of the album while massaging my head.
There is a picture, I think, that was from my school. All the senior and junior students are in it. It was a fancy dress competition. I wore a little princess gown, and the person next to me is dressed as a pumpkin. Like, seriously, a pumpkin?
Now I remember, that's that guy. I used to make fun of him back then. I always wished he would lose a little weight. That chubby little boy? He currently works in the United States. What an improvement!
Because he entered the fancy dress competition wearing a pumpkin costume, I recall calling him "Pumpkin... um, Pumpkin Soup." Time flies, doesn't it, that person? We were like Tom and Jerry back then. The boss, of course, was me.
He unexpectedly stopped speaking to me back then. I still recall how frequently we used to visit each other's homes, but he abruptly stopped talking to me six months ago as we were getting ready to move to Bangalore. I have no idea what went wrong. He didn't even visit me for a while, even on the final day when I was waiting for him.
I have no idea why he stopped communicating with me or what happened. After that, my life returned to normal after I moved here. I can still recall the days when our mothers corresponded. Auntie once mentioned that he was at the top of his class, and he made a great impression on my family because he always got good grades. In any case, it has been so long that I can hardly recall his face anymore.
When I look at those pictures from my childhood i feel so happy because back then we were carefree. My brother then walks into my room and asks, "Sis, why are you laughing? Are you in love? No, that's not possible i think.
Before he finishes, I say, "Mom, brother is bothering me." My brother rushes out of my room. Ishan, my 15-year-old brother, is the most annoying person I've ever met, but I still adore him the most. I also know that he loves me.
Dinnertime has arrived, so my mom calls everyone to the dining table. My mom sits at the head of the table, my dad sits in front of us, and my brother and I sit side by side.
My mother says, "You know, Kriti called me today."
"Kriti? Oh, the wife of Mr Mohit? "After a long time!" my father responds.
My mother nods. "And because Darsh has some official work here, he is coming to our house."
It's a little unexpected. What? Darsh? But he's in America, right? How will he get here? I ask.
My mother goes on, "Don't say that. He will only be here for a single day for his work. Next Monday, he will visit us.
My thoughts are elsewhere as I eat my paneer sabji and roti. I can hardly recall his face after eighteen years. How does he now look? What is his attitude like? Is he a bad boy or a good boy now? Does he still have a pumpkin-like appearance?
I can't stop thinking about these questions they keep coming to me.
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