Samaira Lakshmi Deshpande is caught between two worlds, two masks. Amidst the hunt for her missing twin and the pressure to fit her family's mold of the perfect daughter facade, she's trapped in a life she despises.
Everything shifts when a strange...
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November Bangalore, India
Aryan's POV
"Okay. Keep me informed," I say into my phone to my colleague before ending the call. I hear a knock on my door and absentmindedly say 'Come in' as I continue trying to connect the dots.
"Hello!" I hear an enthusiastic voice, and I look up to see my future wife standing there in a saree, indicating she's just come from the temple. "Good evening," I greet her with a smile, feeling a warmth just seeing her smile, even more than usual.
"Good evening to you too. What are you doing, Mr?" she asks as she walks in. I sigh before replying, "Same old. Trying to connect the dots." She comes and sits in front of me on the bed, taking the diary from my lap and setting it aside. "Didn't I tell you to stop torturing your brain and rest?" she asks, raising her eyebrow.
I chuckle softly at her remark. "You did, but you know how—" She cuts me off, "I don't know," making me laugh at her comment. She definitely doesn't know much more than that it wasn't an accident.
"I'm just very confused at this point. The car accident. It's complicated. It just came out of nowhere," I tell her, and she listens without interrupting this time. Her face becomes more serious now. "Do you know who did it? Because you didn't tell me about it. It's fine if you don't want to," she says, pulling out the end of her saree where she usually keeps the temple ash and vermillion tied in a paper.
I stay quiet. She takes it on her ring finger and moves closer to me. I close my eyes, and she applies it on my forehead, blowing on the excess and leaning closer so it won't fall.
This has been our routine for nearly more than 15 days now. She visits me every single day at my home after work, no matter how tired she is. And she also goes to the temple twice a week before coming to meet me.
I open my eyes and look at her, seeing her gaze settled on my forehead with a frown. "The wound has left a scar," she says, staring at the said scar and faintly brushing her fingers across it in a touch so soft it makes me lean into it. "It did," I tell her. Her eyes snap to mine.
My dark eyes switched between her own; her eyes looked beautiful, almost like honey brown. "Your eyes, they are kinda honey brown," I whisper as I hear her soft breath, "Huh huh," she murmurs, staring into my eyes. "And yours are dark," she whispers back softly.
My mind goes blank after that. We just gaze into each other's eyes, lost in our own little bubble.
And despite the heaviness of recent events, being with her brings a sense of peace and comfort.
My right hand unconsciously raises to her face, just as I'm about to cup her cheek, we hear my mom, "Aryan? Amaira?" and Amaira immediately flinches away, standing. "Why is your hand in the air?" my mom asks, coming in, confused, after she passes a smile to Amaira.
