Chapter 21 #2
“No . . . maybe . . I don’t know,” I say, a little struck by the intensity of his gaze. “It’s just all a mess. And I hate
to admit it, but you were right.”
“Right about what?”
“About me building it up to a fairy tale in my head. About me being delulu about the whole romance of it.” I’m saying way more than I intended to, but the words just keep pouring out.
“For the record—I don’t think you’re delulu.”
I snort. “Please don’t say delulu. It doesn’t suit you. Like, at all.”
“My point stands,” he says, and leans toward me, scanning my face in a manner that makes me hyperaware of every single cell
in my body, before adding, “and to be honest, any guy who wouldn’t trip over his own foot wondering what he did to deserve
someone like you traveling across cities to kiss him would be an idiot.”
“That’s . . .” I pause, struggling to maintain a hold on my wits. “I hope that’s true.” At this point, what Amrit thinks of
me doesn’t really matter, because everything’s changed, but I can’t tell Rudra or Priti that. They both need to believe I’m
still headed to Goa to kiss Amrit.
They can’t know my emotions have taken a one-eighty.
“Guys don’t admit it, because of toxic masculinity or whatever, but we appreciate grand gestures more than you might think,
especially because they hardly ever happen to us. They would be lying if they said they don’t like to be spoiled sometimes.”
A flicker of emotion passes through Rudra’s eyes so quickly I almost miss it. “I hope Amrit realizes how lucky he is.”
I open my mouth to respond when his eyes suddenly dart to a spot behind me. For a moment I think it’s a wild animal and completely
freeze, not wanting to move in case there’s a chance any movement might get me eaten up. But Rudra smiles. “Hey, look.”
I turn back, craning my neck. Up a twisting, rocky path that splits into two, there’s a flash of light. The path to the right
is shaded by overhanging branches and thick trees, and fireflies festoon the bridge like fairy lights coiling around an arch.
A gasp slips through my parted lips, and Rudra gets to his feet, motioning for me to follow him. Sticking close, we walk to
the fork in the path, take the right, and find ourselves on an ascent, right under the arch.
I can’t form coherent words to express how beautiful it is, so I just stare, rotating on the spot, looking at the fireflies.
There’s so many of them here, even more than we saw on the trek up to the campsite, shimmering in patterns so mathematical
it’s like they’re all following a precise atomic clock of their own.
“There’s one sitting in your hair,” Rudra says, smiling up at me. He’s standing on a rock lower than mine, so I’m an inch
or so taller than him now. I twist around, trying and failing to locate the stray firefly that has found a second home in
my hair.
“I can’t see it!” I say, frustrated.
“Wait.” Rudra rummages through his pocket for his phone, takes it out, and holds it in front of him.
His tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth as he focuses the lens, and it’s so cute I can’t help but smile.
The shutter snaps before I’m even ready, and Rudra flips the phone around to show me the picture.
For a moment, I’m so shocked, I don’t say anything, just stare at the picture.
It’s the best photo anyone has ever taken of me.
If anyone were to glance at it for more than a second, they’d realize I’m not actually looking at the camera but at something
behind it. Rudra. I’m smiling dreamily, and some of my hair is in my face. And while I’m wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and look grimy and sweaty,
the picture is natural, real, beautiful, the kind you could make your display picture. The kind you’ll keep coming back to look at because you like it
so much. I’m lit up by the fireflies circling the branches around me and the stray one sitting in my hair.
And because it’s a live photo, it’s dynamic, showing the exact moment when my face breaks into a smile, the passing wind blowing
strands of my hair onto my eyes, the firefly’s wings quivering.
I shouldn’t be surprised by how good the picture is, though, because Rudra’s Instagram posts are aesthetic and well shot—they
could be professional. He’s excellent at what he does, and within seconds, he’s photographed possibly my favorite moment of
me for weeks to come.
“I look like a Disney princess,” I gush without meaning to, because it sounds so conceited. That’s the sort of thing you say
in your head, or out loud when you’re by yourself, preening in front of a mirror, pretending you’re filming a “Get Ready with
Me” video.
But Rudra gazes directly up at me and says, “Yes, you do.”
“This is the prettiest picture anyone has ever taken of me.” My blood rushes to my head, making me feel dizzy.
“It’s not the picture, Krishna,” Rudra says, his voice soft yet distinct in the silence of the forest surrounding us. I follow
the movement of his hand as he reaches up, knuckles brushing the shell of my ear, where the firefly hovers inches above it.
“It’s you.” That last part is so hoarse it’s like his throat has been rubbed with sandpaper.
My eyes shut as the gentle stroke of his knuckles sends a ripple of shivers through my body, originating from the point where
his skin and my skin meet and spreading like a shock wave. Before I know it, my entire body shudders, caught in an earthquake
of its own.
Rudra’s knuckles skim the curve of my ear, my earlobe, then touch the sensitive spot right behind my ear, tracing the dip
in the skin. His touch there nearly makes my body change states and turn to fluid. At every point of contact, tiny seismic
waves of pleasure whip outward, swathing me whole.
I don’t know what’s happening, or why it’s happening, but if he keeps doing this, whatever it is, I will lose it. I will lose every ounce of control that’s keeping me upright and stopping me from crumpling
into him. I have never felt this way in my entire life, never had anyone touch me the way he’s touching me right now.
My eyes are closed as I wholly give in to the sensation, so I can’t read his expression. Part of me is afraid to, because
what if I open my eyes, spot a confused look on his face, and realize he was just reaching for the firefly in my hair?
I would simply combust and die from mortification. I would never be able to look him in the eye again, never escape the constant
feeling of regret that would fold over me every time I thought back to this moment.
But I can’t stay like this forever. Especially because his hand has paused just above the curve of my neck, halting. I need to look at him.
I open my eyes, bracing myself for the worst. Our gazes link almost immediately, and what I see floods me with both relief
and nervousness.
That is not the look of someone who was reaching for the firefly in my hair. It’s the look of someone who knew exactly what they
were doing. Whose every movement was intentional.
My breath is trapped in my throat, and we’re so close that half of me screams to move away and the other half yearns to close
the distance between us. At some point, Rudra must’ve stepped forward, because he wasn’t this close before. He pulls his hand
back, dropping it to his side, fingers flexing.
I wordlessly look down at him, noticing more the longer my gaze lingers. And I see it.
The apprehension.
It mirrors mine. So much doubt, yearning, and embarrassment, as if he’s been following my every movement to see what I’m thinking,
as if everything I’m feeling isn’t written in bold letters across my face.
“Rudra,” I say as his gaze falls to my lips, desire hanging in those beautiful irises like dewdrops from a leaf. “You look
like you’re about to kiss me right now.”
Rudra’s expression doesn’t falter. “Do you want me to?”
“I . . .” I want you to. I want to kiss you so bad it physically aches. “I can’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
If I were in his place, I’d have taken my response as an instant rejection, fled from the spot, and never looked back. But the fact that he’s questioning me again is probably because I’ve never been able to keep what I’m feeling or thinking off my face.
“I want you to,” I whisper, unable to believe this is happening to me. This entire moment feels like it’s part of a dream
montage. All my life, I’ve been so attuned to everything panning out exactly the way I’ve planned it, and I was only prepared
to kiss Amrit because it was all part of a plan. Plan Bs and backups—those have always been inconsequential because I’ve never failed at a plan A in the first place.
I was not prepared for this detour.
“But I can’t,” I say.
I promised Priti I didn’t feel anything for Rudra, that I wouldn’t let anything happen between us. She came out to me, she
trusted me, after so many years, and this is all she’s asking for in return. And she’s not even wrong. Rudra . . . he’s too good for
me. I might be worthy and deserving of love and romance, but I’m not worthy or deserving of him.
And no matter how much I want this, I don’t want to treat Rudra like he’s a plan B. I’d rather not let anything happen between
us at all.
“Because of Amrit?” he says, and his face is such a hardened mask that any shred of feeling I saw there is gone, evaporated.
It pains every inch of me to say it because I know I’m lying through my teeth, but I say it anyway: “Isn’t that why we’re
here?”
Something cracks in his eyes. But he doesn’t respond. He just nods brusquely, stepping away from me, making me instantly miss
the closeness of his form.
Regret storms down on me, but what’s done is done. What’s said is said. There’s no going back, and lord knows I can’t just
press the reset button on how I am and how I need to be.
Rudra starts to turn, but I can’t help myself from asking, “Did you, though? Did you want to kiss me?”
He scoffs, but I know he’s not mocking me. He’s mocking himself. “Does it matter, Krishna?”
I stand there, pondering the question, knowing it’s not a response, and knowing he doesn’t owe me one but wishing for it all
the same. By the time I can think of an answer, though, he’s already walking back down the path, leaving my unsaid words dangling
in the air.