Chapter Three
Dahlia
The next morning, I make my way down the mountain, leaving behind the serene loneliness and crisp, clean air of the Himalayas. As I descend into Delhi, the bustling chaos consumes me.
The noise, the heat, the relentless press of people—after the quiet majesty of the mountains, the city feels claustrophobic.
Even the airport, with its harsh fluorescent lighting and stale recirculated air, offers a small reprieve from the unrelenting sensory overload as I tuck myself away into a corner at my gate.
I type a quick text to Ben, telling him how excited I am to see him.
My thumbs hover over the screen for a moment, lingering on the unspoken distance that’s grown between us.
We haven’t talked much during my time away, but I brush the thought aside, chalking it up to mismatched time zones and busy schedules.
Instead of hitting send, I lock the home screen, reassuring myself that everything will be just as it was once we’re face to face again.
I pull out my laptop, thinking I might get some work done, but the blank screen stares back at me, mocking.
Without the plant, there’s no point. The data I need, the keystone of my research, is still out there somewhere, just as elusive as the hope I chased through the mountains no matter how many leads I had followed. Disappointment can wait until later.
Sighing, I stow the computer back in my carry on and scroll through the hundreds of photos on my phone instead.
Faces and landscapes flash across the screen: Sita, my guide turned friend, laughing at something I said; her father, Tenzig, the welcoming host of the guesthouse I called home; the jagged peaks of the Himalayas piercing endless blue skies; and, of course, the plants—so many plants.
I love India. The warmth of the people, the spicy food, the tiny cups of chai served in clay cups. Somehow, this vibrant, foreign land felt more like home than I ever expected. But as I sit in the airport, watching the last sunset I’ll witness here, a bittersweet ache pulls at my chest.
The exotic country held me spellbound, but my real home calls to me now, its pull quieter but no less insistent. I think of the familiar comforts waiting for me: my small desk in the ethnobotany department, the quiet hum of the research lab, and the dusty, welcoming scent of the university library.
And, more than anything, I miss my fiancé. We’ve both been so focused on our careers, and Ben on climbing the academic ladder, that we promised to prioritize our relationship when I returned. The thought of seeing him is like a compass, pulling me back to true north.
Ben’s career had taken off while I stayed in the background.
His first semester teaching had been wonderful, and I had fun helping him grade papers and plan lessons.
We had both sacrificed so much to achieve our dreams and lay the solid foundation for a life together.
By mutual agreement, we pushed his career forward first, knowing mine would then follow.
Now it was my turn to prove my worth in our field. But I'm not sure how my failure will impact my funding and finishing my doctorate. Botany is already a small department, and specializing in ethnobotany, the study of not just plants but the relationship between them and people, is truly niche.
Disappointment burns in my throat, and my chest tightens in what is becoming a familiar feeling.
I am older than most of the other doctoral candidates.
Supporting Ben was a choice I made with love and conviction, but now I can't help but wonder if I had gambled away too much time.
If maybe I should have directed some of my energy and efforts into myself.
No. I shake my head, forcing the doubt away.
We followed our plan, and he is brilliant.
Together, we’ll figure this out. I just need to get home to him.
That’s all this melancholy is—exhaustion, defeat, the weight of too many goodbyes.
India isn’t my home. The Pacific Northwest is.
Our little house in the suburbs, minutes from the university, is where I belong.
When boarding is announced, I close the pictures with the finality of turning the last page of this chapter of my life; a grand adventure before settling into marriage and finding my way forward.
But as I rise to join the line, that hollow feeling doesn’t dissipate.
It clings to me, insistent, a whisper of everything I’ve left undiscovered—not just the plant, but also those damn silver eyes.
On the flight home, the cabin lights dim and brighten in a rhythm I no longer understand, marking a passage of time that feels meaningless. Between eating what I think is at least three dinners, I drift in and out of restless sleep, the hours blurring together as I anxiously await our arrival.
But even in sleep, there’s no escape. That gaze haunts me, unrelenting, always watching, always pulling.
It doesn’t just linger at the edges of my mind—it wraps around me, as though it’s a part of me now, impossible to sever.
A puzzle that I can’t help but want the solution to.
A lingering heat that doesn’t dissipate even with the distance.
I press my forehead against the cool airplane window, hoping to anchor myself in the here and now.
The endless darkness beyond offers no comfort, no answers.
And yet, the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows stronger the farther I go, the connection pulling tighter with every mile until the tension thrums under my skin.
The clouds stretch below like a vast, empty ocean, but the thought surfaces unbidden—maybe I was never meant to leave. Maybe some part of me is still there, bound to that place, to that silver stare.
The idea steals my breath as awareness pricks the back of my neck, as if someone still stares.
Watching. Waiting for me. I force myself to pull away from the window, but even as I close my eyes, I know the truth I’m not ready to face yet—some ties are too strong to break, no matter how vast the ocean.
Countless hours later, after a blur of stumbling through customs and baggage claim, the taxi pulls up in front of my house. The driver helps me wrestle my luggage out of the trunk, and I mutter my thanks, my mind already on what awaits me inside.
I try to leave thoughts of India behind and focus on the here and now.
Reconnecting with Ben. Grounding myself in reality.
Casting off the cloak of fanciful thinking and mysterious eyes.
I shove my feelings down, determined to get back to serious, scientific Dahlia and focus on what matters—the next steps in finding the plant and, with it, the cure.
That’s the only thing I can afford to concentrate on right now.
Every step down the walkway to my front porch feels heavier than it should, as though I’m dragging the weight of my old life behind me. The familiar sight of my house, warm and welcoming, should comfort me. Instead, a strange melancholy grips my heart.
I thought I’d be happier to come home. I’ve been looking forward to seeing Ben for weeks. Sure, I was disappointed when he told me he couldn’t pick me up at the airport, but I understood. He’s busy. And after three months apart, what’s another hour or so?
I imagine the reunion ahead of me—wrapping my arms around him and basking in the familiarity of our years together. But the warmth that should flood me at the thought doesn’t come.
Instead, my stomach knots. Maybe it’s just jet lag or the nerves of being away so long. Maybe it’s the faint pull of India lingering at the edges of my mind—the mountains, the friends I made, the steaming chai, and, yes, those eyes that won’t seem to let me go.
Even with an ocean between us, I feel their magnetic pull, an invisible thread tightening around my heart. Watching. Waiting with an intensity I can’t ignore. Leaving wasn’t enough—maybe it never could have been. Whatever calls me back isn’t done with me yet.
The pull toward that place is relentless, but I firmly tell myself it doesn’t matter. I’m here now. This is where I belong. Ben is my anchor. That hasn’t changed. That can’t have changed. Not when I’m drowning in this sea of uncertainty.
I stop at the door and drop my bags onto the stoop, wrangling my keys out of my backpack pocket when I find the door locked. I frown, surprised that Ben didn't leave it open for me when he knew I was coming home.
The small knot in my stomach tightens. It’s silly—I tell myself it’s nothing. I’m being ridiculous. But my hand lingers in front of the doorknob for a moment longer than it should, hesitation prickling at the back of my mind. Something feels… off.
I tell myself it’s just the residual fog of travel, the emotional whiplash of arriving home after so long away as I slip the key into the lock and turn it. The door swings open, and instead of stepping into its warm embrace, I feel like I’m being swallowed by the gaping maw of the unknown.
“Hello?” I call as I make my way inside, dropping my bags in the foyer.
I wonder at the lack of a response. He had to know I was coming home today. At least I think he did. Flying backwards over the international date line never made sense to me, especially as challenged as I am with time. I very well may have told him the wrong day.
Shrugging off my jacket and kicking off my shoes, I make my way through the living room and down the hall. At the sound of the water running, a smile spreads across my face.
Of course, he wanted to freshen up for me.
I walk down the hall, excitement quickening my steps at the thought of surprising him.
Until the faint murmur of voices gives me pause.
Shrugging it off as one of the many podcasts Ben is always listening to, I continue to the bedroom where I toss my travel-wrinkled clothes into the hamper and grab my robe.