"She stumbled once into my arms and I have been falling ever since."

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Rajasthan, Jaipur.

No one had ever seen you with your hair open. Always draped in ivory cotton, books clutched to your chest like armor, you moved through the hostel like a whisper. No eye contact. No laughter. No space for softness.

Then came Professor Viren Mehra — Tall, sharp-featured, unreadable. A man who didn’t talk much, but listened as if every word was scripture.

It started with quiet glances in the library. Then the day he returned your dupatta you’d dropped near the temple steps, without a word — just eyes and that slow nod.

That night, the hostel hosted a farewell party for a visiting poet in a old haveli of Jaipur. You, out of politeness, took a sip of something fizzy you thought it was shikanji.

Ten minutes later, you were drunk.

And not the crying kind...You were glorious. Laughing, barefoot, your anklet jingling as you spun under fairy lights strung across the courtyard.

Viren stood leaned against a wall, unmoving. The cigarette in his hand burned untouched. His guarded eyes softened, almost smiling, as he watched you twirl with rain in your hair.

You posed with a peacock feather like a queen, calling to him, “Kheecho meri tasveer! Aaj toh main Chandramukhi hoon!”

Then stumbled forward.

He caught you.

Your bangles pressed cold against his collarbone, and you blinked up at him — all kajal and chaos and unexpected freedom.

“Your heartbeat,” you whispered, your words slightly slurred, “is very loud.”

Viren didn’t answer. He only tucked back a strand of hair from your cheek and whispered:

“And you, Miss, If you knew what you look like right now... Even the moon would hide."