The dream continued.
Even as they sat in the car, Amay could still feel the echo of her lips against his fingers—as if the moment had truly happened, as if reality had briefly bent and then snapped back into place. In truth, he knew, nothing like that had occurred. And yet, the sensation lingered stubbornly, refusing to fade.
The drive was quiet. Peaceful.
Rain fell lightly, barely audible against the windshield. Anvi sat by the window, watching the droplets race each other down the glass, her expression calm, almost distant. She seemed absorbed in the rhythm of the weather, while Amay struggled to keep his eyes away from her. Every few seconds, his gaze betrayed him, drawn back to the outline of her face, the curve of her lips, the way the streetlights reflected off her saree.
They arrived at the pub soon after.
The moment they stepped inside, the noise swallowed them—music, laughter, voices layered over one another. Before Amay could orient himself, a woman walked up to him and hugged him tightly.
Anvi froze.
The intimacy of the gesture caught her off guard, and it showed—just for a second. Amay immediately disengaged, gently but firmly stepping back.
“Hey—” he said quickly, turning. “Anvi, this is Natasha. We were in college together.”
Natasha smiled warmly, then glanced at Anvi with curiosity.
“And who is she?” she asked.
Amay opened his mouth, instinct guiding his words.
“My—”
“She’s a friend,” Anvi interrupted softly but clearly. “Staying with him for a few days.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Natasha raised her eyebrows slightly but smiled again. “Ah. Nice to meet you.”
The party carried on.
Music grew louder, conversations blurred into one another, glasses clinked. Natasha later pulled Amay aside to talk—something about startups, funding, people they both knew. Amay looked instinctively toward Anvi, silently checking in.
“I’ll be fine,” Anvi said, offering a small smile.
They moved to the high chairs near the bar. Natasha spoke animatedly, outlining ideas, numbers, possibilities. Amay listened, nodded, responded—but his eyes kept drifting back to where Anvi had been sitting.
At some point, she wasn’t there anymore.
He didn’t notice immediately. It took a pause in the conversation, a lull, for unease to settle in his chest. He scanned the pub—near the entrance, by the bar, along the walls.
Nothing.
He excused himself abruptly and searched inside, weaving through people, calling her name once, then stopping himself. When he couldn’t find her, he stepped outside.
She was standing there, phone to her ear, rain misting softly around her. The streetlights framed her in a muted glow.
Relief and urgency collided.
Amay rushed toward her and, without thinking, pulled her into his arms.
“Why did you come outside?” he asked, his voice low, edged with concern.
She stiffened slightly, then answered, still looking away.
“It was getting a bit suffocating inside. And I got a call.”
Her words were calm, but her body told a different story. She didn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere beyond him, her expression tight, unsettled.
Amay loosened his hold just enough to look at her face.
Something was wrong.
He asked softly, “Are you alright?”
Anvi hummed in response—neither yes nor no, just a sound meant to end the question. He didn’t press further. They went back inside together.
The table was crowded now. A few of Amay’s friends had joined—laughing, talking—Natasha sitting confidently among them, Anvi beside Amay. On the surface, everything looked normal. But Amay noticed what others didn’t.
Anvi’s eyes kept drifting toward Natasha.
Leaning closer, Amay whispered, “I’m sorry about that hug. I didn’t expect it. She’s just a friend.”
Anvi looked at him and smiled. It was small, restrained—but it was there.
Relief washed over him.
Then Natasha stood up. “Dance with me,” she said, already pulling at his hand.
“No,” Amay replied immediately, shaking his head.
“Oh come on,” she insisted, laughing, tugging harder.
He looked at Anvi instinctively. She met his eyes and, after a brief pause, said gently, “It’s okay. Please go.”
Natasha caught the exchange and frowned playfully.
“Why do you keep asking her?” she asked Amay. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Before Amay could answer, Anvi spoke calmly, almost too calmly.
“No. We’re just here with new people. He’s only making sure I’m comfortable.”
Natasha grinned, satisfied, and before Amay could resist further, she dragged him to the dance floor.
The music was loud. The lights dim.
Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck, far too familiar. The closeness twisted something painfully inside Anvi. Amay felt it immediately—because he was watching her.
He didn’t place his hands on Natasha’s waist. He kept them suspended, unsure, restrained. Natasha noticed and, without asking, grabbed his hands and pressed them against her waist herself.
Amay’s gaze snapped back to Anvi.
Her fingers trembled. The spoon slipped from her hand and clattered softly onto the plate. She looked away instantly, as if pretending not to see—but every few seconds her eyes betrayed her, flickering back to the dance floor.
And every time she looked, Amay was already looking at her.
He noticed her plate—untouched.
One of his friends came over to Anvi and started talking. She responded politely, nodding, answering—but her attention wasn’t fully there. Her eyes kept drifting past him, searching, returning to the same sight.
This went on for several minutes.
Then Natasha laughed loudly and said, “Spin me,” pulling Amay’s arm insistently.
That moment broke something.
Anvi stood up abruptly.
Without saying a word, she walked away toward the washroom.
Up until then—every single detail, every reaction, every choice—
was exactly the same as it had happened in reality.
Amay waited outside the washroom, pacing once… twice… then stopping when the door opened.
Anvi stepped out.
He moved in front of her gently. “Anvi… what happened?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
He searched her face. “You’re upset.”
She looked past him. Silent.
“Talk to me,” he insisted, softer now. “Please.”
Still nothing.
He exhaled, defeated but attentive. “Do you want to go home?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Please.”
That single word carried everything.
Amay went straight to the table, picked up her bag. Natasha caught his hand midway. “Wait—stay a little.”
“We’re leaving,” he said, brushing her hand away this time, unmistakably firm.
Then he did something he hadn’t planned.
He reached for Anvi’s hand and held it.
The room noticed. Natasha noticed.
Anvi lifted her eyes and met Natasha’s gaze—quiet, composed, but unmissable. Natasha looked at their joined hands, confused, unsettled.
They walked out together.
---
Rain poured harder now, drumming against the car roof. Amay drove slowly, carefully, as if speed might shatter the fragile moment.
“What happened?” he asked again.
Silence.
In reality, he already knew this ending. She would stay quiet all the way home. Even in the dream, he almost smiled at the familiarity of it.
Then—
“Could you stop the car?” Anvi said softly.
Amay blinked. “What?”
“Please… stop.”
His heart lifted instantly. He pulled over without a word.
Anvi stepped out. The rain had softened, misting her hair, soaking her saree until it clung to her waist and curves. Amay followed, stopping a step behind her, just watching.
“Say something,” he said quietly, leaning against the car.
She inhaled deeply, then turned to face him. “You want to know what happened?”
“Yes,” he said immediately, standing straight now, his eyes moving between her eyes… her lips… back to her eyes.
A tear slipped free.
“What would you have done,” she asked, voice trembling, “if I had danced with another man the way you danced with Natasha?”
Amay didn’t answer. He just held her gaze.
She stepped closer, rain sliding down her face.
“What if another man had touched my waist?”
Her voice dropped. “What if he had twirled me?”
Something dark and protective surged through him.
In one swift movement, he pulled her in, spun her gently but firmly, pressing her back against the car. His body shielded hers, rain forgotten.
“I would break his hand,” Amay said without hesitation.
His forehead nearly touched hers.
“No one touches you.”
Her breath hitched.
She leaned in, lips close to his ear, whispering,
“Then should I break Natasha’s hand?”
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
“Are you jealous?” he asked softly.
She didn’t answer.
He leaned closer, their lips barely apart, his voice a whisper against her mouth.
“I have every right to break someone’s hand,” he murmured, “because he touched my wife.”
He paused, eyes searching hers.
“But if *you* want to break Natasha’s hand…”
A faint smirk.
“…does that mean you’ve accepted me as your husband?”
She froze.
Her cheeks burned. She pushed him back, flustered, breathless.
“Not until you marry me with full rituals.”
She turned quickly and got into the car.
Amay stood there for a second, rain soaking him, smiling to himself—slow, satisfied.
He joined her inside, started the car.
He was happy.
Because in this dream, she didn’t stay silent.
In this dream, she let him see her jealousy… her vulnerability… her claim.
And then—
He woke up.
In reality, the smile still lingered on his lips.
But the car ride home had been silent. She had never spoken.
Only in the dream did she tell him what she felt.
He woke up with a jolt.
The rain, the car, her words—everything dissolved, but the weight of it stayed. He didn’t lie there trying to hold the dream together. He already knew it wouldn’t fade. So he got up and went straight to Guru.
Guru was seated as always, calm, unhurried, as if he had been waiting.
Amay spoke without pause. He told him everything—the pub, Natasha, the dance, the rain, the car, the words Anvi spoke only in the dream. When he finally stopped, his voice was low, uncertain.
“Now I don’t know anymore,” Amay said. “Whether it was a dream… or another reality.”
Guru smiled gently and asked, “What do you think?”
Amay looked away, the answer forming painfully slow.
“I think…” he said after a moment, “I wish I had pressed her more for an answer that night.”
He swallowed.
“Seeing this dream made me realize something. I loved her enough. I always did.”
His voice softened, edged with regret.
“But I never let myself show it. I held back so much that she never got to know.”
Guru’s smile didn’t fade. It deepened.
“Then the dream has done its work,” he said quietly.
Amay looked at him.
“It wasn’t shown to give you what you missed,” Guru continued. “It was shown to reveal what you withheld.”
He met Amay’s eyes.
“Some realities exist only to teach us courage for the one we are still living.”
Amay stood there in silence, understanding settling into him—not as clarity, but as responsibility.
The dream hadn’t been an escape.
It had been a mirror.
The dream had been a mirror—showing him not what was, but what he could have done.
Amay understood his own mind now. He could trace every hesitation, every moment where he had chosen restraint over expression. Yet something inside him remained restless. Understanding himself was not enough.
He still didn’t know what Anvi was thinking.
He went back to Guru, the unease evident even before he spoke.
“I can see my choices clearly now,” Amay said. “I know where I held back. I know what I felt.”
He paused, then admitted, “But I don’t know what she feels. I don’t know what was happening inside her.”
Guru listened quietly.
“Is there any way,” Amay asked carefully, “by which I can feel what she feels?”
Guru looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Amay’s breath caught.
“But for that,” Guru continued, his voice steady, “you will have to wait a little longer.”
“Why wait?” Amay asked. “Why not now?”
Guru smiled faintly.
“Because feeling another’s truth requires more than awareness,” he said. “It requires readiness.”
He added softly, “When the time is right, you won’t just understand her thoughts—you will carry her emotions without distortion.”
Amay fell silent.
For the first time, impatience did not rise in him.
He nodded slowly.
If waiting was the price to truly know her heart—
he was willing to wait.
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