The rest of the night was a blur. Priya's concerned questions—"Emaira, yaar, what happened? You look like you've seen a ghost!"—were met with a stammered excuse about vertigo from the height and the spilled drink. She couldn't say his name. To give it voice here, in this mundane reality, felt like it would break the fragile, sacred spell of what had just happened.
She rode the taxi back to her small rented apartment in a daze, her body in the vehicle but her soul still trapped in that moment at the window. The reflection. The shatter of glass. The scent of sandalwood and citrus. His voice.
"Be careful, Emaira. It's a long way down."
What did it mean? Was it a warning? A threat? A simple, offhand comment about the height? Her mind, a whirlwind honed by years of analyzing his every word and expression, chewed on it obsessively. It felt weighted. Significant. It felt like it was meant only for her.
She didn't sleep. She lay in the dark, replaying the encounter on the backs of her eyelids. The way his eyes had changed when he saw her recognition. The lack of his usual boxy smile. This was a Taemin the world rarely saw—serious, intense, and utterly captivating in his darkness.
The next day at the office was agony. The bright, fluorescent lights were an assault. The chatter of her fellow interns about deadlines and coffee runs felt trivial, a distant noise from a planet she no longer inhabited. She was orbiting a new sun now, one she had touched, however briefly.
Her fingers itched to open her fan accounts, to dive into the digital hive mind and see if there was any whisper, any rumor of him being in Mumbai. But she stopped herself. This was her secret. Hers and his. A strange, possessive thrill went through her. The world didn't know. But she did.
During her lunch break, hiding in a quiet corner of the building's cafeteria with a salad she couldn't eat, her phone vibrated with a notification from a private fan forum. It was a grainy, long-lens photo posted by an anonymous account. The caption read: 'RUMOR: Possible Taemin spotting in India? Could he be there for a secret project??'
The photo was taken from a distance, likely with a powerful zoom, but it was unmistakably him. He was wearing the same black jacket from last night, sunglasses hiding his eyes, ducking into a black SUV with tinted windows. The location was identified as the back entrance of a luxury hotel not far from 'Aether.'
Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was real. It wasn't a dream. He was here. And the fan world was buzzing with speculation, but they had no facts. They didn't know about the bar. They didn't know about her.
The possessiveness she felt last night intensified, curling hot and dark in her stomach. She was the only one who had been close. The only one he had spoken to.
The afternoon dragged on. Her task was monotonous—organizing a decade's worth of digital lookbooks—but her mind was anything but still. It was a temple with a single deity, and she was praying fervently.
When her phone buzzed again an hour later, she almost didn't check it. Assuming it was another forum update, she glanced down dismissively.
It was a direct message on Instagram. Her personal,private account. The one she used only for close friends and family. The one that had no trace of her being a fan, a deliberate separation she had maintained between her real life and her life with him.
The username was a simple, cryptic string of numbers and letters. The profile picture was blank.
Her blood ran cold. This was how stalkers operated. How fans like her were sometimes perceived. She moved to block the account, her finger hovering over the button, when her eyes scanned the message preview.
It is a long way down. Were you careful getting home?
The world tilted. The cacophony of the office faded into a high-pitched whine. Her breath hitched, coming in short, sharp gasps. She fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it, her hands trembling so violently she had to put it down on the desk and stare.
It was him. It had to be.
How? How did he find her? The lanyard. Her first name and her company were on the lanyard. A simple search on LinkedIn, maybe. Cross-referenced with Instagram. For a person with his resources, it would be frighteningly easy.
This was a breach of every boundary. It was terrifying. It was the most exhilarating thing that had ever happened to her.
She looked around, paranoid, as if someone in the office might somehow know that her phone held a message from a god. She grabbed it and fled to the empty women's restroom, locking herself in a stall.
Her heart was a wild bird trying to escape its cage. She read the message again and again. It is a long way down. Were you careful getting home?
He'd been thinking about her. After he left, he'd thought about her enough to track her down. To send her this.
What was the right response? The fan response? The sane person's response? A sane person would report this. A sane person would be frightened.
But Emaira had crossed the line from sane devotion a long time ago. This wasn't devotion anymore. This was something else entirely.
Her fingers, still shaking, typed a reply. She deleted it three times. Too formal. Too fan-girly. Too desperate.
She settled on simplicity. Truth.
Emaira: I made it home. The fall would have been worth the view.
She hit send before she could lose her nerve. The message marked as 'read' almost instantly.
Her knees felt weak. She leaned against the cool metal of the stall door, waiting. The three dancing dots appeared. He was typing. Time stopped.
A new message appeared.
Unknown: The view was interesting.
Then, another message followed immediately after.
Unknown: Don't change your routine.
To be continued...