The night began like every other secret ritual of theirs; a stolen meeting through glowing screens, their gazes drinking in what the world refused them. For days, he had kept the one promise she ever asked; when she called, his focus belonged only to her.
But that night… she saw his attention drift.
At first, she thought it was her mind playing tricks. But then, the glow in his eyes shifted. He wasn't looking at her with that undivided warmth. He was reading something else, someone else.
It was the first time since that day she dared to hold his gaze so openly, so vulnerably. And what she saw broke her.
Disappointment flickered raw in her eyes before she could hide it. He saw it too, the glimmer of hurt she couldn't mask.
Her chest tightened. The only thing she had ever asked for… was broken.
On his screen, he saw her face shift. The fire dimmed, replaced with the faintest shadow. He knew instantly what had happened and cursed himself.
But he couldn't ignore his girlfriend. Her texts buzzed with the kind of urgency he was duty-bound to answer. He loved her deeply and openly.
And yet, here he was, wounding another heart that beat for him.
So he let her be disappointed for a while, silently praying she wouldn't walk away.
Later that night, when the weight of his guilt became unbearable, he sought her forgiveness.
She answered with her usual mischief, her playful armor. But even behind that, he could feel the sting.
"An apology isn't enough for a broken promise," she teased, her tone light, but her eyes whispering an ache he could almost touch.
"Anything you say, my dear," he replied earnestly. "You know I'll do whatever you ask."
And he meant it. He knew she'd never ask for anything he couldn't give. He had spent weeks trying to know her better. Her favorite color, her favorite food, her little quirks. But every time, she brushed past his questions, guarding herself with quiet mystery.
But tonight, he learned something no one else knew.
"My favorite flower," she said softly. "It's the lotus."
And that became his punishment- to pick one with his own hands.
He agreed in a heartbeat, not knowing that the gesture carried a meaning far deeper than he could imagine.
The next day, for the first time, she waited for something from him. Her heart fluttered with an unfamiliar excitement. The punishment wasn't about the flower; it was about the effort; the thought that he'd do something just for her.
But disappointment struck again. He couldn't find the flower. He searched; he asked; he even wandered aimlessly, but the lotus eluded him. When he told her, his mood was grim, his voice edged with frustration.
"Change it to something else," he said tiredly. "I couldn't get it."
But she didn't budge.
She couldn't. The meaning mattered to her. And so, with quiet stubbornness, she set a new punishment for his failure:
"You're forbidden from kissing me. From touching me. From calling me."
He didn't want to agree, but he didn't have a choice. She wasn't punishing him out of cruelty; she was guarding her heart from breaking further.
Days passed. Silent ache sat between them. And then one day, her voice broke the quiet:
"I've never asked for a flower from any man in my life. None knows my favorite. I've been given many roses when I was younger, but getting my favorite flower from my favorite person… it's different."
Her confession left him hollow with regret.
The next morning, long before the sun reached the rooftops, he found himself pacing the quiet floor of the music studio. The instruments were still asleep, strings untuned, keys untouched. The place smelled faintly of sandalwood and old wood; a scent that always reminded him of her shy smile when she lingered outside his classroom door.
He should have been preparing for the day's lessons.
He should have been practicing for the evening batch.
He should have been resting - God knew he needed it.
But all he could think of was the lotus.
"This was the first thing she asked of me."
"How could I not do it?"
"How could I fail her like that?"
He rested his palms on the edge of the tabla stored beneath his desk, head bent, heart tight.
She never demanded anything extravagant.
Never asked for time that wasn't his to give.
Never questioned his love for another woman, not even once.
She accepted the boundaries he set even when those boundaries bruised her.
And still, when she finally asked for something small he couldn't bring it.
It wasn't just guilt.
It was something heavier, something almost sacred.
Her liking the lotus wasn't ordinary.
He remembered the mythology, he finally remembered the stories his grandmother once whispered:
The lotus was purity untouched by mud.
The divine blooming despite darkness.
A symbol offered only to the gods and to the souls one revered.
In Hindu temples, priestly hands trembled slightly when placing a lotus at the deity's feet.
Because the offering meant devotion. Respect.
A love not meant for possession, but for worship.
And now she wanted one from him.
Not as a lover. Not as a partner.
But as her chosen person; the one soul she trusted enough to ask something holy of.
He felt the weight of that.
She had built so many walls to protect herself.
If she had let him in enough to reveal her favorite flower…
He knew that was no small thing.
Later that day, he went to the coffee shop where she had first looked at him with those soft, lost eyes. The same café where time had cracked open between them. He sat at their usual spot; the corner chair, away from the world and stared at his own reflection in the café window.
"I disappointed her."
"The one thing she asked…"
"How could I let that happen?"
He clenched his jaw, fingers curling around his coffee cup.
Somewhere between the hum of espresso machines and the memory of her voice, he made a quiet vow.
He would get that lotus.
Even if he had to search every pond in the city. Even if he had to wade knee-deep into muddy waters and cut it with his own hands.
Not because of punishment. Not because she forbade his kisses, his touch, his voice.
But because she deserved a gesture that felt holy.
When he finally brought her the lotus; withered edges, pale petals, trembling in his fingers... she stood in the music studio doorway as though lit from within.
Students were gone.
The evening sun filtered through dusty windows.
A slow, haunting tune played from a nearby room where someone practiced a soft raga.
He approached her quietly, reverently, like a devotee walking toward a deity.
No words - just the lotus between them.
She took it gently, the same way she took his heart.
Her smile wasn't sweet.
It was something deeper, the kind of smile a person gives only once in their life, when something they never expected finally arrives.
And as she tucked the wilted flower into her braid, he stood frozen.
"Beautiful…"
"Too beautiful…"
The words slipped out of him like a mantra.
He didn't know if he meant her, the lotus, or the moment itself.
Maybe all three.
In that dim music room, surrounded by silent instruments, she looked like a hymn carved into flesh: a woman offering devotion without demand, love without chains.
And he felt it again, that sacred shift inside him.
The same one he felt the night she said she loved his soul.
The lotus became more than an apology.
It became a promise. A recognition.
A vow whispered in the hidden chambers of his heart.
"Next time… I'll bring you another," he murmured.
"A fresh one. But the moment has to be right."
She nodded, because she understood.
Some offerings weren't meant to be rushed.
Some gestures demanded perfect timing.
And somewhere inside both of them, in the quiet corners the world would never see, that lotus bloomed again:
A sign that even forbidden love could find ways to feel divine.