After the bonfire wrapped up and mid night crept in, we piled into the cars to head home, but things went sideways fast. Pushkar was hit hard by loose motion, clutching his stomach, and Kaustub started vomiting from all the beach snacks. No chance we'd make it back through the night. Sneha's relative's cousin house—a cozy little cottage tucked away—became our unexpected pit stop.
We settled in: me, Gayatri, and Sneha's cousin sister crammed into one room, while the others spread out. But trouble brewed quick. Sneha and Kaustub got into a serious argument—something small that exploded into shouts. Furious, Sneha stormed off to the guest house room, slamming the door behind her. She tried to open it from inside to cool off, but it jammed tight. Now she was stuck, and the keys were with her brother, who was out somewhere.
The lights flickered and died—complete blackout. The three of us in the room felt trapped, like the darkness swallowed everything. Silence hung heavy, broken only by Gayatri and the cousin sister whispering on the other side of the room. I sat blind in the corner, ears picking up every word like a shadow listening in, heart racing from the weird tension.
Then the cousin's phone rang. Her face went pale. "Sneha's locked in for real—the door won't budge without the key. Her cousin said us, You two stay put; it's pitch black out there, easy to get lost." She grabbed a flashlight and rushed downstairs.
Gayatri and I couldn't sit still. We slipped out into the pouring rain, wind whipping around the cottage porch. passing a dim phone light back and forth, rain soaking our clothes, trying to help while thunder grumbled overhead.
The night turned from mess to magic by candlelight, rain drumming steady outside. Arguments forgotten, bonds tighter. Sometimes, a locked door and a blackout make the best stories.
Outside, the rain hammered down like a relentless drum, turning the world into a blurry void. I couldn't see Gayatri at all—we were like two people blindfolded in the dark, fumbling through shadows. For a moment, an illusion hit me: I felt utterly alone, tired and confused, wondering if this was all a dream I couldn't wake from.
Then her voice cut through softly. "Hey? Why are you so quiet?"
I let out a shaky breath. "I can't see you. I thought you went with her."
"No, she told us to stay put," Gayatri replied. She fumbled aside the curtain, and a faint sliver of light slipped in from somewhere distant. There she was—clear now, her face soft in the dim glow. We were in a simple room, no bed, just a big thick mattress on the floor like a traditional gadhi. We both sank down onto it, close enough to feel the warmth between us, while the heavy rain roared outside.
Gayatri broke the quiet first. "Sneha hugged you like that... that's why the fight started. Otherwise, everything was fine."
I laughed lightly. "Oh gosh, she was just kidding around, yaar! It was nothing—a hug to show affection. She loved my poetry, so she congratulated me."
She tilted her head. "If she wanted to praise you, she could've just said something nice. Why a hug?"
"It's okay, yaar. Just a hug!" I shrugged.
"But still," she pressed, "she's in a relationship."
"Then what? I'm not against that," I said, grinning.
Gayatri frowned. "It might affect their relationship, right?"
I teased gently, "Why are you jealous? It was just a hug."
She jumped up, eyes wide. "Excuse me? Jealous? Why would I be? You're not that special, okay?"
"Okay, okay!" I cut in, laughing. "She hugged me because she liked the poetry."
Gayatri settled back, curious. "You never told me you do poetry."
"Yeah, it just flows sometimes," I admitted. We chatted a bit more—easy words about the trip, the beach, little things that made the dark feel less heavy.
Then silence fell again. We sat close, shoulders almost touching. Suddenly, thunder cracked like lightning splitting the sky, the rain pounding harder. We both squeezed our eyes shut, breaths turning heavy. In that flash, I could hear her heartbeat—fast, matching mine—like we were lost in a dark ocean, scared and adrift. If I were alone, I wouldn't have stayed, but she was there. That moment, all I wanted was her to stay close; she felt the same.
Blind in the shadows, I turned my face toward her, searching. My forehead brushed hers—soft, warm, electric. I whispered her name in my mind, a poetry rising unbidden: *When we're stuck in this dark ocean, rain pouring, fear gripping tight... all we need is you with me. I won't leave you—just stay, be with me in this storm.*
Now I could see her so close, eyes wide and searching mine. Our lips met—soft, tentative, our first kiss ever. It was clumsy at first; neither of us knew what we were doing, but we didn't pull away. Slowly, it deepened, like diving into that dark ocean together—hearts racing, exploring every hidden emotion, every spark. Time blurred; we poured into each other, feelings crashing like waves.
Finally, we parted, breaths ragged. Gayatri whispered, shaky, "I'm confused... what am I doing?"
I smiled, sure in my heart. "I know what I'm doing."
In that rain-soaked room, before we truly fell in love, everything changed—two hearts finding their way home.
In the dim glow of that rain-lashed room, with thunder rumbling like a distant heartbeat, our kiss ignited something deeper—a fire we'd both been holding back. Clothes whispered away like secrets in the dark, bodies drawing close in a tangle of warmth and need. It wasn't rushed or wild; it was like two lost souls finally finding shore, moving together slow and sure, breaths mingling, skin speaking what words never could. The rain outside masked our soft gasps, the world shrinking to just us—exploring, connecting, losing ourselves in a rhythm that felt ancient and new. Time blurred into waves of closeness, hearts pounding as one, until exhaustion claimed us both, wrapped in each other's arms like we'd always belonged there.
I drifted into a deep, tired sleep, the storm lulling me under. Gayatri woke first, a quiet happiness settling over her—no more fear, just a soft glow in her eyes as she watched me. Playful mischief sparked; she spotted a feather from some old cushion nearby and teased it lightly into my ear, tickling gently to wake me.
Irritated in my half-asleep haze, not fully aware, my hand shot out on instinct—a slap on her cheek, harder than meant. She froze, the feather dropping, hurt flashing in her eyes. Without a word, she turned away, curling into herself on the edge of the gadhi.
Guilt hit me like cold water. I blinked awake, heart sinking. "Gayatri... oh no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean— I was out of it, tired..." I scooted closer, arm reaching to pull her back, voice soft and pleading. "Please, listen, it was nothing, I swear."
But she was done holding back. Anger boiled over—she whipped around, tears streaming hot down her cheeks, and slapped me sharp across the face. Once, twice, her small fists raining down with surprising force. "How could you?!" she cried, voice breaking. A kick landed on my side, then another slap, her body shaking with sobs. "After everything—after this? You hit me?!"
I reeled back, hands up but not blocking, taking it all. "Sorry! Gayatri, stop—please, I'm so sorry! I was wrong, completely wrong. Let me make it right..." My words tumbled out desperate, face stinging, chest tight with regret. She kept crying, slapping wildly until her strength faded, collapsing into heaving sobs.
The rain pounded harder, mirroring the storm between us. I didn't touch her again—just knelt there, whispering apologies into the dark, knowing I'd shattered something precious in one blind moment. The night that started with fire now hung heavy with the weight of what I'd broken.
The next morning dawned gray and heavy, the rain a faint memory as we all piled back into the cars, bodies sore from the night but spirits awkwardly patched. Sneha was finally out of the guest room, all smiles now with Kaustub and sneha—no more fight, just easy couple banter. Pushkar's loose motion had mercifully cleared up, and he cracked jokes about "beach revenge" the whole ride. We dropped everyone home one by one, the trip's magic lingering like sand in our shoes. But Gayatri? She sat silent beside me, eyes fixed out the window, not a single word. No glance, no goodbye. Just gone.
Guilt chewed at me like a bad dream I couldn't shake. I shouldn't have slapped her—tired or not, it was wrong, a crack in something pure. Back home, I slipped into routine: college classes blurring by, lunch with Pushkar and the gang, late-night studies that felt empty. Friends hyped me up—"Bro, that poetry slayed!"—but without Gayatri, it all rang hollow. She used to pop in, even if not weekdays—at least weekends, a quick café meet or scooter ride. Nothing now. Zilch.
Days dragged into weeks. I stared at my phone, thumb hovering over her chat, guilt gluing my fingers down. Finally, I caved—sent trip pics, waves crashing, bonfire glow: *Missed this vibe. Sorry for everything.* Seen. No reply. I typed *Sorry, really* later. Still unseen. Weeks melted into months, calendar flipping like a bad joke.
Word got back to her somehow—I was unraveling. Fights erupted everywhere: argued with the physics teacher over a "dumb equation," voice booming till the class gasped. Punched a guy's locker in the hall after a stupid bet gone wrong, denting metal like my mood. Studies tanked—books gathered dust, assignments half-scribbled or skipped, marks sliding like sand through fists. Careless chaos ruled: skipped morning workout for late-night scrolls, forgot sister's school drop-off twice, showed up to parties reeking of skipped showers and zero sleep. Friends called it "my wild phase," but it was me drowning—skipping meals, blasting music to drown the quiet guilt, flirting reckless with girls just to feel something. Teachers warned, "Shape up or ship out," but I shrugged, eyes distant, heart heavy with what I'd lost.
Months in, she must've heard the whispers: the once-poetic guy now a careless storm, wrecking his own path. No texts, no calls. Just silence, thick as the space she left. I wandered my days like a ghost in my own life, wondering if one slap could erase a summer's worth of stars.
Then the storm really broke. Complaints poured in from every corner—teachers cornering me after class, their voices sharp with frustration. "Your grades are dropping, sure, but that's fixable. It's this anger, these fights, your ego running wild—*that's* what's ruining you." The principal dragged me into his office one afternoon, a stack of warning slips on his desk like evidence in a trial. "12th standard isn't child's play," she said, eyes piercing. "This year decides your road—college, career, life. One wrong turn now, and you're lost. Get serious, or get left behind."
I nodded, mumbled promises, but inside? It barely touched me. Poor marks? I'd cram before exams. But the anger—that was the real poison, seeping into everything. It flared without warning: screaming at the history teacher over a "stupid mark," shoving a classmate during lunch over a spilled water bottle, ego swelling like a balloon ready to pop. I'd storm off to the rooftop alone, fists clenched, staring at the Pune skyline blurring through hot tears I wouldn't admit. Friends tiptoed around me, Pushkar joking less, the old laughs fading. My world shrank to a cage of my own making—skipping meals for rage-fueled walks, books untouched, nights lost to mindless scrolls, pretending I didn't care.
Gayatri caught every whisper, rumors buzzing from college chats to her "He blowing up again—fought three teachers this week." "His marks are trash; he's skipping everything." She must've pictured it all: the boy who'd whispered poetry by bonfire light now a reckless shadow, punching lockers, ignoring warnings, spiraling into nothing. It hurt her, I knew—texts from mutual friends painting me as hopeless. But me? I shrugged it off, trapped in my bubble. Never took it serious. Just floated in my own chaos, blind to the cliff ahead, heart aching with a guilt I buried deep. 12th loomed like judgment day, and deep down, a small voice screamed to wake up—before the girl who'd seen my best self was gone for good, and I was too broken to follow.