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VIHAAN SURYAWANSHI

She ended the call and rushed to the vanity table, the soft rustle of her saree following her like a whisper. She set her makeup pouch down with a small thud, unzipping it and pulling out her favourite products in quick succession—compact, eyeliner, lipstick—the ritual almost calming in its familiarity.

My laptop screen faded to black, but I didn’t move. I leaned back in my chair, head turned toward the screen, but my gaze remained fixed on her.

She looked breathtaking. Draped in a pastel pink saree with delicate embroidery along the border and silver sequins that caught the light every time she moved. Her hair was still damp at the ends from her hurried shower. Strands clung to her cheek, and she didn’t bother tucking them away. She never did when she was in a rush.