It started as a harmless tease.

Varun would always find a way to sit near her, often commenting on her serious reading choices. She would roll her eyes at his dramatic poetry recitations but never actually stop him.

‘You know,’ he said one evening, leaning back in his chair, ‘if you keep frowning at your book like that, you are going to get permanent lines on your forehead.’ he said.

Varinka sighed and said ‘If I had a rupee for every time you distracted me, I would have enough to buy this library.’

‘Ah,’ he said, smirking. ‘But then where would I find you?’

She pretended not to be affected, but the truth was, she started looking forward to his presence.

One evening, as she scribbled notes, Varun slid a book across the table toward her.

She glanced at the title ‘The Art of Flirting.’

She stifled a laugh. ‘You think I need this?’

He shrugged. ‘Not really. But I thought you might like to study my technique.’

Varinka leaned closer. ‘You have a technique?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’ He tapped the book. ‘Chapter three: The Power of a Well-Timed Compliment. Chapter six: The Art of Subtle Touch. Chapter nine….’

She rolled her eyes, pushing the book back to him. ‘You are impossible.’

‘And yet,’ he teased, ‘you are still here.’

For weeks, their flirtation danced on the edge of something deeper.

But Varinka was careful. She never told him who she really was. never mentioned the stories she wrote, the places she had been.

She liked being just a PhD scholar in his eyes.

Until one evening.

She was in the library, typing furiously on her laptop, when Varun sat down across from her.

‘You are not reading today?’ he asked.

She barely looked up. ‘Deadline.’ she said.

‘For what?’ he asked.

She hesitated, then casually said, ‘An article.’

Varun leaned back. ‘You are a writer?’

‘Hmm. Something like that,’ she said.

He studied her for a moment. ‘You know, I’ve been trying to figure you out since the day I met you.’

She smirked. ‘And?’

‘And I think,’ he said slowly, ‘you like keeping secrets.’

Her fingers froze on the keyboard.

He noticed.

‘But I also think,’ he continued, softer this time, ‘I like that about you.’

She met his gaze. ‘Even if it means I might be something you didn’t expect?’

He smiled ‘Hmmm Especially then.’ he said.

And just like that, she knew, he wasn’t just flirting anymore.

The first time Varun saw her. she was sitting alone in the library, lost in a book, her curls were spilling over her shoulder.

He wasn’t sure what caught his attention first. the way she twirled her pen between her fingers absentmindedly or how her brows knit together when she was deep in thought. Either way, he was intrigued.

Varun had been an assistant professor at Sikkim University for nearly five years years. At 34, he was one of the youngest professors in the English department. His students adored him, partly because he made literature sound like a movie. partly because he was young, sharp-witted, and undeniably charming.

But that afternoon, in the hush of the library, surrounded by books and lights, he found himself drawn to someone who didn’t seem to notice him at all.

And that was new.

The First Move

‘Mind if I sit here?’

Varinka looked up, blinking as if she had just been pulled from another world. She took in the man standing before her, tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that filled the room without effort. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and there was a teasing glint in his brown eyes.

She glanced at the empty chairs around her. ‘There are plenty of seats.’

He grinned and said ‘but I like this one.’

Varinka sighed, marking her book with a pencil. ‘Do you always disturb people when they are working?’

‘Only the interesting ones.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

She tilted the book so he could see the title, Emergence of Pakistan.

Varun raised an eyebrow. ‘Light reading?’

She smirked and said ‘I like depth.’

His grin widened. ‘I like trouble.’

She sniffed a small laugh and went back to her book, pretending not to notice how he lingered.

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he pulled out a book from his bag, The Love Poems of Pablo Neruda.

He flipped it open and, in a low, deliberate voice, read aloud,

‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.’

Varinka looked up, one brow arched. ‘Is that your way of introducing yourself?’

He closed the book. ‘No. That’s my way of impressing you.’ he said.

She shook her head, biting back a smile. ‘You are unbearable.’

‘And yet,’ he said, resting his chin on his hand, ‘you haven’t told me to leave.’

She met his gaze, holding it just long enough.

And that was how it began.

Dear Love,

Happy Valentine's Day ♥️

Dear Love,

I remember you as you were in the last spring

You were like a shortbread, crumbling at every bite and had a stable heart.

You had eyes like a blazing fire wandering through the forest at night.

And I fell into you like water cascading through the waterfall.

I remember your hair that shone like a moon and your mole resembling a shooting star.

The only way I knew to make a wish was by planting kisses on those freckles, every time and I wished nothing more but only if your body was filled with a city of stars so that I could kiss you indefinitely.

I remember your voice, your words, your beautiful expressions,

as if those were the music to my ears.

If only those were the music I could preserve, I would listen to them over and over and over again.

I remember you as you were in the last spring.

You had eyes like a blazing fire wandering through the forest at night.

And I fell into you like water cascading through the waterfall.

And now I wish we could have been like fire and water, flaming and dousing when needed.

but we kept fighting fire with fire.

If I write a poem about you,

I would write about your laughter lines

rather than your frown lines

I would etch the words

like the shadows of the moon,

especially when it hits the trees

and turns everything silver

just like your hair,

I would carve verses

like Burns, and compare you

with the red rose freshly sprung

in June,

which will only remind you

of how deeply I am

in love with you.

Daily love poems until V-day

You know what bothers me?

That we always seem to reappear in each other’s lives, randomly, and unexpectedly, whether on a screen or a street corner. And every time, we remeet, we exchange worries, concerns, and fragments of our lives

And the thing is, I take it seriously. I hold onto those words. I replay them in my head like a broken record, over and over, until my mind spins, until I feel like I might fall with vertigo. I start dreaming about you. I start falling for you again. Like repeating my favourite mistake.

But you? I don’t think you do. You just talk, for the heck of it and then the moment is gone.

You don't replay the scenes. Like I do. There is no background music, no ache that lingers from chest to throat.

Because for you, everything is about time. So temporary.

Like Until 2 p.m.

Until the weekdays.

And then you say, take care.

Which means goodbye.

And then it’s over.

And I am left exactly where I was before.

In the same state of limbo.

Stuck in the same void.

The same vicious cycle.

I don't even know why do I allow you to kill me.

Like I enjoy being killed by you.

As if I am so okay to die that way!!!

Dear Love,

I would be waiting for one message,

And I would be startled by every phone call

thinking it would be you.

But goodbyes don't work that way.

Some goodbyes mean forever.

And deep down I know, some days,

you too, wake up with a faint memory of us together.

I don't know where you are and you don't know how far I have come. But The only thing is,

I remember you.

Ardently.

Everyday.

Despite the odds,

despite our indifference.

I just remember you.

I Have Remembered

I have remembered you every day,

even after we parted ways.

I remembered you on sleepless nights,

and on days when sickness kept me awake.

I still remember you.

Especially in dreams,

where you feel so close,

until I wake up and you are gone.

I miss you.

Not for what we had,

but for what we never did.

I miss the moments we never shared,

the love that was never owned.

I looked for you everywhere:

in crowds,

in dreams,

in words not written for me,

in the depths of my inbox

even the spam folder,

perhaps you never wrote at all.

Perhaps you never thought of me

the way I think of you.

I wonder,

do you search for me too?

What will you do of one day you look for me and find nothing but absence?

When you find nothing but rather learn about my death?

Would you grieve?

Would you cry?

But none of that matters now.

I have waited enough

And always rememberd you,

but I leave you here in 2024.

I step into the new year,

without the weight of this longing.

Goodbye

K.

~V

The battleground was silent,

not from peace,

but from the absence of war.

I laid down my weapons too soon,

not because I wanted to,

but because I feared

what victory might demand of me.

Now, the ground is littered

with the wreckage of unsaid words,

apologies turned to ash,

and the echo of your withdrawing footsteps

still rings in my ears.

I wish I had fought for you,

but my hands were too busy

building walls

eventually to see the bridge collapse.

~V