Dingi sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, the faint hum of the ceiling fan above doing little to calm the storm brewing within him. His thoughts were a whirlwind of jealousy, betrayal, and an insatiable longing for Dakshi. The memory of seeing her with Arav played on an endless loop in his mind, taunting him, twisting the knife of rejection deeper into his chest.
He could still see her, laughing softly as Arav leaned in close, her fingers grazing his arm with an intimacy that used to belong to Dingi alone. It wasn't just her actions that stung—it was the look in her eyes, the way she had gazed at Arav with a mixture of affection and desire. That night, Dingi had decided he couldn't let her go—not like this, not without reclaiming what was once his.
When Dakshi arrived at his apartment after his insistent messages, her presence filled the room like a thunderstorm on the horizon. She was dressed in a loose white top and faded jeans, her hair cascading down her back, framing her face in soft waves. Her lips, a delicate shade of pink, were slightly parted, as if she was about to say something but couldn't find the words.
Dingi's breath caught in his throat as he took her in. She had always been beautiful, but tonight, there was something almost ethereal about her, something that made his heart ache with both love and despair.
"Why am I here, Dingi?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of irritation and exhaustion.
"You know why," he replied, his tone low and measured.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "If this is about Arav—"
"It's always about him," Dingi snapped, his eyes narrowing. "You let him touch you, kiss you… Does he even know what you've shared with me? What we've been through?"
Dakshi's expression hardened, but there was a flicker of guilt in her eyes. "What I do is my choice, Dingi. We're not together anymore."
"But you used to love me," he said, stepping closer to her, his voice softening. "You used to look at me the way you look at him now."
She hesitated, her resolve wavering as he closed the distance between them. Dingi reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm beneath his touch, and for a moment, it was as if time had rewound, taking them back to the days when they were inseparable.
"Do you remember our nights together?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The way you'd curl up next to me, your head on my chest, your lips on my skin…"
Her breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was both tender and desperate. Dakshi didn't pull away. Instead, she allowed herself to be drawn into the moment, her body responding instinctively to the familiarity of his touch.
Dingi's lips moved to her neck, pressing soft kisses along her collarbone, tracing the curve of her shoulder. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as his mouth explored further, leaving a trail of warmth down her skin. He kissed the hollow of her throat, then lower, his lips brushing against her collarbone.
"You're still mine, Dakshi," he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. "Even if you try to deny it."
She shivered beneath his touch, her resolve crumbling for just a moment. But then, reality came crashing back. She pushed him away gently but firmly, her eyes filled with a mixture of regret and determination.
"Dingi, this isn't right," she said, her voice trembling. "We can't do this. Not anymore."
He stepped back, his hands falling to his sides, his expression one of heartbreak and frustration. "Why not?" he demanded. "Why can't we go back to the way things were?"
"Because it's over," she said, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. "You need to move on, Dingi."
The words hit him like a physical blow. He turned away from her, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he fought to contain the whirlwind of emotions inside him.
When Dakshi left that night, she didn't look back. And as the door closed behind her, Dingi sank to the floor, his head in his hands. He had lost her, truly and completely. But deep down, a darker thought began to take root—a thought that whispered of revenge, of reclaiming what he believed was his, no matter the cost.