Over 4 years skimmed by in the speed of a hummingbird. Seasons arrived and departed, churning a change in people's lives. Yusuf and Faajal also encountered many winters and springs. With each phase, their cord matured and strengthened. Each dawn, they arose from bed with profound longing. Each twilight, they fell asleep, deeper in love. Though their togetherness demanded a ceremonial step further, Ravinder kept resisting this approach. The filming of 'Deewar-e-Ishq' was yet to finish. 

When the third fourth of the film had been completed, Feroz had settled on reshooting the film in Technicolour, making him narrowly escape bankruptcy twice. Even the producer had gotten tired of the extensive budget. Within the past couple of years, he had rebuilt sets, altered costumes, ordered real gemstones and pearls for apparel and embellishment of the sets, hired the best musicians from India and abroad, promised them the highest sum one could have offered, garnered the finest crew for filming and the most advanced equipment to weave his dream. This year, Feroz managed to convince Nadiadwala of a budget estimated at around 3 crores—the highest allowance for a film in the history of Indian cinema. 

Ravinder had almost declined the project if Feroz hadn't doubled her advance payment. Faajal alone had earned 10 lakhs previously. Yusuf also received the same, a rare case in the industry. Actresses majorly obtained less than actors.

Within this span, as the Hindi film industry was to gain either another masterstroke or hideous disaster, it also lost another star—Pran Malhotra. Learning of his elopement with Chanchal, his studio boss sued him and threatened to cancel his upcoming projects. Pran ripped off his contract and thrust it onto his executive's face. A rulebreaker as always. He seized his invitation letter from Warner Bros and settled in America with Chanchal. These 4 years granted the couple a set of adorable twins—Aditya and Ayaan. Through phone calls and mails, the three friends secured their contact, but Faajal and Yusuf couldn't help but miss Pran's presence. After all, this iconic friendship had aged over a decade. Yusuf vowed to fly to America for their honeymoon.

"Faajal, listen carefully." Feroz crouched at Faajal's front as the makeup artists dabbed rouge on her cheekbones. "You must shoot the knob in the first take! Not even a centimetre aside!" He exhorted, his stare too sharp.

"Fine, Feroz! I have practised a hundred times!" Faajal tried to stay composed. "Where's Yusuf, by the way?" She hadn't met him since morning.

"We have improvised the script. So, he is off to rehearsal." His lower lip rolled into his mouth.

"Feroz, are you seriously changing the scene an hour before the filming?" Faajal furrowed her brows; her nose wrinkled. Alone, Waheguru knew how many times he had modified the script. But trusting Feroz was her job. She masked her irritation with a moan and focused on her makeup.

After an hour, the cast settled into their positions in the set. Lush jewels and velvety silks draped their bodies to resemble the aura of the Mughal era. Faajal rehearsed archery, mindful of Feroz's concern. It took her a month of training to muster the basics of archery.

Lastly, the actors stood in the orchard of the Sheesh Mahal. Feroz neared. "Faajal, as I said." Faajal took a moment to absorb his caveat.

An oval dais was dragged to the centre, under the thicket of emerald green leaves and dainty petals. A canopy crafted from strings of rhinestones and pearls concealed a statue of white marble inside. According to the script, Princess Nurjahan shot the knob above the canopy, and the canopy plunged to reveal Khursheed's sculpture.

"So, are we ready?" Feroz clapped his hands, and the camera rolled.

"The princess has an enviable mastery in archery, we heard, Your Majesty. If Her Grace agrees," Suleiman's closest personnel bowed to Nurjahan. "We can view another spectacle of her aptitude." He peeled the velvet over the plate of bow and arrow on his hand.

Suleiman smiled, his brows dancing with boasting grace."Proceed, then. Let us see what masterpiece the royal sculptor has forged again." He beckoned to Nurjahan. Nurjahan lifted the bow and fixed the arrow, her fingers slowly pulling the string. Her eyes were glued to the knob above. The faint whir of the string's pull confirmed it was the right time to shoot. Her posture woodened, her face tight with determination. Her left thumb tilted aside to clear the arrow's path. Her surroundings blurred, and the filed tip of the arrow glinted silver.

A breath of stillness before Nurjahan set the arrow free. The arrow sprang into the air and sliced through the knob. The knob shattered, and the canopy cascaded down. A sculpture came into view. Its chiselled lineaments glistened like streaks of stars. Its countenance cradled a heavenly harmony, alloyed with the spell of mischief. Its eyes were closed, as if dreaming like a child. The marble carving seemed so smooth and frail, Nurjahan thought her fingers might scuff its even skin.

Suleiman patted Nurjahan's back and approached close to the statue. A mesmerized smile tugged his mouth. Nurjahan followed along. His palm rested on his chest. "Subhanallah! Maloom hota hain jaise kisi pharishte ne jahan mein aake ek mujasmah ka roop liya ho!" [Subhanallah! It feels as if an angel has come into the world and taken the form of a sculpture!]

To his utter surprise, the sculpture slightly bowed to him and gave him a salam. "Mujasmah pharishta nahi, agha hain." [The sculpture is not an angel but a servant.]

Faajal muffled the shriek behind her throat. Yusuf himself had been the sculpture! That was why he was absent. She had wondered why the sculpture looked like an exact replication of him. Feroz had one sculpted days ago. But to him, it had not matched Yusuf's features. So, this was the modification Feroz was referring to. Faajal silently thanked her luck for not missing the shot.

"Tujhe putt banne par kisne majboor kiya?" Suleiman grumbled, still struck by shock. [Who compelled you to become a statue?]

A subtle curve edged the sculpture's mouth. "Aapke saltanat ke ek ziddi santarash ne, jo gumnaami ke parde mein nahi doobna chahta tha." [A stubborn sculptor from your empire, who did not wish to sink into the veil of obscurity.]

Suleiman sneered. "Santarash ki anokhapan yaqeer andaad ke kabil hain! Par teer chalte waqt tu khamosh kyu raha?" [The sculptor's uniqueness is worthy of sincere praise! But why did you remain silent when the arrow was shot?]

The sculptor angled his head towards Nurjahan, eyes still shut. "Main dekhna chahta tha ki afsaane kabhi haqeqat mein badalte hain kya." [I wished to see whether tales ever transform into truth.]

"Bohot khub! Tera naam kya hain?!" [Well said! What is your name?!]

"Khursheed."

All eyes were fixed on Khursheed, bewildered by the unreal beauty he possessed. Some even left their senses in oblivion.

"Tera iss chaand sa husn aur manasab naam ka kabil hain. Hum tujhe Mahtab ka khetab aata karte hain!" Suleiman faced Nurjahan. [Your moon-like beauty deserves an equally fitting name. We bestow upon you the title of Mahtab!] "Kaal janmashtami ke din, ise sangeet ke ayojan mein le lijiye, shehzadi." [Tomorrow, on Janmashtami, take him to the musical event, princess.]

Nurjahan bowed, but her attention was linked to the sublime figure 'Mahtab'—the moon.

"CUT!" Feroz sprinted to the set. "Thank lord you didn't miss the target!"

"You should have told me!" Faajal wheezed. "Suppose I missed the shot!" She passed the bow to a staff member.

"Yusuf told me not to." He looked at the faux sculpture and walked closer to it. "He went through heavy layers of chemicals for that!"

"And if we told you, it would not have been a pleasant surprise! I must say you trained well, otherwise–" Yusuf could hardly snicker beneath the coatings of plaster. The plaster beside his lips cracked a bit.

Faajal rubbed her greased palms together, rolling her pupils. She had to praise his dedication. How many hours had he spent after this? Perhaps, an hour to plane his skin, brows and style his curls. Then, another couple of hours to slather his body in plaster.

She trotted to Yusuf and tapped his coat. It was not made of fabric, but something akin to leather. Pale powder dusted her fingertips.

"Imagine wearing such clothes in the heat of Bombay." Yusuf drolled, cautious in movement to not spall the plaster. "Khursheed is doing loads of hard work."

"Isn't it Mahtab now?" Faajal snickered.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Faajal was jotting a letter when the telephone chimed. She answered it. "Hello?"

"Aey, it's me." A husky yet lenient male voice crooned. "Tomorrow is Sunday, and you remember, don't you?"

Tomorrow was 23rd February, the date she had bared her soul to him 15 years back. "Huh." Faajal droned, her nose burning.

"So," Yusuf acted in deliberate silence. "Anything planned?"

"Perhaps, the Zuhu beach?"

He groaned on the other side. "Visited a hundred times!"

"Restaurants? Maybe China Garden?" She suggested.

"Don't you remember what happened last time?" The last time they had dined in China Garden, they had to sign autographs on tissue paper, napkins and receipts for an entire hour.

"Then, then—"

"What about we visit the Mithi riverbank?! Close to nature, peaceful and no crowd to spoil our day."

"Whose car shall we take then? Mine or yours?" Her finger twirled the cord of the telephone.

"Mine. I will drive myself! No third person to bother us. Then, we will ride to my studio apartment! Just an hour from the riverbank." Yusuf chirped.

Faajal asked, "An hour? You know, I have to return by evening." Ravinder's loosened guard did not mean whole freedom yet.

"It will take just minutes, I promise!"

She huffed and snorted at his cheekiness. "Fine. At sharp 9 o'clock, then."

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Faajal donned a pair of brown pants and a linen shirt, convenient for the humid weather. A car blared twice in front of the bungalow. She peeked from the window to see a brown Aston Martin shimmering under the sun. Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she descended two stairs at once, excitement prompting her insides.

"The weather's bad. Take an umbrella." Gurbani hurried behind Faajal. "Yusuf has one, ma." Faajal was to cross the porch when Ravinder exclaimed, "Return before evening. It may rain."

"Okay, baba." She bounced off the porch and sprinted to the car outside the iron gate. A buoyant smile broke from her lips. Her ringlets pranced in the gale of Spring. She hastily pulled the door of the car and occupied the front seat at the driver's left. The driver giggled. "Calm down, mehbooba. Calm down."

He switched on the ignition and yanked the gear lever. "So, where to, miss?" He ribbed in witt. She acted along. "To the stars." Her face leaned closer to his.

They traversed the lights and hassle of Bombay. Trams honked, vendors hawked their products, office workers sipped chai amid the monotony of their jobs, and children played cricket on alleyways. Within their cyclic customary of dressing up and acting as other personas, they could scarcely rejoice in the liveliness of the city of dreams, the very city which brought them reputation. It was chaotic and draining, but it fostered dreams that enlightened the darkest of souls.

As Yusuf braked behind a railway barrier, for a train was passing, he exhaled. "Same city, but ages have gone by. Bombay has changed a lot since I arrived."

Faajal nodded. "Livelier. Denser with people. A lot to improve, yet hope persists. This....is our Bombay."

When they ended up at the riverbank, the sun was midway in the blue sky. The weather seemed not to deteriorate the rest of the day, or so they assumed. The car was parked at the entrance and they alighted. The cool landscape of water and fauna greeted them like an old friend. The gurgle of ripplets lapping the shore, the peal of distant laughter and the flight of grey birds painted a serene picture, aloof from the disarray of urban area.

Faajal dusted off her palms. The whiff of baby grass and plump leaves snaked through her nose. A sedative waft coursed them.

"Do you want something to eat?" Faajal offered. "I have biscuits and a flask of chai."

"My tongue craves lacci right now, honestly." Yusuf guaffwed. "I used to drink 3 glasses whole whenever we travelled somewhere."

They proceeded forward. The first steps went without eyes goggling at them. But as they reached the shore, a small number of riveted eyes caught them. Women plucked grass blades and bundled twigs. Men raised shutters for another day. Toddlers slurred on charpoys. Elderly people chewed paan or sifted grains. Life was laguid here. One could exult every second of life. No rush for office, school or daily bread. Just a few people scattering the riverbank.

Suddenly, a toddler squealed in front of Faajal. By the clothes and appearance, the toddler seemed like a boy. His age had to be around 2. 3 teeth protruded from his pink gums. He waddled to her knee and held up a bat and a ball. His glassy, round orbs turned to Yusuf, and he began jumping. Laughter parted his chubby lips.

"Hello, little one." Faajal cooed and kneeled to his face level. The child handed Yusuf the ball and told Faajal to take the bat. Faajal clutched it.

"Do you want to play with us?" Yusuf grinned, booping the baby's nose.

The toddler led them to a nearby vacant patch in the bank. His stubby legs wobbled on the moist earth. "He is smart." Yusuf commended, keeping an eye on the baby.

The toddler paused and swayed his hands to show their positions. From his hints, they were to play cricket with him. Faajal was the bowler and Yusuf was the fielder.

"What's your name, little one?" Faajal maffled.

"Mwahh...." Saliva coated his inner lip. He grabbed the bat with his tiny hands and unsteadily thumped it on the ground. Faajal chuckled and his face broke into laughter again.

"I am throwing it now!" Faajal propelled the ball low, so the child could strike.

Yusuf squatted in his position, roaring. "Come on, come on, champ!" The child's smile had touched his lips, too.

The ball glided across the dusty ground and bumped the tiny bat. The toddler was to give it a feeble hit, but he toppled down and sprawled on the soil. Shock was etched on his expression before breaking into a coy titter. Yusuf imitated him and dropped on the ground too. All three of them cackled, unburdened and carefree.

Faajal threw the ball again. This time, the child managed to hit it. The ball rolled to his right. Yusuf ran and grasped it. A high-pitched yeet escaped the child's mouth. His glee smeared on Faajal. She pondered what her life would look like with a toddler like him, Yusuf at their sides, brimming with light and bliss.

After 3 rounds of cricket, the toddler settled upon playing hide and seek. He covered his eyes for 10 seconds to let Yusuf and Faajal hide. Yusuf sheltered between stacks of concrete slabs nearby. Faajal lurked behind a tea stall. Her mouth could hardly contain laughter. Yusuf deliberately peeped from the edges of the slab for the toddler to spot him. 5 minutes later, the toddler burst into a heartbreaking cry from his failed searches. Yusuf dashed from his hiding place and coddled him. Faajal joined a second later and cooed pacifying words. The child's cry lessened into hiccups and sniffs.

"I thought champs never cry." Yusuf pampered, caressing the baby's forehead.

"Suraj!" A young woman rushed to them and scooped the baby in her arms. "Where were you, my baby?! I was so worried." She stared at them. Cold sweat beaded her skin. "Thank you so much for looking after him. His father is off to work, and I was caught up with chores–" She kissed Suraj's head.

"It is alright. Your son taught us cricket and hide-and-seek." Yusuf beamed.

Faajal pinched Suraj's cheek. "How old might he be?"

"2 and a half years this month." The woman sniffed. Dirt covered spots of her face and neck. A threadbare cloth wrapped her hair into a topknot. "Where have you come from?"

Yusuf answered, "What is your name, by the way?"

"Durga."

He nodded. "We are from Bombay, Durga ji."

Durga's ears shone red. "Didi kahiye, hum chhote chhote log hain bas." [Call me sister, we are lowly people.]

"I suppose 'ji' is for everyone, and you are the same as us." Faajal shrugged. Suraj stretched his hand to go to Yusuf. Yusuf picked the toddler and tweaked his fatty chin.

"Ghar aaoge hamare? Jyda nahi hain. Lekin pet varne jaisa hain. Aur dopahar bhi ho chuki hain." [Will you come to my house? Nothing much. But, I have enough to fill stomachs. And, it's noon by now.] Durga nervously laughed.

Faajal glanced at Yusuf and smiled. He gave a nod of agreement and they walked to Suraj's home—a hut built from smooth mud, bamboo, straw and thatch as roof. A tiny throng had already hoarded in the verandah. Their intrigued looks were frozen on the guests. Faajal waved hello to the children and elderly. A teenage girl pitched behind, "Aren't you those on the posters?!"

Yusuf chuckled, silent on this matter. They always preferred silence whenever someone recognized them at public places. Faajal raised her brow in seeming perplexity.

The girl wound through the gathering and pointed out, "Yes, you are! Those big sahab and mam from the cities!"

Durga blinked at them. "Is it true? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Even if we are, wouldn't you serve us?" Faajal giggled. "No, I mean, of course! But, you may not like our food." Durga hesitated.

Yusuf snorted. "Food is food, behen ji! All we need is food. We don't care about where it came from."

"Still–"

"Behen ji, we are very hungry now! Enough of talking." He rubbed his stomach. "Abh baaton se hi pet bharoge kya?" [Will you fill my stomach with words now?]

"No, no, never!" Durga hurried inside. Yusuf and Faajal entered the humble home. It reeked of clay and fresh rainwater. Sunlight licked the greyish brown floor. Yusuf plopped on a charpoy, and Faajal grabbed Suraj to show him the river through the window. A string of young and middle-aged women followed Durga to the kitchen, their eyes stealing glances of Yusuf and Faajal behind their aanchals.

An hour later, Durga came with two plates of steaming rice and vegetable curry. "It's our humble dish. I am sorry. You must eat rich dishes in the city."

"No, we don't. I eat daal chawal for dinner, honestly." Yusuf barked with a smile and dug his hands into the smoking rice.

Faajal washed her hands and joined him, occasionally feeding Suraj. Eager faces encircled them, some hurrying to supply them glasses of water.

"Babu sahab, sharbaat piyoge?" A woman stuttered. [Sir, will you have a drink?]

Yusuf nodded readily and was handed a lemon juice in a steel mug.

Durga panted. "How is the food? We made it in such a hurry–"

"Arrey, behen! Sab khana majedaar tha! Aap itna chinta kyu karti ho?" Faajal brushed off. [Arrey, sister! All was delicious! Why do you worry so much?]

Yusuf chugged down his sharbat and nodded along. After lunch, they rambled the bank, cuddling Suraj. Yusuf narrated fairytales to him while Faajal rocked him in her lap.

The sky turned into a dusty rose. The sun bled into the horizon, stroking the river in vivid tangerine. The warm glow of dusk cast over faces. "I think we should get going now." Yusuf eyed his watch.

Suraj's head snapped to him, as if he sensed his words. His lips rolled inside. Yusuf cooed, "Aw, I don't want to leave you, too, champ."

Faajal heaved a sigh, toying with Suraj's arm. Time was scarce now. They strode to Durga's hut. Durga raced to them, her expression eager.

"Thank you so much for the hospitality, behen ji." Yusuf smiled.

"Are you leaving this soon?! Please, leave after some snacks."

"No, behen ji," Faajal said. "But, next time for sure! We shall play more with Suraj then." She passed Suraj to Durga. Suraj pouted, his eyelids puddling with tears.

"Ohh, no, my dear," Faajal whispered gently. "We shall meet again! Please don't cry, now."

"Otherwise, I will cry, and I look way ugly when I cry," jeered Yusuf.

Durga alluded to Suraj to wave them goodbye. Suraj shook his little hand, watery-eyed. Yusuf pursed his lips and half-smiled. Faajal kissed the toddler's temple and gave a tight-lipped smile. Her heart shrivelled from leaving this ball of joy.

Faajal took the steering wheel this time. A cloud grumbled above. "Oh lord, pray it doesn't rain." Yusuf adjusted his seatbelt. Black fog replaced the bright hues. Faajal started the ignition and drove out of the outskirts. Droplets pelted the windshield when they reached halfway to Yusuf's studio apartment. Faajal switched off the air conditioner as chill crept through the slits of the car.

Half an hour later, the studio apartment emerged into view. "Thank god!" Faajal pressed the gas pedal to speed forward. The car jerked a few feet further and stalled. Faajal tried to reignite the engine. The engine woke briefly, but died. "The engine is not working!" Faajal wrenched the key again, but in vain.

"Let me check. Water must have entered the bay." Yusuf was to click open his door. "Don't! You will get soaked!" Faajal said. Yusuf didn't listen and hurried through the endless rainstorm. He lifted the hood and surveyed the machinery.

"What?" Faajal cried in the ceaseless pattering, her voice barely audible. Yusuf swayed his hand in denial.

Faajal craned her neck out to check. Cold drops dotted her hair. 10 seconds later, Yusuf thumped the hood and groaned, "It's dead. We have to push the car!" He ran to the back. Faajal got out and gave a hand. Their whole body was drenched now; water streamed down their neck and hands.

Thunder ruptured the clouds. They poured the last ounce of their vigour into propelling the car forward. Their shoes struggled to hold firm as the road grew slippery with every shower of water. The wheels of the car gained momentum slowly. Mud splashed their pants, evoking a hiss from Yusuf.

The cloudburst intensified and poured a torrential flood. A few metres aloof from the building now, Faajal and Yusuf trembled in the icy downpour. Yusuf released ragged breaths, labouring against the sky's rage. Faajal firmened her limbs to push one more time.

"UGHH!" Faajal growled, her hands throbbing. "Sahab ji!" A caretaker sprinted to them with an umbrella. "KAMAL!" Yusuf grunted, his teeth gritted. Heavy breaths fogged from his mouth.

"Sahab!" Kamal squelched through the muddy road. He stretched the umbrella above their heads. Faajal wrapped her arms around her frame. "Kamal, the engine has gone dead." Yusuf wiped his chin. "Sahab, I will take care of it." He handed Yusuf a keychain. Yusuf grabbed Faajal and sped through the deluged track.

Yusuf twisted open the lock of his apartment and hurried inside. Faint light washed over the ground of the dingy apartment. Yusuf clicked the light switches, but none worked. "Wow! The electricity is gone now!" He stomped his foot.

Faajal rubbed her arms. Chill raked her bones. She shed her clammy shoes and followed Yusuf, who was rummaging in a small cupboard. Frustrated snarls skipped his throat.

Faajal lurched to a side and knocked off something like a flat board. It had to be a canvas. Finally, Yusuf discovered a candle and lit it. A halo of yellow light exposed his countenance. "Aish, I have only a single kurta and pyjama." He tossed her the white translucent garments. "The bathroom is at the corner." He tilted his pupils at the left corner. "Go change."

"No, you change." Faajal breathed. "You get cold easily."

"You are drenched head to toe."

"So are you," Faajal wrung out water from her hair strands.

Yusuf huffed in defeat. "Then....we make it half-half." His tongue moistened his upper lip. "You take the kurta, and I take the pyjama." He placed the candle on a table at his right and entered the bathroom.

The kurta crumpled between her nails as she faltered to change in an open space. But, lastly, she shimmied out of her shirt and was to slip the kurta over her arms when the bathroom door flung open. She flinched and shrouded her chest with the kurta. "SORRY! I forgot the lock was broken." Yusuf hastened to close the door of the bathroom. Faajal changed into the kurta and hung her clothes on the grill of the window. Her neck was singing.

Lightning hewed the sky in half, bawling on the earth. Yusuf walked next to her, the candle flickering in his clutch. A warm arc spread across their faces. "I wish I could call home. Baba must be chewing ma's head off."

"What else does he have to do anyway?" Yusuf huffed. Cold stole into the fringes of the chamber. The radiance of the candle was the only origin of heat. Their flimsy beats of silence complemented the brisk pace of the outer chaos. It was freezing, but Faajal could sense an unfamiliar warmth rush her chest. A gust whistled and fiddled with their hair. The flash of thunder cast a ghostly pallor on his bare chest. For the first time in her life, Faajal could look at the features of his frame. Her sight imprinted each and every nuance of his limbs—the rise and slope of his tender muscles, the curve of his broad shoulders, the veins running his life beneath his lucid skin. Some patches of fading scars littered his middle—the injuries from the fire accident. He had mended those by 1950 through plastic surgery. Yet, the relics of that mishap lingered on his body. His physique was neither too stoic nor too slender. Just a perfect carving of Waheguru.

"I am sorry." His head lowered.

Faajal pressed down the kurta from fluttering up. "It's not your fault. The rain should stop soon."

"Do you want to see the portrait?" Yusuf murmured. Faajal gave a nod. He trotted to the middle of the room and pulled the shroud over a canvas. An oil painting was unveiled inch by inch, streaked with the simplest shades. Yet, the portrait expressed a raw vulnerability with rare precision. Faajal's own face resided in the painting. Her gaze was lost somewhere, coated by sunshine. Her face partly shimmered yellow, her eyes drowned in longing.

"Oh my," Faajal lost her breath. She could not find words for an equivalent response. She glanced at Yusuf, her eyes curved in reverence. Her lips could scarcely smile. Yusuf completed her incomplete smile. "For the shayaris you have written for me, it is a small payment." He hissed in her ear.

A thunderbolt echoed again. Yusuf clasped her shoulder, flinching. The kurta slid loose on her shoulders.

"Nothing to do but be trapped here." Yusuf slumped on the mattress. He lay on the floor. Faajal crept beside him, holding the kurta tight. The candle was placed at the head of the mattress. Her eyes traced the columns of his spine as he hunched back. She coiled her arms around his and stroked the snarled shock of hair on his forehead. He turned to her. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He gulped. Her hand crawled to his back and followed the line of his spine, his skin like silk against her fingertips. She inched closer, her profile mirrored on his pupils. She scooted nearer until their breaths twined into one. His hands shuddered as he framed her face and brought her close, so close she could sense his heart thumping against her breasts. Blood boiled in her veins now. Her insides writhed like a restless butterfly. Buried yearnings spilled in immense cascade, ready to lock her soul with his.

Her lungs pumped madly, his delicate scent imbuing them. Her fingers slithered their way to his nape. Her lips united with the crook of his neck. His frantic pulse collided with the cleave of her lips. She pressed her lips harder and harder, pouring the last trace of fervour and vehemence from her heart. Her tongue glazed a trail on his nape, marking every pore hers. A strangled moan fled Yusuf's mouth. His hands glided behind, and his nails dove into her flesh.

Her lips now sailed to the hollow between his collarbones. His bones quivered beneath her tongue. His chameli perfume hazed her mind like a meek blanket. The heat of their skins now engulfed the coldness slipping onto the floor.

Their skins brushed, a thousand glittering sensations zoomed through her muscles. His tepid exhale coursed through her hair. He wriggled and bent his head down to her. Their eyes tangled. His ocean eyes now appeared green in the candlelight. The locked gaze and ragged breaths were now their language. Their world had dwindled to a mellow cone of golden light—a tiny world with only them and unspoken yearnings. A glint danced in his look, craving flared bright. His grip on her loosened.

Faajal inhaled his chameli cologne for a split second before her lips conjoined with his. Their tongues tangled, breaths stilled. Everything felt like a dream now, a dream they never wanted to wake from. He towed down the kurta from her shoulders. A stitch snapped free. Another. Then, another. She swathed his waist with her hands. The stir of his skin on her fingertips gave rise to ripples of heat in her veins. It was not a fantasy. It was real. All of it was real.

Their kiss had not broken yet, their frames writhing in a rushed symphony. Yusuf lowered onto the mattress, Faajal hovering above. Their lips parted away. Breathing was a labour they needed, but could barely resume. The dim sky hung on the window. The satin curtains at its sides billowed. Lightning erupted and slammed into the clouds. But, inside the apartment, a universe had loomed, languid and passionate.

They tossed away their garments, unbarring themselves. Fiery beats bloomed between them. She let her tongue paint his chest with crimson patches. He let her sandalwood fragrance entrance him, his face buried in her stray curls. He circled his slick tongue around her earlobe. She readily coiled him to herself, her nose grazed his cheek. Two shadows mingled into one and danced on the dim wall. The candle was halfway down. Its crest struggled in exhaustion. 

A hailstorm notched the world outside while two souls surrendered to each other inside, caged in a kindled shell of devotion and ecstasy. Two hearts crooned in a divine medley.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The sun flooded the mattress. Faajal fluttered her eyes open; her lashes drooped. Her hand shifted to her side for Yusuf, but it was empty. She propped up on her elbows, her muscles tired and heavy. Her vision cleared.

Yusuf stood in front of the window, showered by the rays of the sun. The gossamer white curtains grazed his skin. His figure flouroesced as if he had drunk sunbeams. His lucency made him look as if he were not a human, but a personification of heaven on this tainted earth.

Faajal walked to him, her gaze trained on him. Her breasts dangled loose, limned with pink. Her throat quaked, but no words protruded. He stood there, bare and pristine. "It's time to leave."