Adultery Priya Didi

[prasannas2001]

Hi Shailu

It’s hard to believe that it has only been six months since you began writing. From the very first story of yours that I read, there was a sense of reality so strong that it lingered long after the last line. Your characters didn’t feel written, they felt lived. They stood in front of me with their emotions, flaws, silences, and truths, as if you had known them for years and were simply introducing them to us.

What amazes me most is the depth and maturity in your storytelling. There is an instinctive understanding of human nature in your words, a quiet confidence that many writers search for over decades. You write with the sensitivity, restraint, and emotional clarity of someone who has spent 30 or 40 years honing the craft. Yet this is only the beginning of your journey. It feels as though the stories were waiting for you, and the moment you started writing, they found their voice.

There is also a distinct quality of feeling in your writing — sensuous, deeply romantic, and tender in a way that feels instinctive rather than forced. The emotions flow with a softness and intimacy that touches the reader gently yet stays long after. Perhaps this depth of emotional perception is something that comes naturally to you as a woman, allowing you to portray love, longing, and desire with grace, warmth, and authenticity. It is romance written with feeling, not performance, and that makes it truly special.

I also deeply admire your promptness and consistency in sharing updates. Your regular presence, your commitment to showing up, and the way you keep your readers connected to your journey speak volumes about your discipline as a writer. Consistency like this is rare, especially so early in a creative journey, and it reflects your respect for both your craft and your readers.

As you complete six months of writing, I just want you to know how extraordinary this journey already is. You remind us that true writing is not about how long one has been holding a pen, but about how deeply one feels, observes, and understands life. If this is what six months looks like, the road ahead is bound to be remarkable, and I feel grateful to be reading you from the very start.

Here are my hearty congratulations to you. I hope you complete several years of writing, making readers like me to your fans for ever.

Your fan for ever

Prasanna

[shailu4ever]

Ok if these reactions are psychological emotions which predates acceptance then I guess every women react differently. Usually in situations like these, Women give cold shoulder and stop interacting with the person with whom they shared the forbidden intimacy. Its a form of regrouping their thoughts, understanding their mind and body, evaluating their reactions and choices. Women chooses to ignore their partner who led her to cross the line until this predated psychological reactions are being evaluated and once she accepts the fact that she fell for her new man, despite not wanting it will open her up to the possibility of understanding her needs which drove her to take that step and also it comes with lot of guilt.

In case of Priya she chose to confront instead of ignoring him and I understand that this way is lot better as they were just coming out from a similar phase so I guess it would be a repetitive response.

~RCF

Hi RCF

 
Thank you for this thoughtful and detailed perspective. I agree that many women respond by withdrawing, giving a cold shoulder as a way to regroup, process emotions, and evaluate their choices before reaching acceptance, often accompanied by guilt. It takes time to bring them back to normal. Priya was already there and she took lots of time to come out of that.
 
In Priya’s case, I intentionally chose confrontation over avoidance because this is her immediate, emotional reaction, not acceptance. She is still inside the shock and confusion, and confrontation becomes a way to regain control rather than a sign of clarity. Also, since they were just coming out of a similar phase, repeating withdrawal felt emotionally redundant for her arc.
 
This confrontation doesn’t replace the later phase of introspection and acceptance, it simply precedes it. That quieter reckoning will still come once the intensity settles.
 
I really appreciate this feedback, it helped me reaffirm the emotional layering I’m building for Priya.
 
Thank you very much for your continued support and ratings you have been giving me.
 
With gratitude and warm regards
 
-- Shailu
 
 

[shailu4ever]

You are narrating Priya Didi.  Wow. It's very erotic and sensual.

Hi Prasanna

 
Thank you so much for saying that. It truly means a lot, especially coming from someone who has supported the story for so long.
 
I’m glad Priya’s narration came through so erotic. The sensuality and emotional intensity were intentional, not just for effect, but to reflect her beauty. If it felt erotic and sensuous, then I feel I’ve done justice to her divine beauty.
 
Your encouragement really motivates me to keep writing the stories with depth and erotic. Thank you for reading so closely and sharing your thoughts, it’s deeply appreciated.
 
With warm regards and gratitude for your ratings…
 
-- Shailu
 
 
 

[rajesh93]

“I’ll tell you everything, Sirisha,” he said, drawing her name out slowly, like a vow, like a promise that only they shared.

“But I’ll let you decide what you want to know.”

“Do you want me to tell you what I did to Bhabhi…”

His voice dropped lower, almost to a growl,

“…or what I wanted to do to her?”

Hahaha, what an option. Hahaha 

Splendid!!!

[shailu4ever]

.

 
Her fingers curled around the phone as if grounding herself.
 
“And I hate that response.”
 
She waited, heart racing.
 
Ravi:
“I feel it too.”
 
Her breath caught.
 
“I shouldn’t,” he continued.
“And I know I crossed a line I had no right to cross.”
 
She could almost hear the weight in his voice.
 
“But I can’t pretend I don’t feel it.”
 
Her chest tightened painfully.
 
Priya:
“That doesn’t make what you did okay.”
 
Ravi:
“I know.”
 
The simplicity of the response undid her more than any apology could have.
 
Priya:
“You shouldn’t have taken advantage of my silence.”
 
Ravi:
“You’re right.”
 
Priya:
“You shouldn’t have pushed when I was already confused.”
 
Ravi:
“I shouldn’t have.”
 
Each acknowledgment landed like a quiet blow.
 
And yet…
 
Neither of them pulled away.
 
Priya:
“And still… here we are.”
 
Her eyes drifted to Amit again, guilt slicing through her chest so sharply she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
 
“I lie next to my husband, Ravi.”
“And my body is thinking about you.”
 
The words tasted bitter.
 
“Do you know how much I hate myself for that?”
 
Ravi:
“I don’t want to be the reason you hate yourself.”
 
Her laugh was soft, broken.
 
Priya:
“You already are.”
 
She wiped at her face quickly, breathing uneven.
 
“I feel pulled in two directions.”
“Duty on one side.”
“Desire on the other.”
 
Her fingers trembled.
 
“And I don’t know which one is going to tear me apart first.”
 
The pause that followed was heavy but not empty.
 
Ravi:
“I never wanted to be something that hurt you.”
 
Priya:
“But you are.”
 
She swallowed.
 
“And so am I.”
 
Her chest felt tight, constricted, as though the truth itself was suffocating her.
 
“I don’t want to want you.”
“I don’t want to need you.”
“I don’t want my body to crave something my life cannot afford.”
 
Her eyes closed, tears slipping freely now.
 
“But it does.”
 
There it was.
 
Bare. Unfiltered.
 
The truth she had been running from.
 
Ravi:
“I wish I could take that away from you.”
 
Priya:
“I wish you had never awakened it.”
 
The words weren’t cruel. They were exhausted.
 
She stared at the ceiling, her heart pounding painfully.
 
“I hate this situation.”
 
Her fingers moved slowly now, as if weighed down by the gravity of her own admission.
 
“I hate that I’m here.”
“I hate that I feel this way.”
“And I hate that I don’t know what to do next.”
 
She let the phone rest against her chest, her breathing shallow.
 
“I don’t know how to move forward without hurting someone.”
“And I don’t know how to stay where I am without hurting myself.”
 
The screen glowed softly in the darkness.
 
Her life, her marriage, her choices, her identity, felt suddenly fragile, like glass stretched too thin.
 
She hated the confusion.
 
She hated the desire.
 
She hated the silence pressing in around her.
 
And most of all…
 
She hated that she didn’t know which part of herself she was supposed to listen to anymore.
 
The phone vibrated once more, but she didn’t look at it right away.
 
Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure there was an answer that wouldn’t cost her something she couldn’t get back.
 
And in that unbearable uncertainty, Priya lay awake, trapped between what was right and what was real, hating the situation she was in, and utterly unsure of what to do next.

-- oOo --

.

[shailu4ever]

Hi Shailu

It’s hard to believe that it has only been six months since you began writing. From the very first story of yours that I read, there was a sense of reality so strong that it lingered long after the last line. Your characters didn’t feel written, they felt lived. They stood in front of me with their emotions, flaws, silences, and truths, as if you had known them for years and were simply introducing them to us.

What amazes me most is the depth and maturity in your storytelling. There is an instinctive understanding of human nature in your words, a quiet confidence that many writers search for over decades. You write with the sensitivity, restraint, and emotional clarity of someone who has spent 30 or 40 years honing the craft. Yet this is only the beginning of your journey. It feels as though the stories were waiting for you, and the moment you started writing, they found their voice.

There is also a distinct quality of feeling in your writing — sensuous, deeply romantic, and tender in a way that feels instinctive rather than forced. The emotions flow with a softness and intimacy that touches the reader gently yet stays long after. Perhaps this depth of emotional perception is something that comes naturally to you as a woman, allowing you to portray love, longing, and desire with grace, warmth, and authenticity. It is romance written with feeling, not performance, and that makes it truly special.

I also deeply admire your promptness and consistency in sharing updates. Your regular presence, your commitment to showing up, and the way you keep your readers connected to your journey speak volumes about your discipline as a writer. Consistency like this is rare, especially so early in a creative journey, and it reflects your respect for both your craft and your readers.

As you complete six months of writing, I just want you to know how extraordinary this journey already is. You remind us that true writing is not about how long one has been holding a pen, but about how deeply one feels, observes, and understands life. If this is what six months looks like, the road ahead is bound to be remarkable, and I feel grateful to be reading you from the very start.

Here are my hearty congratulations to you. I hope you complete several years of writing, making readers like me to your fans for ever.

Your fan for ever

Prasanna

Dear Prasanna,

 
Reading your message genuinely touched my heart. Your words are so thoughtful, kind, and encouraging, and I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to share them in such detail.
 
It means the world to me that you feel the characters “didn’t feel written, they felt lived,” and that their emotions and truths lingered after reading. That was exactly the feeling I hoped to evoke, and knowing it came through so clearly is incredibly gratifying.
 
I’m especially humbled by your observation of the emotional depth, sensitivity, and instinctive understanding of human nature in my writing. To hear that it feels authentic, tender, and natural, rather than forced, is both reassuring and inspiring. Your words make me want to continue exploring my characters and their journeys with even more honesty and care.
 
Thank you also for noticing the discipline, consistency, and commitment I try to bring to my writing. Staying connected with my readers is something I deeply value, and your recognition of that effort truly motivates me to keep going.
 
Your congratulations and encouragement as I complete six months of writing mean more than I can express. Knowing that readers like you feel connected, moved, and engaged by these stories makes every word worthwhile. I am so grateful to have you as a supportive reader and fan from the very start.
 
I truly appreciate your continued support all through my journey.  I will continue to write with your support through out this journey.
 
With heartfelt gratitude,
 
-- Shailu
 

[shailu4ever]

Hahaha, what an option. Hahaha 

Splendid!!!

Hi Rajesh

Thank you very much for your compliments. Your feedback really helps me keep motivated and continue writing. 

With warm regards and lots of gratitude for your support and all the ratings you have been giving me.

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

The Weight of Silence (Saturday Late Night)
 

The room was dark, but sleep refused to come.
 
Ravi lay flat on his back on the narrow bed in Flat 205, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily, its faint whirr cutting through the stillness of the night. The rest of the apartment had surrendered to sleep long ago.
Priya Didi and Amit’s bedroom door was closed. The lights were off. Even the city outside, usually restless, seemed quieter than usual, as if it too had chosen restraint tonight.
 
But inside Ravi, there was no quiet.
 
His phone lay beside him on the bed, screen dark now, face down, as if even it was ashamed of what it held. Yet Ravi didn’t need to look at it. Every word of Priya Didi’s message was etched into him, sharp and permanent, replaying again and again in his mind with merciless clarity.
 
“This should not have happened, Ravi.”
“You crossed a line.”
“Please understand my position.”
 
Each sentence landed like a verdict, final, unquestionable.
 
He closed his eyes tightly, hoping darkness would bring relief. Instead, memories flooded in, unwanted and vivid. Her voice, not angry, not loud, but controlled. Measured. That tone unsettled him more than shouting ever could. Disappointment carried a weight that anger didn’t.
 
“I never meant to hurt you,” he thought, his throat tightening.
“I never forced anything. I asked. I waited. She didn’t stop me.”
 
The thought circled, restless, refusing to settle.
 
“She agreed… didn’t she?”
 
Yet the truth pressed in, heavy and undeniable.
 
Something had gone wrong.
Even if he didn’t fully understand how.
 
Ravi turned onto his side, curling slightly, as if his body itself were trying to retreat from the unease pressing against his chest. His breathing grew shallow. He rubbed his eyes hard, as though friction might erase the confusion lodged behind them.
 
“Why does it feel like a crime if no one said no?”
“Why does it feel like I’m being punished for something we both allowed?”
 
The questions had no answers. Only echoes.
 
He sat up abruptly, swinging his legs off the bed, elbows resting on his knees. His phone vibrated then, not with a new message, but with the ghost of hope his heart stubbornly refused to let die. For one brief, foolish second, he imagined her name lighting up the screen again.
 
It didn’t.
 
There was only silence.
 
And that silence felt louder than any accusation.

.

[shailu4ever]

.

 
He picked up the phone at last, unlocked it, and opened the chat. Her last message sat there, untouched, unanswered. Ravi’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.
 
He typed.
 
“I’m sorry, Didi.”
 
He stared at the words. They felt too small, too empty, like a shortcut through something that demanded explanation. He deleted them.
 
Typed again.
 
“I never wanted to disrespect you. Please believe me.”
 
Deleted.
 
Again.
 
“I don’t know what came over me.”
 
Deleted.
 
Each sentence sounded wrong, either defensive or hollow. None of them captured what churned inside him.
 
“How do I apologize for something I don’t fully understand?”
“How do I explain that I thought I was being careful?”
 
He had asked.
He had waited.
He had watched her face, her hands, her silence, and read permission where there was none.
 
Or so she said now.
 
His hands fell into his lap. The phone remained open, accusing in its stillness.
 
“Anything I say now will sound like an excuse,” he realized.
“And excuses will only prove her right.”
 
Ravi leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. Images of Priya Didi surfaced unbidden, not of confrontation, but of everything before it.
 
Her gentle smile when she offered him tea.
The way she asked if he had eaten.
The ease with which she spoke to him, unguarded, trusting.
 
“I thought that trust meant understanding,” his mind whispered.
“I thought closeness meant consent.”
 
His chest tightened.
 
“I didn’t think I was breaking anything.”
 
For the first time that night, his eyes burned. He blinked hard, refusing to let tears fall. Crying felt undeserved, as if confusion did not earn the right to release.
 
In the other room, Amit slept peacefully, unaware, untouched by the quiet damage Ravi had caused. The thought brought a fresh wave of unease.
 
Amit trusts me.
She trusted me.
 
And now,
 
Now there was a wall.
Invisible. Solid. Unexplained.
 
Ravi stood and walked to the small window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to let in the faint orange glow of a streetlight.
The building across stood silent. Somewhere behind one of those dark windows, Priya Didi might be awake too, staring at her ceiling, replaying the same moment from a very different place.
 
The thought both comforted and unsettled him.
 
“She must think I knew better,” he thought.
“She must think I chose to cross that line.”
 
Or worse,
 
“She thinks I didn’t care.”
 
Anger could be argued with.
Misunderstanding could be explained.
But disappointment, disappointment hardened into distance.
 
He rested his forehead against the cool glass, letting the chill steady him. For the first time, he grasped the true cost of what had happened.
 
Not scandal.
Not confrontation.
 
But separation.
 
A distance born not from malice, but from a failure to understand where one person ended and the other began.
 
Returning to the bed, Ravi lay on his side, facing the wall. He pulled the thin blanket around himself, though he wasn’t cold. It was instinctive, a childlike attempt at protection.
 
“Tomorrow,” he told himself quietly.
“Maybe tomorrow she’ll explain.”
“Or maybe she won’t.”
 
Both possibilities unsettled him equally.
 
The fan continued its slow rotation. The clock ticked forward, indifferent. Minutes stretched into hours.
 
Ravi did not sleep.
 
He lay suspended between certainty and doubt, between the man who believed he had done everything right and the man now facing the consequences of being wrong, punished not by anger, but by the silence he could not argue with, explain away, or undo.

-- oOo --

 

.

[shailu4ever]

Morning Without Names (Sunday Morning)
 
Morning came softly, almost apologetically.
 
A thin ribbon of light slipped through the gap in the curtains of Flat 205, brushing the edge of Ravi’s bed like an intrusion he hadn’t invited. The ceiling fan above him turned at its usual lazy pace, indifferent to the night it had just replaced.
 
In the other room, Priya lay awake.
 
She had been awake long before the light arrived.
 
Her eyes were open, unfocused, fixed on the ceiling as though it might offer answers it never had before. Her body remained still beneath the blanket, but her mind refused rest. Sleep had come only in fragments, thin, unsatisfying pauses where thought dulled but never disappeared.
 
“Morning already,” she thought.
“I didn’t even notice the night ending.”
 
The words from the previous evening surfaced again, stripped now of their certainty.
 
“This should not have happened.”
“You crossed a line.”
 
At the time, they had felt necessary. Protective. Like drawing a boundary fast enough might undo what had already occurred.
 
Now, in the quiet of morning, they felt too absolute.
 
“I sounded so sure,” she realized.
“But I wasn’t.”
 
She turned slightly, the mattress shifting beneath her.
 
“I was scared,” she admitted.
“And fear always pretends to be clarity.”
 
The apartment was silent. Ravi’s door remained closed. Amit’s breathing drifted steadily from the other room, peaceful and unaware.
 
“He doesn’t know,” she thought.
“And Ravi knows too much.”
 
Her chest tightened.
 
“Did I make him feel like he did something unforgivable?”
 
She sat up slowly, placing her feet on the cool floor. The chill grounded her. She wrapped her dupatta around herself out of habit.
 
“I didn’t stop it,” the thought returned.
“I didn’t say no.”
 
She stood there for a moment, unmoving.
 
“I let it exist,” she continued inwardly.
“And then I punished him for it.”
 
The guilt didn’t arrive all at once. It settled quietly, threading itself through memory.
 
She moved into the kitchen and turned on the light. The familiar space greeted her, the counter, the stove, the cups aligned neatly. Routine had always been her refuge.
 
“Just be normal,” she told herself.
“Control what you can.”
 
The kettle went on. A cupboard opened. A vessel was placed down gently.
 
Her movements were careful, deliberate, as if precision were the only thing holding everything else together.
 
From the living room came a faint sound.
 
Footsteps.
 
The soft, familiar rhythm of bangles brushing against skin.

.

[readersp]

Eagerly waiting on how things are going to unfold..

[shailu4ever]

Eagerly waiting on how things are going to unfold..

Hi Readersp Sir

Thank you so much for your kind feedback, it’s really very nice to see your message and it truly made my day.  Knowing that you’re eagerly waiting to see how things unfold means a lot to me and gives me great motivation to keep going.

I’m really grateful for your support all through the journey. I’m excited to share what’s coming next and hope it continues to keep you engaged and curious. 

Thanks again for taking the time to write, your encouragement is deeply appreciated. 

Please stay tuned. 

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

.

 
Ravi was awake.
 
The knowledge settled in her chest, not panic, but weight.
 
“He didn’t sleep,” she realized.
“Neither did I.”
 
She didn’t turn around.
 
She didn’t trust her face.
 
“Tea is almost ready,” she said evenly.
 
The words sounded steady, but inside, something shifted.
 
“Why does it feel like I’m the one hiding?”
 
Priya stood at the stove.
 
Her back was to him.
 
For a moment, Ravi forgot to breathe.
 
She wasn’t dressed for anyone. There was no effort in her appearance, no ornamentation meant to be noticed. And yet, there was something devastatingly composed about her, something that made it impossible for him to look away.
 
Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands escaping near her neck, soft against skin that caught the morning light without trying. The dupatta rested over her shoulder, not arranged, not careless, simply where it belonged, as though it had always known its place. Her posture was straight but not rigid, shoulders relaxed yet carrying something unseen.
 
“She looks the same,” Ravi thought.
“And nothing is the same.”
 
The quiet efficiency of her movements held him, the way she stirred the tea without haste, the slight turn of her wrist as she reached for the cups. There was a practiced grace in her restraint, a beauty sharpened by control rather than softened by ease.
 
“Even now,” he realized,
“even when she’s hurt… she’s still her.”
 
That was what unsettled him most.
 
Not her silence.
Not her distance.
 
But the fact that nothing about her dignity had cracked.
 
She didn’t fidget. She didn’t dramatize. She didn’t perform pain. She simply existed, contained, self-possessed, quietly luminous in a way Ravi had never had the words for.
 
“How can someone look so steady,” he wondered,
“when I feel like I’m unraveling?”
 
The light brushed her profile as she turned slightly, just enough for him to glimpse the calm line of her jaw, the thoughtful stillness in her expression. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, evidence of a night that had not been kind, but even that only made her seem more real.
 
More beautiful.
 
“She doesn’t even know,” Ravi thought.
“That even now… I see her.”
 
Not in the way he shouldn’t.
Not in the way that had complicated everything.
 
But in a quieter, heavier way, as someone whose presence demanded respect before desire, whose beauty was not inviting, but inherent.

.

[shailu4ever]

.

It struck him then, sharply, that this was the woman he had unsettled. Not because she was fragile, but because she was strong enough to feel the weight of what had happened and still stand upright beneath it.
 
“I didn’t just cross a line,” he thought.
“I disrupted her calm.”
 
And watching her now, poised, restrained, painfully graceful, Ravi understood something he hadn’t allowed himself to before.
 
Her beauty was not in how she looked at him.
It was in how she held herself away.
 
Amit’s voice broke the moment easily. “Good morning, Ravi. Early today.”
 
Ravi nodded. “Yeah.”
 
His voice sounded unfamiliar to his own ears.
 
Priya didn’t turn around.
 
She didn’t need to.
 
Ravi felt the exact moment she became aware of him, the subtle stillness in her shoulders, the fraction of a pause in her stirring. It lasted only a second, but it changed the room.
 
“Tea is almost ready,” she repeated, her voice even.
 
No warmth.
No distance.
 
Just careful.
 
They existed in the same space now, but not together. The kitchen felt smaller, the air denser. Ravi moved to the sink, washing his hands slowly.
 
Water.
Soap.
Breath.
 
Amit stretched and yawned. “Sunday, man. Best day. Priya, after breakfast we’ll go out, haan?”
 
“Yes,” she replied immediately.
 
Ravi flinched internally.
 
“She’s choosing normal,” he realized.
“Even if it costs her something.”
 
She poured the tea into cups. When she reached for Ravi’s, her hand hesitated, just slightly, before setting it down.
 
Not close. Not far. Perfectly neutral.
 
Ravi picked it up. “Thanks.”
 
She didn’t respond.
 
They sat together.
 
Three chairs. Three cups. One table.
 
Amit spoke freely. Ravi answered carefully. Priya listened, nodding occasionally, eyes lowered to the steam rising from her cup.
 
“I’m the one who changed this,” Priya thought.
“Not him alone.”
 
Ravi watched her without meaning to.
 
The way her fingers tightened around the cup.
The way she took smaller sips.
The way she leaned just slightly away.
 
“She feels exposed,” he realized.
“Even sitting here.”
 
Amit laughed. Priya smiled politely. Ravi looked away.
 
“I made her guard herself,” he thought.
 
When the tea was finished, Priya stood to clear the cups. Ravi rose instantly.
 
“I’ll help.”
 
“No, it’s fine.”
 
Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it was final.
 
Their eyes met.
 
In that glance, Priya saw confusion layered with remorse. Ravi saw exhaustion bound tightly by control.
 
“He’s waiting to understand,” she thought.
“And I never explained.”
 
“I’ll… go wash my face,” Ravi said quietly.
 
She nodded.
 
Back in his room, Ravi leaned against the door.
 
“This is worse than being asked to leave,” he thought.
“This half-belonging.”
 
Breakfast followed. Plates aligned. Movements precise.
 
They ate quietly.
 
Once, their hands reached for the same dish.
 
Both withdrew.
 
“I’m sorry,” Ravi said.
 
“It’s okay,” she replied.
 
Still no name.
 
The absence echoed.
 
By late morning, sunlight filled the room, illuminating everything except what mattered.
 
They were close.
They were careful.
They were broken without spectacle.
 
And both understood, in different ways:
 
This morning was not about what had happened.
 
It was about what could no longer happen again.
 
And Sunday stretched on, measured not by time, but by the careful distance they maintained, breath by breath, word by word.

-- oOo --

.

[shailu4ever]

Scene: The Almost Apology
(Sunday Afternoon - The House That Watches)
 
The afternoon arrived without ceremony.
 
The lunch plates had been cleared. The kitchen smelled faintly of oil and warm rice. Outside, the city hummed lazily, Sunday sounds softened by heat: a distant horn, a vendor’s call stretched thin, a scooter passing and fading away.
 
Inside Flat 205, time slowed.
 
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, each second audible now, as if the house itself had decided to keep count.
 
Amit leaned back on the sofa, patting his stomach with contentment.
“Too much food,” he said, laughing lightly. “I’ll just lie down for a bit. Wake me in half an hour, haan?”
 
Priya nodded. “Okay.”
 
He stretched, yawned, and walked into the bedroom, already half-asleep, the door closing softly behind him.
 
Not locked.
But completely closed.
 

And just like that,
 
They were alone.
 
Not officially.
Not completely.
But alone in the way that mattered.
 
The silence changed.
 
It thickened, settling into corners, pressing gently but insistently against skin and thought. Ravi remained seated in the living room, a book open in his hands. He had been on the same page for a long time.
 
He hadn’t read a single word.
 
His posture was careful, shoulders slightly drawn in, legs placed deliberately, as if occupying less space might absolve him of something.
 
“Don’t look at her… don’t let yourself,” he told himself. “But I can’t… she’s… incredible.”
 
Priya stood at the kitchen counter, rinsing vegetables she had already cleaned. The water ran longer than necessary, pooling briefly in the sink before slipping away. She watched it go.
 
“As if it can carry something with it… as if it can take guilt down the drain,” she thought.
 
Her hands moved automatically. Familiar motions. Safe motions.
 
But her mind was not with her hands.
 
It hadn’t been since morning.
 
She had been replaying it all.
 
Not just last night.
Not just the message she sent.
 
But everything before that.
 
The theater.
The darkness.
The stillness where she could have moved, and didn’t.
 
She closed her eyes briefly.
 
“I didn’t protest,” she admitted to herself, “not even once.”
 
She remembered it clearly now, stripped of excuses.
 
She had felt his presence.
She had known what was happening.
And she had stayed.
 
Worse, she thought painfully,
 
“I leaned into it.”
 
Her fingers tightened around the vegetable in her hand.

.

[shailu4ever]

.

 
She remembered the awareness, not shock, not fear, but recognition.
 
The slow, dangerous realization that she was not pulling away.
 
“I showed interest.
I responded.
I consented, without words.”
 
That truth burned more than anger ever had.
 
Her shame wasn’t only about desire.
 
It was about blame.
 
“I blamed him because it was easier,” she realized.
“Easier than admitting I wanted it too.”
 
The water kept running.
 
Behind her, Ravi shifted slightly in his seat.
 
The sound was minimal.
But she felt it.
 
Her body reacted before her mind could intervene, muscles tightening, breath hitching slightly.
 
Even now, she thought bitterly,
 
“my body remembers him.”
 
That scared her.
 
She turned off the tap and dried her hands slowly, aligning the towel carefully along the edge of the counter. The steel surface reflected her face back at her.
 
Composed.
Normal.
Controlled.
 
A lie.
 
“You look fine… so why does it feel like you’re about to break something just by speaking?”
 
She inhaled.
 
Then turned.
 
Ravi noticed immediately.
 
“He always does,” he thought.
 
Their eyes met, not by accident, not in passing, but fully, deliberately. The air between them tightened, heavy with everything they had avoided saying since morning.
 
“Ravi,” she said.
 
Just his name.
Not beta.
Not Ravi beta.
 
The sound of it landed differently, stripped of protection.
 
He straightened at once. “Yes?”
 
The word came out too fast.
Too eager.
 
“He’s still careful… even now. Especially now,” she thought.
 
She hesitated. That hesitation, the smallest pause, undid her more than any argument could have.
 
“If you don’t say it now… you never will,” she thought.
 
“I, ” she began, then stopped. Her fingers curled lightly at her side.
 
“How do you apologize… without reopening what you’re trying so desperately to close?”
 
Ravi waited. He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t step closer. His stillness felt like permission, and pressure, at the same time.
 
“I could watch her forever… even standing at the counter, just drying her hands. Every little motion… she’s perfect. The way her dark saree catches the light, the softness of her skin against the plain fabric, the quiet strength in her calm… she’s impossible to look away from. Even the way her fingers curl slightly, the subtle rise of her shoulders when she exhales… I can’t… she’s… I’m afraid to breathe around her.”
 
The sun through the window caught the folds of her saree, revealing subtle shadows that emphasized the elegance of her form. 

.

[shailu4ever]

Happy New Year, My Dear, Mischievous Friends!
 
As the calendar flips and the clock does its dramatic “3…2…1…”, it’s time to dump the old year, flirt shamelessly with the new one, and welcome it with hope, laughter, sparkle, and a healthy dose of mischief. ;)  After all, behaving too well is so last year.
 
Now, a little heart-to-heart confession (don’t tell anyone ): )
I started writing in June 2025, and what began as a harmless affair with words quickly turned into a full-blown emotional entanglement—with all of you. And oh, what a beautiful mess that has been!
 
This journey gifted me so many wonderful friends, unexpected connections, and late-night smiles. For that, I am deeply, dangerously thankful to each and every one of you. Truly, meeting you all has been one of the best plot twists of my year.
 
May this New Year bring you fresh beginnings, unexpected thrills, good health, and plenty of reasons to smile… and blush. ;)
 
May your days be lighter, your nights calmer (or exciting, your choice  ), and your coffee or chai always strong enough to handle life’s drama and my story twists.
 
Thank you for reading, supporting, encouraging, nudging, waiting, and occasionally staring at your screen wondering, “Where is the update?”
 
Here’s to new stories, bolder emotions, deeper connections, and many deliciously memorable moments we’ll share in the coming year.
 
Now for the naughty truth…
Yes, when I was in the USA, updates were frequent and enthusiastic, and after coming back to India, the pace slowed down. Not because the fire died… oh no… but because business pressures, the holiday season, and massive families on both sides have completely invaded my personal space.
 
And as you know very well, I cannot open my browser and write these stories when curious eyes are hovering around me. I need privacy, silence, and a little solitude to let my imagination misbehave properly, and right now, that privacy is playing very hard to get.
Still, I promise to sneak in updates whenever I can. So please be patient, stay naughty, and don’t give up on me yet. I’ll make it worth the wait.
 
So now, raise a glass, make a wish, flirt with the universe, and step boldly into the New Year with confidence, curiosity, and a wickedly playful heart.
Let’s make this year bold, beautiful, slightly scandalous, and totally unforgettable.
 
Wishing you all a very Happy New Year filled with happiness, success, laughter, and delicious surprises!
 
With gratitude, warmth, and a mischief…
 
-- Shailu
 

 

.

[prasannas2001]

Happy New Year, My Dear, Mischievous Friends!
 
 ...

Wishing you all a very Happy New Year filled with happiness, success, laughter, and delicious surprises!
 
With gratitude, warmth, and a mischief…
 
-- Shailu
 

 

.

Thank you. Happy New Year to you too. Hope this year brings wonderful stories from you.

[shailu4ever]

Thank you. Happy New Year to you too. Hope this year brings wonderful stories from you.

Hi Prasanna,

Thank you very much. Your help and support have been instrumental in the successful completion of my writing over the past year.

I truly appreciate your encouragement, support, and ratings, they mean a great deal to me.

With sincere gratitude and warm wishes,

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

.

 
The gentle feel of fabric over her waist, the way the blouse hugged her shoulders, and the faint light on her collarbone, all of it made her look effortlessly beautiful.
 
“Her beauty isn’t in her clothes, or her hair, or her face… it’s in everything she is, every fraction of a movement, every pause… every breath. And yet… she doesn’t know it. She doesn’t flaunt it, doesn’t demand attention, and that makes it… even more impossible to look away from.”
 
He noticed how even without makeup, her skin seemed to catch the afternoon light in a soft glow, highlighting the curve of her cheekbones, the delicate line of her jaw, and the gentle sweep of her hair across her shoulder.
 
Every small motion she made, the tilt of her head, the careful placement of her hands, felt like a quiet announcement of her presence.
 
“I’ve been thinking,” she said finally.
 
The words sounded insufficient the moment they left her mouth.
 
“Of course you have,” she thought bitterly. “You haven’t done anything else.”
 
She took a small step, not toward him exactly, but closer to the space they shared.
 
The distance shrank.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to feel.
 
“I may have…” She paused, choosing carefully. “Spoken too harshly last night.”
 
Ravi’s breath caught.
 
“This is it… don’t ruin it,” he thought.
 
She looked down, then back up, gathering courage from the act itself.
 
“I was upset,” she continued. “And scared.”
 
“Even scared… she’s stunning. Every word, every movement… breathtaking,” he told himself silently.
 
“I don’t think you do,” she said quietly. “Not fully.”
 
He frowned, not in offense, but confusion.
 
“I didn’t explain myself,” she added. “I didn’t… give you space.”
 
Almost.
 
The apology hovered between them, fragile and unfinished.
 
Ravi swallowed. “I wasn’t expecting, ” He stopped himself. “I mean… I didn’t need anything.”
 
“He’s protecting me now… after everything,” she realized.
 
“I should have been clearer,” she said. “About where I stood.”
 
Her voice softened, losing its careful edge.
 
“Say it… say you were part of it,” she urged herself.

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