01-03-2026, 01:32 AM
The distance between Cologne and Kochi is exactly 7,500 kilometers, but lately, it feels like the width of a smartphone screen.
I sat in my office at the university, the grey German sky pressing against the glass, a stark contrast to the vivid, humid memories of home. My laptop was open to a half-finished lecture on fluid dynamics, but my mind was stuck on a different kind of movement: the way Sowmya’s lips curved when she laughed during our FaceTime call last night.
When my parents first sent the bio-data, I was cynical. "Mathematics teacher," it said. I expected someone rigid, perhaps clinical. Then I saw the photo. Sowmya stood by a window, the Kochi sun catching the gold in her saree. She wasn't just beautiful; she had this grounded, earthy presence. Even through a pixelated image, I could tell she was petite—5’3”, they said—but she carried herself with a quiet confidence that made her seem taller.
Is it weird to be this attracted to someone I haven't touched? That’s the question that haunts me. We’ve moved past the formal "getting to know you" phase. Now, our conversations are late-night whispers. I find myself tracing the line of her jaw on my screen, imagining the warmth of her skin.
When she describes her day at the college in Ernakulam, her hands move expressively. I watch the way her chest rises and falls with her breath—she has this vibrant, perky energy that feels like it’s bursting out of her modest kurtas. My imagination, fueled by the loneliness of a German winter, often wanders to the curves the fabric hides. I think about the weight of her, the softness of her "fine ass" as she’d jokingly described her gym progress once, making us both blush and then fall into a heavy, charged silence.
We aren't just two people getting married because our parents said so. We are two people who have fallen in love through voice notes and video lag.
The sensation is a phantom itch. My palms ache to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Her voice, a melodic mix of Malayalam and English, is my favorite soundtrack.
We have given our consent. The dates are fixed. The rings are bought. But the real "yes" didn't happen in front of our parents. It happened at 3:00 AM my time, when she looked into the camera and said, "Vicky, I'm scared of how much I want you to be here."
I felt it then—a physical pull in my gut, a heat that had nothing to do with my radiator. I’m an Assistant Professor; I’m supposed to be governed by logic and variables. But Sowmya is the one variable I can't solve, and I am counting down the seconds until I can finally stop calculating and start feeling.
I sat in my office at the university, the grey German sky pressing against the glass, a stark contrast to the vivid, humid memories of home. My laptop was open to a half-finished lecture on fluid dynamics, but my mind was stuck on a different kind of movement: the way Sowmya’s lips curved when she laughed during our FaceTime call last night.
When my parents first sent the bio-data, I was cynical. "Mathematics teacher," it said. I expected someone rigid, perhaps clinical. Then I saw the photo. Sowmya stood by a window, the Kochi sun catching the gold in her saree. She wasn't just beautiful; she had this grounded, earthy presence. Even through a pixelated image, I could tell she was petite—5’3”, they said—but she carried herself with a quiet confidence that made her seem taller.
Is it weird to be this attracted to someone I haven't touched? That’s the question that haunts me. We’ve moved past the formal "getting to know you" phase. Now, our conversations are late-night whispers. I find myself tracing the line of her jaw on my screen, imagining the warmth of her skin.
When she describes her day at the college in Ernakulam, her hands move expressively. I watch the way her chest rises and falls with her breath—she has this vibrant, perky energy that feels like it’s bursting out of her modest kurtas. My imagination, fueled by the loneliness of a German winter, often wanders to the curves the fabric hides. I think about the weight of her, the softness of her "fine ass" as she’d jokingly described her gym progress once, making us both blush and then fall into a heavy, charged silence.
We aren't just two people getting married because our parents said so. We are two people who have fallen in love through voice notes and video lag.
The sensation is a phantom itch. My palms ache to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Her voice, a melodic mix of Malayalam and English, is my favorite soundtrack.
We have given our consent. The dates are fixed. The rings are bought. But the real "yes" didn't happen in front of our parents. It happened at 3:00 AM my time, when she looked into the camera and said, "Vicky, I'm scared of how much I want you to be here."
I felt it then—a physical pull in my gut, a heat that had nothing to do with my radiator. I’m an Assistant Professor; I’m supposed to be governed by logic and variables. But Sowmya is the one variable I can't solve, and I am counting down the seconds until I can finally stop calculating and start feeling.
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