Fraying threads

She loved the smell of mehndi. Said it reminded her of long summer evenings in her nani’s courtyard, where time moved slower, and everything felt like waiting. I remembered that. Not because it mattered to me, but because it mattered to her. The way her eyes softened at something so ordinary, it stayed with me longer than it should have.

I once stood in line behind three teenage girls just to get a cone. Pretended it was for my niece. The woman selling it didn’t care. She looked tired. I wondered if she remembered the names she helped people hide.

Back then, I wasn’t trying to impress her anymore. That phase had passed. What I was doing… I don’t know. Maybe I was trying to believe that if I could just write her name deep enough, dark enough, somewhere it wouldn’t wash off, she might come back.

Not to me. Not even to the city. Just... to that version of the world where we hadn’t stopped talking yet.

---

A week before she left, we sat on opposite ends of my bed. She had taken off her earrings, placed them on the bedside table like always. One small silver hoop rolled and stopped near my phone.

“You think we’re too different?” she had asked.

I didn’t answer. Just picked up the earring, handed it to her, careful not to touch her fingers. She took it slowly, as if that pause between our hands might answer her better than words ever could.

“Do you believe in Kundli compatibility?” she asked, voice lower this time.

“No,” I said. “But I believe in you.”

She looked away. Not out of shame. Not guilt. Just... tiredness. Like she was already halfway gone, and holding on was taking too much energy.

---

I started reading about astrology. Properly. I bought a book from a footpath seller near Dashashwamedh Ghat in Banaras. The pages smelled of wet dust and jasmine agarbattis from a nearby temple.

It didn’t make sense at first, none of it did—but I kept reading. I even learned how to cast charts. Learned about nakshatras and planetary periods. Hers were ruled by the moon. Mine were ruled by waiting.

I once faked her date of birth on a matrimonial site to check matches.

We were 33% compatible.

That site didn’t know what I knew.

---

I also kept the sixteen Mondays fast. Solah Somvaar.

People said it was for unmarried girls, that men didn’t need to do it. But I did it anyway. Woke up early, didn’t eat till sunset. Walked barefoot to the same Shiv temple every Monday, said her name softly before offering the belpatra.

Nobody told me if it worked.

That wasn’t the point.

---

A friend once asked me why I hadn’t moved on.

I told him, “I’m not waiting for her. I’m just not done being in love.”

He didn’t understand the difference. Most people don’t.

---

One evening, I drew her name on my palm. Carefully. Letter by letter. Not in cursive. In my own writing—the way I had written it in the corner of notebooks, near margins, just to feel it near me.

I let it dry. Didn’t touch water that night.

And when the color came out deeper than I’d ever seen, I didn’t smile. I just stared at it until the letters began to blur, until my skin didn’t feel like mine.

That night, I slept with my hand curled inwards. As if the warmth might keep it from fading.

As if some part of her might still want to stay.