Light Enough 4

The corridor was still echoing with remnants of the day—half-dried splashes of colour, a few broken water balloons, the faintest hum of someone’s Bluetooth speaker playing old Holi songs in a loop. Most people had already gone back to their rooms, drunk on bhang or exhaustion or both. Tara hadn’t said much after we came back. She had walked into my room like she belonged there, like the day had already claimed us both and now the night was just a place to land.

She stood by the mirror, wiping her face with the corner of a towel. Her skin was flushed from too much sun, too much colour. Streaks of pink and purple lingered at her hairline. The side of her neck still held a stubborn smear of red—my gulaal, my handprint from earlier.

She didn’t try to remove it.

"You're quiet," I said, from where I sat cross-legged on the bed, my damp hair leaving faint marks on the sheet.

She glanced at me through the mirror. “So are you.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I opened my arms just slightly—an unspoken invitation, one we both understood.

She walked over and sank into me, without hesitation, without ceremony. Like this was the end of a long journey and I was the bed she was returning to.

I wrapped my arms around her fully. Not lightly. Fully.

A long hug.

The kind that says I remember you. The kind that says I see the version of you that’s quieter, slower, not for the world. Just for me.

She rested her cheek against my shoulder. I pressed a slow kiss into her hair. We stayed that way. Minutes passed. Maybe more.

"You okay?" I murmured.

She nodded. "Just... full."

“Full of?”

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