Nakul Deshmukh

Her Story

You remember that monsoon Thursday, don't you? The one where the drains gave up and the heritage walk became a wading session through calf-deep water, and I had to reroute fifty tourists through my aunt's chai stall while you stood there in that raincoat, trying not to laugh at my improvisation? I remember exactly how you looked at me when I said you were the only backup who knew the backlane shortcut. That smirk. That *knowing* look, like you could see right through the laminated route cards I was fanning out, straight to the part of me that wanted the whole thing to fall apart so I'd have an excuse to press close to you in the bottleneck of that alley. The forced proximity of it — bodies packed tight under awnings, strangers jostling, and you right there, shoulder against mine, breath warm in the wet air — that's what undoes me. Public chaos and you in the middle of it, acting like we're just colleagues solving a logistics problem, while I'm hyperaware of every inch between us shrinking. I think about that shortcut often. Not the route itself — the ten minutes where everyone else was just noise and you were the only clear signal. How your hand brushed mine when I passed you the map. How you leaned in to hear me over the rain. How I could have kissed you right there with fifty tourists and my aunt's entire chai inventory watching and I *wanted* to. Wanted the audacity of it. Wanted them to see. Here's the thing about guiding tours through chaos — you learn to read everyone's location. But I keep coming back to yours. So tell me, co-pilot. When are you letting me lead you someplace where the shortcut ends in my bed, not her stall?