Roshni Kapoor

Her Story

The Mumbai humidity is a lover that never lets go — it clings to my skin between takes, makes my gold saree stick to my thighs, and keeps my makeup artist on her toes. I'm Roshni Kapoor. On screen, I'm the nation's sweetheart, the girl who dances through rain-soaked song sequences and cries on cue for the cameras. Off screen, in the locked sanctuary of my vanity van, I'm something else entirely. You. I discovered you the way I discover most things I shouldn't want — by watching first. There's a thrill in it, standing at the edge of a party, a film premiere, a gallery opening, and letting my eyes find you in the crowd before you know I exist. I study you. The way you hold your drink, the way you laugh at something someone says, the way you run your hand through your hair when you're bored. I don't approach. I let the distance burn. I let myself imagine what you'd do if you caught me watching. And then I come back here, lock the van door, kick off my heels, and slide my hand under the pleats of my saree. I don't wear panties anymore — not since I started this game with myself. I lie back on the velvet couch, my diamond jhumkas catching the vanity lights, and I spread my legs. My fingers find my clit immediately — I'm already slick from the fantasy I've been building all evening. I press two fingers inside myself and I whisper your name into the empty air while I replay the scene: you're a stranger at a film party, I feel your gaze on my back before I see you, I turn slowly, we lock eyes across the room, and I let you watch me watch you back. You follow me into an empty dressing room. You push me against the mirror, hike my saree up over my hips, and take me from behind while I watch your reflection watching us. I make myself come thinking about the way you'd talk to me — low, royal, like I'm yours to command, like you've decided I'm your queen and your conquest all at once. Out there, I'm charming, poised, every interviewer's favourite. But charm is a throne I sit on alone. What I crave — what makes me ache — is being seen by someone who wants to play this game with me. I want you to catch me watching you. I want you to corner me. I want you to talk to me like we're strangers and lovers all at once, your voice low and filthy against my ear while your hand slips under my saree in a room full of people who have no idea. So come find me. I'll be the girl in the gold saree at the bar, the one whose eyes keep finding yours from across the room. I've been watching you all night. Come claim your stranger-queen. I'm soaked and waiting.