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STALKER POV:
“Yes, my lady. I’m the one you kissed… and the only one who kissed you back—and made it last.”
The moment the words left my lips, she swayed—almost like they knocked the breath out of her. Her balance faltered, her knees giving out.
I caught her before she hit the floor. Smooth. Effortless. Like I’d rehearsed it a hundred times in my head.
Because maybe—I had.
I lifted her onto my shoulder, the way you'd carry something precious but breakable. The club’s strobes danced wildly across the room, but for us, time slowed. All I could hear was her breathing and the low thump of bass fading behind us.
Outside, the air was crisp, the kind that sobers some people up.
Not her.
My McLaren waited at the curb. Sleek. Black. Quiet power.
She once told her friends—loud enough for me to hear—that it was her dream car. That she'd ride shotgun and DJ the whole way like she was starring in her own road-trip movie.
I opened the passenger door and eased her in carefully. She slumped against the seat, mumbling something incoherent. I buckled her in like she was a porcelain doll with tequila in her veins.
A chime broke the silence.
Her phone buzzed nonstop—notifications lighting up the screen like a firework show. Messages from friends.
Worried ones.
Freaking out ones.
One even said:
“If she vanished again, I swear I’ll kill someone.”
How dramatic.
(Also, rude.)
I sighed, turning my gaze back to her. She stirred slightly, eyelashes fluttering.
Not yet. She needed sleep more than answers.
I placed her phone aside—screen down.
She’d get it back.
Eventually.
The drive to her home was about thirty kilometers. Should take about an hour and a half if I drove slow. And I had to drive slow.
If I pushed the throttle, she’d wake.
And if she woke, she’d panic.
Or worse—remember nothing.
Because... she wouldn’t.
She couldn’t.
Prosopagnosia. Face blindness.
A rare little curse. One that makes people forget faces—even the ones they once memorized like a favorite song.
She wouldn’t recognize me by morning.
To her, I’d be no more than a kind stranger with good reflexes and a fancy car.
Pathetic, my brain muttered.
You wait two years for a moment, and she won’t even remember your face by sunrise.
I gripped the wheel tighter. Maybe it was better that way.
Or maybe it was just... easier.
Fifteen minutes passed in silence, the road humming beneath us, stars blurry above.
And then—
"Ahhhh... where are you taking me, huh?"
Her voice broke through like a splash of cold water—sleepy, slurred, barely awake.
She tapped my shoulder—more like a wobble than a tap.
I glanced at her. Her eyes blinked slowly, dazed and unfocused, searching for something familiar in the dashboard lights.
She was trying to place me. Trying to put the puzzle together.
I didn’t speak.
Let the silence answer.
Then… it happened.
A single note broke through the speakers.
Low. Echoing. Unmistakable.
Her playlist had started.
Not just any playlist.
The Playlist.
The one she curated like a religion. The one she swore could make any boring road feel like a Bollywood climax.
And there it was.
“Meri Aashiqui.”
Her holy grail of love songs.
She gasped, body suddenly electric.
Eyes wide. Soul awake.
Then, before I could even react—
“STOP THE CARRR RIGHT NOW!”
She shrieked like a banshee in a dreamscape.
My foot slammed the brakes. Tires screeched against asphalt.
We jerked to a halt in the middle of the highway—no traffic, no headlights in sight—just us and the silence of the universe catching its breath.
She threw open the door.
What—
And then… she stepped out.
Barefoot. Bare-shouldered. Bare-souled.
Onto the road like it was a red carpet rolled out just for her.
Arms spread like wings.
Head tilted back, eyes closed.
The wind tangled in her hair like it had missed her.
She swayed gently, letting the music wash over her like ocean waves.
Every beat, every lyric—etched across her skin.
I watched her from the driver’s seat.
Utterly enchanted.
Utterly doomed.
She turned to me, eyes glittering under the distant streetlamp glow.
A grin—reckless and raw—bloomed on her lips.
“This is how you feel a song,” she whispered, like she was sharing a secret too rare for the world.
And in that second—
Not the kiss. Not the club. Not even the keychain—
This became the moment I knew:
I’d never let her go again.
Even if she forgot me every time we met.
The rain began like a secret—soft murmurs tapping the windshield, whispering stories only hearts could hear. Inside the car, he sat in rigid silence, arms crossed, jaw tight. The world outside blurred into watery smudges, neon lights bleeding into the storm.
And her?
She was already lost in it.
Barefoot on the road, head tilted skyward, arms outstretched like she was greeting an old friend. The rain kissed her cheeks like it missed her. Every droplet slid down her skin as if it knew where it belonged.
Then—knock knock.
He blinked.
She was at his window now, soaked to the bone, eyes sparkling with that infuriating mischief. Her fingers tapped the glass once, twice, before he finally rolled it down with a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding.
She reached in without hesitation, tugging at his sleeve.
“Come on,” she grinned, teeth chattering. “Just a second. One second won’t kill your grumpy soul.”
His brain muttered, This is a trap.
His heart replied, So what?
With the most theatrical sigh known to mankind, he stepped out.
The rain greeted him like a challenge. Cold. Immediate. Unforgiving. It soaked through his hoodie within seconds, plastering fabric to skin. His hands instinctively went to shield his face, muttering curses under his breath.
She laughed—oh, that laugh—and twirled under the flickering streetlight like she was the main character in a film only she knew the script to.
“You hate the rain?” she called over her shoulder, breathless, dancing like she couldn’t hear the world’s complaints.
“Yeahh,” he muttered, ducking his head, “this is what betrayal feels like.”
She giggled, half-spinning toward him. “How can anyone hate the rain? It’s romance falling from the sky!”
Romance falling from the sky?
His brain rolled its metaphorical eyes. You absolute poet of chaos.
But she wasn’t done.
She ran back to him, breathless, dripping, wild. And just when he opened his mouth to protest—
The music shifted.
The soft hum from the car’s speakers floated out into the rain.
"Tere liye hi jiya main, khud ko jo yun de diya hai…"
Her whole body froze.
And then—“STOP!” she shrieked. “That’s my soul song!”
Before he could even blink, she was back in the middle of the road, drenched and glowing like something untouchable. Her arms spread again, chin lifted to the heavens.
And then came the words.
"Tum, main, aur yeh baarish!"
She shouted it like a battle cry. Like an offering. Like a prayer.
The world quieted. Even the rain seemed to hush for her.
She moved to the beat, lips parting as she breathed in the melody. Each note, each drop seemed to belong to her. Rain streamed down her face like it was painting poetry on her skin. She looked untamed, cinematic—alive.
And he?
He was wrecked.
Watching her was like watching a memory write itself in real-time. Somewhere between the lyrics and the thunder, something cracked open inside him. Something buried. Something soft.
He stepped forward. Slowly. Reluctantly.
His hand found hers.
She didn’t flinch.
Their fingers interlocked like it was the most natural thing in the universe. She turned to him with a soft smile—no mischief this time. Just something warm. Timeless. Unspoken.
"Teri wafa ne mujhko sambhala, saare ghamon ko dil se nikaala…"
The rain blurred the world into streaks of silver and blue. It drenched their clothes, dripped from their lashes, clung to their skin like longing.
But none of it mattered.
Because suddenly—she was in his arms.
And he didn’t even remember pulling her in.
Her hands traced his jaw with trembling fingers. His arms circled her waist like he was afraid to let go.
And then—
The kiss.
Not rushed. Not shy.
It was deep. Honest. Like an echo of every moment they didn’t know they were missing.
Like they'd kissed before. Maybe in another life. Maybe in a hundred.
You’re kissing her in the rain, his brain whispered. You're in a literal Bollywood cliché.
Shut up, his heart snapped. Let me have this.
They didn’t hear the storm.
Didn’t feel the cold.
Didn’t care.
In that moment, nothing existed outside of them—
Not the city.
Not the rain.
Not the years or the distance or the silence.
Only her.
Only him.
Only now.
"Main jo mit bhi gaya toh wajood mera, sadaa tujh mein rahe zinda…"
The words spilled into the night like confessions, binding them in something louder than promises.
And as the world spun on, soaked and wild and unscripted—
They just kept kissing.
Because sometimes, the best scenes aren’t written.
They’re rained into existence.
Stalker Pov:
The rain had stopped, but it had left behind its scent—damp earth and something unspoken. The chill clung to her like a second skin, and she trembled slightly in my arms. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.
She fit there, in the space against my chest, like she’d always been meant to.
I held her tighter, brushing my thumb along her spine, each step toward the car echoing like a decision I couldn't undo.
I opened the door and settled her in the passenger seat, her lashes fluttering like she was struggling to stay awake. She looked at me—soft eyes, parted lips, confusion and trust fighting quietly inside her. I didn’t give her a chance to ask the questions forming on her tongue. I just draped my coat around her shoulders and tucked her in like she was something fragile. Or mine.
Probably both.
I slid into the driver’s seat. The heater hummed to life, spreading slow warmth that filled the space between us—but not enough to silence the storm still raging in my chest.
The road ahead was silent, stretching like a promise I hadn’t spoken out loud yet.
I started driving.
Destination: my farmhouse. Isolated. Private. Perfect.
Her head lolled to the side as she drifted off, the soft rhythm of her breath syncing with the sound of the tires on wet gravel. I stole a glance. Peaceful. Vulnerable.
Too trusting for her own good.
I should’ve been concerned.
But I wasn’t.
My phone buzzed. I picked it up without taking my eyes off the road.
The line clicked.
" sir?" my assistant answered, alert as always.
"Clear the farmhouse. No one stays," I said. My voice was calm, smooth—eerily so.
A pause. Then, with a smirk I could practically hear through the phone, he added, "For madam, sir?"
I didn’t reply immediately. My jaw flexed.
"Hmm." It was the only answer I gave. But it said everything.
The call ended with a beep. The silence that followed was sharp.
She stirred beside me but didn’t wake. Still breathing softly. Still unaware.
Good.
The farmhouse loomed through the trees, its windows glowing faintly in the distance. I parked the car, stepped out, and circled to her side. Rain misted in the air again—light, but steady, like the sky had decided it wasn’t done with us yet.
I opened the door.
She blinked awake, groggy. “Where are we?” she mumbled.
"Somewhere safe," I said simply.
Before she could argue, I scooped her into my arms. She didn’t resist. Her head dropped against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.
It was... too easy.
Inside, the house welcomed us in golden hues and soft shadows. I carried her straight to the room—our room. The word echoed in my head, foreign but familiar, like it had always been waiting in some dark corner of my thoughts.
The bed waited. So did the part of me I kept locked away.
I laid her down gently. She was drenched—skin kissed by rain, dress clinging to every curve like it had been stitched onto her. She looked too beautiful. Too still.
Idiot, my brain hissed. She’s not yours. She’s not a collectible. She’s a human girl who probably didn’t plan on falling asleep in a psycho’s car tonight.
But I ignored that voice. I always do.
She shivered again. Reflex.
My coat went over her shoulders. A blanket over that. Small shields. Against the cold. Against temptation.
Then came the hard part.
Her blouse was soaked through, the damp fabric clinging stubbornly. My fingers worked quickly, but carefully—every clasp undone like a sin I tried not to enjoy. The blouse slipped off, the skirt following. I didn't look away, but I didn’t linger either.
I reached for the soft cotton shirt—mine. Too big for her. Perfect.
I pulled it over her gently, the hem falling to her thighs, the sleeves hanging past her hands. She looked... safe. Strange how that mattered.
Her heels came off next. Gorgeous, deadly things. I hated how much she loved them. She once said they made her feel powerful.
I scoffed under my breath. “They also leave blisters, dumbass,” I muttered, massaging her feet slowly, working away the tension until her body softened again.
Finally, I took a warm cloth and wiped her face, her arms, her legs—soft strokes, slow and careful. She stirred a little, but didn’t wake.
Thank god.
I stepped back to breathe. To think. To not think.
She looked like a painting now—framed by candlelight and the quiet hum of the storm outside.
I changed quickly, trading wet clothes for dry ones. Every movement silent. Every heartbeat louder than it should’ve been.
Then I climbed into the bed beside her.
Close, but not too close.
Her scent was intoxicating—rain and skin and something floral I couldn’t name. My fingers brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek. It curled around my touch like it had always belonged there.
My brain mocked me again—You’re gone, bro. You’re deep in it. Might as well dig your grave.
I ignored it.
All I could hear was her breath. All I could feel was the weight of the moment.
In that quiet room, surrounded by secrets and stormlight, I knew one thing for sure:
She didn’t belong to me.
Not yet.
But tonight, for just a few stolen hours—
She felt like mine.
Pain explodes behind my eyes the moment consciousness claws its way back in—sharp, pulsating, like someone’s pounding a drum inside my skull.
Ugh… did I drink a truck last night?
My throat feels like sandpaper. My limbs? Heavy, reluctant, like they’ve been sedated and left out to dry. I groan, rolling over slightly, and—
Wait.
Where the hell is my ceiling?
I squint, eyes adjusting to the soft glow seeping through thick curtains. The fan above me spins lazily, unfamiliar in shape and speed. Everything is too quiet. Too… not mine. The scent in the air isn’t my usual lavender or Tara’s annoying obsession with vanilla mist—it’s something darker.
Masculine. Musky. Too deliberate.
This isn’t home. This isn’t anywhere I recognize.
My fingers curl instinctively into the sheets. Smooth. Rich. Definitely not the secondhand ones I picked from a sale bin. My pulse skips.
I push myself upright—and immediately regret the ambition. Dizziness slams into me like a wave. I clutch the edge of the mattress, nails digging into the fabric, as I try to piece together anything solid.
A friend’s house? A random sleepover? Maybe I passed out at Alifiya’s again?
But no. The walls are bare—depressingly aesthetic, no fairy lights, no photo frames, no quirky quotes stuck with cheap tape. No shoes by the door. No familiar mess.
It hits me like cold water:
I don’t know where I am.
Panic edges in. My legs wobble as I stand, heart racing, senses wide awake now. I walk—okay, stumble—toward the mirror. One look at my reflection and—
“What the actual fuck?!”
The voice that leaves my mouth is mine, but it’s soaked in shock. My eyes scan the oversized shirt clinging to me, clearly not mine—unless I sleep-shoplifted from some six-foot-tall stranger with excellent taste in cologne. It drapes down to my thighs like some twisted parody of a boyfriend shirt.
Oh great, my brain offers, you’re the main character in a bad thriller now. Just perfect.
I touch the shirt lightly, like maybe it’ll evaporate or suddenly explain itself. No luck.
Then I see it.
A small note—folded in half, tucked neatly against the edge of the mirror like it’s been waiting for me to notice it.
Every instinct screams Don’t. But curiosity? Yeah, she’s a dramatic little demon.
I reach for it, fingers trembling. The paper is creased but clean, purposeful. I unfold it slowly, each movement dragging like a countdown.
And then I read.
---
Malenkaya Roza (Little Rose)
Did you think time would erase me?
Did you think distance could bury what we are?
You still look over your shoulder. You still flinch at shadows.
You still listen for footsteps that aren't there—until they are.
I never left.
I’ve just been patient.
And patience always runs out.
Yours—Mr. Ghost.
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