The clock ticked in a room that hadn't heard laughter in months.
Rekha adjusted the pallu of her cotton saree, a habitual act more than modesty. Her husband had stopped looking at her long ago. His glances were mechanical now, the kind you gave a wall or a ceiling fan that squeaked at night—annoying, familiar, unchangeable. The television buzzed with muted news. Ashok sat with his plate, eating dinner like always—three chapatis, one bowl of dal, one of sabzi, and not a word.
She didn't remember the last time his fingers brushed hers.Didn't remember the last time her name sounded like something someone wanted to say.
The apartment was quiet, except for the clock and the dull hum of other lives seeping through walls—the clatter of utensils from upstairs, the pressure cooker whistle from the floor below, and occasionally, the heavy bass of music pulsing from Flat 3B.
That one.
The new tenant. Young. Careless. Loud.
Rekha first saw him two weeks ago.
She was coming back from the kirana store with a jute bag full of onions, coriander, and shampoo when she saw the man standing shirtless on his balcony, watering a line of tiny green succulents.
Dark skin, lean muscles, a tattoo slithering over his right shoulder.
She looked away quickly, cheeks heating, and walked faster. But that night, while changing into her nightgown, she found her mind circling back to the lazy way he stretched, the curve of his neck when he looked up at the sky.
Now, two weeks later, she heard footsteps on the stairs as she stood at the sink scrubbing the last greasy plate.
The kind of footsteps that didn't drag like the uncle from 4A.They were fast. Confident. Unapologetic.
He passed by her open kitchen window, whistling something vaguely familiar—maybe a song from a movie she hadn't watched.
Rekha leaned slightly toward the window. Not to look. Just to... feel the sound.
The next morning, she caught him in the elevator.
She was headed to the market early. It was 8:05 a.m.—the time she liked, before the sun got angry. She didn't expect anyone else. She rarely bumped into anyone at that hour.
The lift opened.
He was inside.
Grey T-shirt, gym shorts, earbuds hanging loose. Sweat dampened his collarbone. And that tattoo—this time, she could see it properly. A serpent wrapping around a lotus. It shouldn't have made her mouth go dry, but it did.
"Good morning," he said.
His voice was smooth. Like silk rubbed over bare thighs.
She nodded, lips parting but no sound came out.
He held the door open for her. She stepped in, clutching her purse tighter than necessary.
"You live upstairs?" he asked, pressing the ground floor button.
She glanced up, finally letting herself meet his eyes. Dark brown, too curious.
"Fourth floor," she replied. "4C."
"Ah. I'm 3B. I've seen you."
Her heart thudded harder than it should. "I've heard your music."
He grinned. "You don't like it?"
"It's loud."
He tilted his head. "You didn't say bad. Just loud."
The lift dinged, breaking the moment. She stepped out. He waited.
"I'm Ishan," he said.
She didn't answer. Just walked away, her saree swishing too fast.
But inside, something pulsed.
That night, after Ashok turned to the wall and began his rhythmic snoring, Rekha lay awake.
Her legs tangled in the sheet. Her breath shallow. Her skin hot.
She touched herself like a woman who hadn't been touched in years.
She didn't moan. Just bit the pillow and pressed her fingers hard against the place that ached the most.
When she came, the name she whispered into the cotton didn't belong to her husband.
A week passed.
Their encounters were accidental, but never casual.
A long glance as she waited for her milkman.His body brushing lightly against hers in the hallway.A shared umbrella when rain caught them both outside the gate.
Nothing happened. But everything simmered.
It broke on a Wednesday.
Rekha's gas cylinder leaked. She called the plumber. He said he couldn't come till evening. Ashok was at work. She didn't want to wait.
She knocked on 3B.
It took a moment, then the door opened.
Ishan wore jeans and nothing else. His hair was wet, towel around his neck.
"Hi," he said, as if he'd been expecting her.
She looked away. "I… sorry. I just needed to ask—do you have a mechanic's number? My gas is leaking."
"Come in. I'll call."
She hesitated. Her boundaries crumbled in silence.
She stepped inside.
The apartment was chaotic. Music posters. A stack of books. A whiskey bottle on the kitchen counter, half-finished.
He offered her water. She said no.
He called the mechanic. Spoke in Telugu. Then hung up.
"He'll come in an hour. Want to wait here? Safer than being near gas."
She nodded. Sat on the edge of the couch. Awkward. Too aware of the scent of him—soap, sweat, and something musky.
"You look nervous," he said, sitting across from her.
"I shouldn't be here."
"Why?"
She met his gaze. "You know why."
He stood. Walked to her. Stopped a foot away.
"You're married," he said.
"Yes."
"You're not happy."
She flinched. "That's not your business."
"I think it is."
She looked up sharply. "Why?"
His voice dropped.
"Because every time you see me, your eyes say what your mouth doesn't."
Her breath caught.
"You're lonely, Rekha."
He said her name like it was something he'd tasted in his mouth already.
She stood. "I should go."
He stepped closer. "You should stay."
Her pulse raced. Her body screamed at her. Her mind screamed louder.
She turned. Reached the door.And he didn't stop her.
But her hand trembled on the handle. She opened the door halfway, then stopped.
"Why haven't you tried anything before?" she asked, still facing away.
"I don't touch what isn't ready to burn."
She turned back.
His eyes were already on her.
That night, she didn't sleep.
At 2:03 a.m., she walked barefoot to the balcony. The city lights shimmered like broken glass.
Below, on his own balcony, Ishan sat shirtless again, smoking.
He looked up.
They didn't wave.Didn't speak.
But something passed between them like current.
Something that wouldn't wait much longer.