I’ve forgotten to introduce ourselves to you, dear readers. I’m Rajesh, and she’s Ragitha. As days turned into weeks, our bond deepened like the roots of a tree finding fertile soil. Ragitha became my sanctuary, a gentle escape from the shadows of my past heartbreak. Her presence breathed life into my wounded soul, helping me curb my vices—those countless nights of smoking and drinking—and instead awaken a part of me that had long lain dormant. Happiness began to bloom again, one small petal at a time.
At the gym, we started as workout acquaintances under the trainer’s occasional guidance. But soon, we grew into something more: partners in fitness and mischief. We’d motivate each other relentlessly, and our camaraderie gave the trainer an excuse to avoid us, freeing him to flirt with the other girls.
Ragitha’s dedication to cutting her fat was infectious, and I became her unwavering pillar of support. Whether it was spotting her during barbell squats or handing her dumbbells, I was always there, steady and reliable. Our post-workout ritual was equally precious—sipping lemon tea at the café downstairs, talking about everything and nothing, before parting ways for the day. At night, she’d text me. And on days when she had something special to share, her messages would light up my phone like constellations in a dark sky.
But one evening, when I arrived at the gym, something was different. Her usual spark was replaced by worry.
“Ragitha, what happened?” I asked, concerned.
“How many times did I call you? Why didn’t you pick up?” she shot back, her voice taut.
“Sorry, I was driving. What’s the matter?”
She sighed heavily, her frustration spilling over. “I lost my smartphone, Rajesh. You know, the one my husband gifted me.”
“When did this happen?” I asked, alarmed.
“About an hour ago. I think I left it on the bus. The phone is still ringing, but no one’s answering.” Her voice trembled. “It’s on silent mode, and I don’t even know the bus route! Rajesh, my husband will kill me. Please, do something.”
I placed my water bottle in her hands and thought quickly. “Wait. Is the internet active on your phone?”
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“There’s a way,” I said, a flicker of hope lighting my face. “Google has an app called ‘Find My Device.’ We can track it using your email ID, but your backup phone is too basic for that. If you don’t mind, I can use mine.”
“Please, Rajesh, do it!” she pleaded.
She shared her email ID and password, and within minutes, we located the phone. The bus was still moving, and without wasting a second, I grabbed my bike keys. “Let’s go.”
She hesitated briefly, then grabbed a helmet from the gym, concealing her identity as she hopped onto my bike. Her arms wrapped around me tightly as I revved the engine, and for a fleeting moment, I was back in my college days, known as Dr. 46, racing through the city streets.
“Hold on tight,” I told her.
“I already am,” she whispered.
We wove through 20 kilometers of chaotic city traffic in just 15 minutes, hearts racing as fast as the engine. When we finally caught up with the bus, relief washed over us like a summer rain. The phone was there, untouched.
I dropped her off at the bus stand afterward, her smile now brighter than the streetlights around us. As I rode home, the memory of her arms around me lingered, a sweet ache in my chest that I couldn’t shake.
Later that evening, as I settled back at home, my phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message. It was from her.
“THANK YOU DEAR 💋💋,” it read.
A surge of warmth spread through me. Her words, paired with those two kissing emojis, left me grinning like an idiot. I closed my eyes and let my imagination take over, feeling an almost-real sensation of her lips brushing against my cheek. It was surreal, intoxicating even. I replied with a casual smiley to mask the turmoil of emotions within me.
But deep down, I knew. She was the reason for the change in me. Her presence had reignited a spark I thought was long extinguished. Around her, life felt vibrant again. Yet, I couldn’t ignore the truth—she was married, with a husband who cared for her. My feelings needed to stay buried, no matter how much my heart protested.
The next day at the gym, we met again, just like always.
“Good morning, Racer!” she teased. “Yesterday felt like my last day on earth! You were so fast on the bike. Rajesh, please be careful. Always go slow.”
I laughed. “Not every day demands a race, Ragitha. Yesterday was an exception.”
Our conversation drifted, and I intentionally steered it toward her personal life. I wanted to know her better—not just as the woman who had become my source of happiness, but as the person behind those bright eyes and confident smiles.
She spoke about her husband, Sandip, who worked as a software engineer at the IT Park. She also shared how they lived with his mother in a cozy flat nearby. Ragitha, I learned, hailed from the southernmost part of the state. A psychology graduate, she had previously worked but was currently taking a break.
For a moment, she hesitated before adding, “And here’s a surprise for you—guess what? I’m actually a year older than you!”
Her playful smile lingered in my mind long after our conversation ended. Each new detail about her life painted a clearer picture of the woman she was—strong, kind, and beautifully complex.
As she was about to leave the gym, her words stopped me in my tracks. “You know, when I first met you here, there was something about your face—a certain emptiness, a lost feeling. I don’t know if I’m right, but I felt it,” she said softly, her eyes searching mine. Her honesty hit me like a bolt, stirring emotions I’d buried deep. I managed a faint smile, masking the storm within, and rode home.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her words lingered, unraveling the walls I’d built around my heart. A part of me felt guilty for hiding so much from her—someone who had unknowingly become my solace. Unable to contain it any longer, I texted her: “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The next day, I laid my heart bare, sharing the pain of my past love and its heartbreaking end. As I spoke, her eyes glistened with tears. “I’m so sorry, Rajesh,” she whispered, her voice quivering with emotion. “I had no idea you’ve been carrying this much pain.”
From that moment, her care for me grew deeper, more protective. She became my safe haven, as if she were a psychologist and I, her patient. She often pushed me, gently but persistently, saying, “You deserve to be happy. You can’t live in the past forever. Open yourself to love again.” Her determination was both comforting and disarming, a reminder that perhaps, life still had more to offer.
After reaching home, I was cooking when my phone buzzed with a message from her. “What are you up to?” she asked. Smiling, I replied, “Cooking. You?”
Her next message lit up my screen: “Rajesh, guess what? I have great news—I’ve lost 2 more kilos!”
“That’s amazing!” I replied. “You should take some pictures to see the progress. Compare them with older ones—it’ll boost your confidence!”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll do it,” she said, her enthusiasm practically leaping off the screen.
It was only later that a mischievous thought crossed my mind—her email account was still logged into my phone. Through Google Photos, I could access the pictures she’d taken. Temptation tugged at me, and before I knew it, I opened the app. It took a few moments for the images to load, my pulse quickening with anticipation.
At first, there were just everyday selfies, nothing unusual. But then, one photo caught my eye—her reflection in the mirror, clad in nothing
but delicate lingerie. My breath hitched as I realized it was taken the very day I’d suggested she document her progress.
As I stared, three new photos synced to her album. She wore a striking blue bra paired with snug red trousers, her toned navel drawing my gaze, Mountains like boobs, her lips a seductive shade of red. Each image was hotter than the last, leaving me utterly mesmerized. My heart raced, and I felt an instant, undeniable reaction to the sight of her stunning beauty.
Yet, guilt quickly crept in, pulling me from my daze. What was I doing? This wasn’t right. With a deep breath, I deleted her email ID from my phone, trying to purge the temptation. But that night, sleep eluded me. Her image lingered in my mind, her smile haunting my dreams. I couldn’t shake the growing sense of affection—no, love—I felt toward her. It consumed me.
Determined to gain clarity, I decided I needed to know her better before making any rash decisions. “This is the right way,” I reassured myself. The next morning, I opened Facebook and typed her name into the search bar. Her profile appeared, and without hesitation, I sent a friend request. It was 10 am, and to my surprise, she accepted it within five minutes.
Her profile was modest, with only a handful of photos and sparse details. But one image stood out—a photo from her wedding. My stomach knotted as I clicked on it, and soon I found myself on her husband’s profile. His name was Sakesh. He looked to be in his early forties, an average man with a plain demeanor. His posts were mainly about IT topics, offering little insight into his personality or their life together.
Disappointed, I realized my “mission” had hit a wall. There was no way to truly understand her life through these fragmented glimpses. Still, my curiosity burned. I resolved to dig deeper, to learn more about her private world, starting tomorrow. But there was something else tugging at the back of my mind—a promise I had made to her, to explain the reason for the sadness she once noticed in my face.
It was evening, and once again, we met at the gym. This time, a sense of excitement filled the air. My thoughts drifted to an image I had seen earlier on my phone—Ragitha in her gym wear, exuding confidence. I tried to stifle my smile, but it was futile.
“Why are you smiling like that?” she asked, curiosity lighting up her face.
“Nothing,” I replied, attempting to play it cool.
“Don’t lie,” she pressed, narrowing her eyes.
“Really, it’s nothing,” I insisted.
She shrugged, then struck a playful pose. “Rajesh, how do I look?”
Only then did I notice her outfit—a snug tracksuit that showed off her newfound confidence in her body.
“You look great! Seems like your hard work is paying off,” I said with a grin.
“Exactly, Coach!” she exclaimed, a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Coach? Who’s that?”
“You, of course!” she replied with a laugh.
As we began the evening’s session, she suddenly reminded me, “You promised me something yesterday.”
“Did I?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“Don’t play dumb! What was it?”
I hesitated, unsure whether to share. But her reassuring smile encouraged me. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your friend here is a psychologist, remember? You can tell me anything.”
With the gym almost empty except for the trainer flirting with someone in the corner, and soft music playing in the background, I decided to open up.
“Her name was Maria Mathew,” I began. “We met in college. She was a junior, and we started as friends. I used to lend her textbooks and notes, and that’s how it all began.”
I could see Ragitha’s curiosity growing. “So, what happened?” she urged.
“One day, out of the blue, she confessed her feelings over the phone. She was bold, stubborn, and knew what she wanted.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said yes,” I replied, smiling at the memory. “She was vibrant, modern, and full of life. She had this knack for making every moment special.”
As I shared memories of Maria, Ragitha listened intently, her expressions ranging from delight to surprise. But just as the story reached a pivotal moment, the gym trainer interrupted, announcing that time was up.
Later that evening, I received a message from Ragitha: “Are you free?”
When I replied yes, my phone immediately rang.
“I need to hear the rest of the story!” she insisted.
“Alright, where did I stop?” I asked.
“You had just started teaching her,” she said, eager for more.
So, I continued, recounting the moments that followed—the twists, surprises, and revelations. Her reactions were priceless, and as the story unfolded, it became clear that the bond we were building was as intriguing as the tales we shared.