[Chatroom – Day 46 | 4:14 PM]
Monk29:
I saw you today.
SilverDust:
What? Where?
Monk29:
On campus. I was across the road in a cab.
You were laughing with a friend.
And I froze.
You looked… so normal.
So untouched by all this.
SilverDust:
I’m not untouched.
I went to bed with you in my head.
I walked through that whole day with your words inside me.
Monk29:
It shook me.
Because I realized:
We’re not living separate lives anymore.
We’re bleeding into each other.
SilverDust:
Then let’s stop watching from across the street.
Monk29:
When?
SilverDust:
Tomorrow.
6 PM.
That tiny bookstore café near Malcha Marg.
It’s quiet. No one we know goes there.
Monk29:
And what do we say?
SilverDust:
Nothing scripted.
Just look at me.
See me.
Not your sister.
Not SilverDust.
Just Medha.
[The Next Day – 5:58 PM]
Ankit stood outside the café. His heart was thudding. His palms damp.
He wasn’t sure what scared him more — that she might not come… or that she would.
Then he saw her.
Medha.
Wearing a simple kurti and jeans. Hair tied up. A soft pink lip. No makeup. No mask.
She looked up — and saw him.
No hesitation. No smile.
Just recognition.
She walked to him slowly.
And said the only thing that could anchor this moment:
“Hi… bhaiya.”
A pause.
Then, gently:
“Or should I say… Monk29?”
He swallowed.
“Only if I can call you Medha now. Just Medha.”
She nodded.
And together, they walked into the café.
Two siblings.
Two strangers.
Two souls dangerously close to discovering what happens when truth outlives taboo.
Undone – Part 33: The Kiss That Shouldn’t Exist
The night was silent.
Only the amber hush of a streetlamp lit the narrow lane where two shadows stood — too close, too still, too dangerous.
Ankit looked down at her. Medha’s eyes held his, wide and unsure… but she didn’t step back.
“I should go,” she whispered, barely above a breath.
“Say it again,” he murmured, voice cracked. “And maybe I’ll believe you.”
She didn’t.
Instead, she reached for him — one trembling hand pressed flat against his chest, over his shirt, feeling the wild thrum beneath.
He caught her wrist gently, his thumb grazing her pulse. Then his other hand rose, brushing her hair back, then trailing down — slow — tracing the edge of her neck, the line of her collarbone.
His touch was light, reverent. But charged.
Their lips met — at first, uncertain, testing, tasting. Then deeper.
Open.
Raw.
Medha whimpered softly as he pulled her close, her body crushed to his, hips aligning. Her hand slid from his chest to his waist… then lower, slipping beneath his untucked shirt. Her fingers touched bare skin — warm, tense, alive.
Ankit gasped against her mouth, startled at the intimacy of it — but he didn’t stop her.
Instead, his own hand crept under her kurti, just above her waist. His fingers brushed her skin — soft, heated, trembling with nerves and need.
They kissed harder now.
Breath tangled.
Bodies pressed.
Her hand at his lower back, nails dragging gently along his spine.
They were no longer brother and sister in this moment. No longer Monk29 and SilverDust. They were simply man and woman, suspended at the edge of want and ruin.