The storm trailed them home like a shadow.

By the time Aanya returned to the Verma house, the clouds had split open entirely. Fat droplets slapped against the tiled balcony. Thunder rolled low and constant, as if the sky was brooding over something it hadn’t yet said aloud.

She slipped her sandals off at the door and padded barefoot into her room, the hem of her lavender kurta damp and sticking to her legs. Her mother’s voice echoed faintly from the kitchen, instructing the cook about dinner.

Sophie had already vanished into her room, probably narrating the whole encounter to her friends with dramatic flourishes and GIFs.

But Aanya couldn’t move.

She stood in front of her window, one palm pressed to the glass, watching the rain streak down like tears on skin. Her breath fogged the pane. The room was dim, washed in grey and soft gold from the bedside lamp, the air rich with petrichor and the lingering scent of her perfume—rose and bergamot, something soft and private.

And yet, her chest felt heavy. Not sad. Just full. Stretched.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Rihan Mehra.

He had barely spoken. And yet he had spoken—each word chosen like glass tiles in a mosaic, deliberate and sharp-edged. His silence hadn’t felt dismissive. It had felt… restrained. Weighted.

And that candle.

She turned, drawn to the thought like gravity.

Aanya stepped quietly out of her room and moved down the corridor, past the paintings she’d grown up with—her mother’s watercolors of wildflowers and empty courtyards. Her feet were soundless against the wooden floor. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for.

Until she found it.

There, at the foot of the stairs, was a small white box.

Unlabeled. Simple. Tied with a slender piece of silk thread, deep green.

She hesitated. Looked left. Right.

Then she picked it up and returned to her room.

The box was light in her hands. Inside: a candle. Pale ivory wax. Pressed lavender flowers frozen in its base. And carved faintly along the curve of the rim, so faint she had to hold it to the lamp—

You noticed.

The flame bloomed low and soft, a flickering glow that filled the room with heat and the delicate scent of lavender and something else—vanilla? No. It was musk. Earthy. Subtle.

She sat on the edge of her bed, the candle resting on her nightstand.

Rihan had left her a message.

Not through voice. Not even through ink.

Through wax.

Aanya picked up her sketchbook, flipped to a blank page, and drew—not him directly, but his silence. A sketch of a storm-washed corridor. A tall figure at the window, back turned, candlelight dancing across stone. She shaded in the shadows carefully, delicately. Then paused.

And drew a second candle in the foreground.

Not because it belonged there—but because it did.

Her phone buzzed.

She blinked, startled. Reached for it. The screen lit up.

Unknown number.

Just a message.

Would it be alright if I sent more candles?

Her heart stumbled.

No emoji. No full sentence structure. But the intent was unmistakable.

She typed slowly.

Only if I’m allowed to sketch them.

Send.

The reply came within a minute.

Deal.

Just that.

But the space it opened inside her… was immense.

The next evening, Aanya waited by the window again.

It wasn’t intentional, at first. She was just tidying her brushes, sorting her sketchbooks. But her eyes kept flicking to the rain-dark street. Her pulse ticked louder each time headlights passed.

Then the doorbell rang.

Her mother called out—“Delivery for Aanya!”

She didn’t run. But she walked quickly.

On the doorstep sat another box. This one taller, wrapped in brown paper with twine. No card.

Inside: two more candles. One a deep plum shade, smelling faintly of sandalwood and orange. The other, white again—but with rose petals in the base.

No messages. Not this time.

She lit them both. Sat cross-legged in her studio space, sketching in silence as the flames danced in twin rhythms. She imagined him lighting them before sending. She imagined his hands, steady as ever. His face, impassive but thoughtful.

And then—almost absurdly—she imagined his voice again. Saying her name.

Just her name.

Three nights later, as the city drowned in thunder, Aanya opened her bedroom door to find a new package.

This one was wrapped in black silk.

Inside was a candle the color of dusk—smoky grey, layered with swirls of indigo. And this time, not just words carved in the rim.

But a sketch.

A pencil line.

Delicate. Clean.

A small drawing of her hand holding a matchstick.

Her hand.

She knew it instantly. From the way the fingers curled slightly inward, from the slender scar near her thumb—barely visible. No one would’ve known to draw that unless they had studied her closely.

She sank onto the bed, heart hammering.

This wasn’t just communication anymore.

This was intimacy.

Careful, wordless intimacy.

And it terrified her… just a little.

Because if he could see her this clearly without even touching her—

What would it mean when he finally did?