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And then she smiled a smile so dazzling, Rishi tripped over his own feet.
His eyes reminded her of old apothecary bottles, deep brown, when the sunlight hit them and turned them almost amber.
I feel like I need to speak out, because if no one speaks out, if no one says, This is me, this is what I believe in, and this is why I’m different, and this is why that’s okay, then what’s the point? What’s the point of living in this beautiful, great melting pot where everyone can dare to be anything they want to be?”
Distance was the promise of safety. Without distance, Rishi knew the inexorable love for his art, for creation, would suck him in and never let go.
Rishi kissed her with purpose, with meaning, like he believed this was exactly where they were supposed to be in this moment. He kissed her till she believed it too.
Immediately, before she could stop it, that famous Emily Brontë quote popped into her head: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
She looked . . . peaceful there, the sunset making her black hair glow with red, like she was holding lava inside her instead of blood. Rishi smiled to himself. The fire she had, that passion? Yeah, he could definitely see her being born with lava in her veins.
“Because, Dimple Shah, I am stupidly, idiotically, annoyingly in love with you.
