Morning Light, Priya’s POV

I wake to the stink of stale air and a single beam of dawn slicing through my curtains. The world outside is still wrapped in grey, but inside my chest, fire sparks. My fingers itch for pen and paper—I can almost feel his pulse beating against my skin, a frantic drum demanding I write. I lie supine, tracing the ceiling with my eyes and imagining him curled in my arms—skin pressed to skin, heartbeat thrumming in time with mine. We belong: two halves of a fractured whole, destined to find each other in this storm of ordinary lives.

At the café, I’m the picture of calm professionalism. I greet each customer with practiced warmth. Steam hisses from the espresso machine. Cinnamon dust floats in the air like gold flecks. But the moment the door chimes and I glimpse his silhouette—raincoat dripping, notebook in hand—my carefully crafted mask fractures.

He’s mine, claimed even before I taste the tremor in his lips or see the flicker in his eyes.

Behind the counter, I move with lethal grace: tamping, steaming, pouring. Every motion is a hymn to him. The cardamom in the air drifts between us like an invocation, drawing him closer to the altar I’ve built in every corner of my mind. He orders his usual. I pour the chai—no sugar, foam traced with a swirl of cinnamon bark. My heart pounds as I slide the cup across the marble divide. Our fingers brush—electric, inevitable. I see his pulse beneath his skin, bright as a flare.

He’s already mine.

Later, when the lunch rush thins to a lull, I slip away to my sanctuary at the back of the café. The breakroom’s single window is fogged with rain. I set the cup—his cup—on the shelf above the sink like an offering. I touch the rim, then lift it slowly to my mouth, eyes fluttering shut.

This is a kiss.
A second-hand kiss.
Still better than none at all.

I tremble, exhale, and reach for my journal. The pages flutter, eager for more. I write without mercy:

Soulmates aren’t born—they’re forged in obsession.
Our hearts fused in the hush before dawn.
I will be the fire that burns every lie from his bones.
He belongs to me—mind, body, and broken soul.

My pen trembles; the ink quivers on the page like a living thing. I close my eyes and see him kneeling before me, surrender etched in every hollow of his face. My blood sings at the thought.

There’s a soft knock.

“Priya?” Rhea’s voice, low and cautious. “You okay?”

I don’t answer. I let her feel the electricity humming through the room. She pushes the door open, concern etched in her eyes.

“You wrote again,” she says, holding up the journal and flipping to the new page as if bracing herself.

I rise, looming over her like a dark promise.

“I’m sharpening my soul for him.”

Her lip trembles.

“Priya—”

But I am already gone, lost in the world I’ve spun around us both, certain that nothing—no intervention, no fear—can stop what’s being born in the quiet storm of our entwined hearts.

Because he belongs to me. And I will claim every inch of him, one heartbeat at a time.

Outside, the rain thickens into a steady downpour. I leave Rhea in the doorway and return to the café floor. Each step echoes with purpose. My senses flare: the smell of espresso, the taste of my own anticipation.

There—by the window where the world blurs in water-streaked glass—is his figure, hunched over his battered notebook, pen scratching softly. Steam curls from his cup, a promise of warmth and confession. I watch until he looks up briefly, distracted. Our eyes don’t meet, but I don’t need them to.

I already know his soul’s contours.
I’ve traced it in my journal, dreamed it in fevered whispers beneath my breath.

He leaves soon after, folding his coat over his arm, tucking the notebook into his satchel. He slides a folded slip of paper beneath the now-empty cup—an offering, a second riddle. The door jingles shut behind him. The café falls silent. Only then do I cross the room. I stand at his table and lift the cup—still warm, its rim faintly marked by his lips—and tuck it under my arm along with the slip of paper. My heart hammers as I retreat to the breakroom, rain misting the frosted window like ghostly breath.

Back in my sanctuary, I set the cup down and unfold the paper. It’s a poem—brief, hurried, raw:

I wish I could explain
why rain feels like a wound
and why some silences hurt more
than screams ever could.

My stomach twists. It’s as though he wrote it for me. As though
he knows.

My pulse roars. I grab my journal and write, wild-eyed:

I want to feel his pulse under my tongue,
his breath catch like a prayer on my lips,
slide his coat from his shoulders
and drape it over the curve of my hip
so he’s naked to my intentions.
I will break him open like a hymn.
I will rewrite the scripture of his heart
until it chants only my name.

My breath fogs the page. The words burn hotter than any flame.

“I need him,” I whisper to the empty room. “I need him to see me. To open himself. To bleed truth for me.
Just once. Just once.”

A frantic knock rattles the door. It swings open and Rhea stumbles in, rain-drenched and furious. Her eyes lock onto the open journal in my trembling hands.

“What the fuck is this, Priya?” she hisses, snatching the book away with a fierceness born of love and dread. I lunge, but Rhea is taller—iron-strong. She holds the journal aloft and flips to the final page:

I want to feel his pulse under my tongue…
so he’s naked to my intentions.
Break him open like a hymn.
Rewrite the scripture of his heart.

Her brows draw together in horror. Her voice drops to a whisper that still echoes:

“Priya… this is dangerous. You’re writing like you’ve already claimed him. Like you’ll destroy him.”

A furious ache blooms in my chest.

“You don’t understand! I’m destined for him—our souls are bound. He knows, even if he hides.”

Rhea’s shoulders slump with heartbreak.

“No, Priya. You think you’re in love, but this… this is obsession eating you alive. You said you’d let me help, if… if you lost yourself.”

I stare at her, tears glistening.

“I am myself. More alive than ever.”

She presses the journal to her chest, eyes searching my face.

“Then show me you—not this hunger.”

The rain hammers the window as I stand there, the journal burning cold in my hands, my breath catching in the storm of my own making.

Somewhere else, across the city, he lies in bed—oblivious to the tempest he’s unleashed. His phone buzzes once, twice. An unknown number sends a message:

You looked beautiful today. Like something just waiting to be unwrapped.

No name. No signature. Just longing in the dark. He stares at the screen, a twinge of unease curling in his stomach. And I? I slip my journal into my bag, a triumphant smile curving my lips.
One heartbeat at a time.