“Krishna! Krishna! Krishna!”
That’s what my mind keeps chanting, what my heart keeps shouting.
My eyes are closed. I’m sitting somewhere—don’t know where. Memories rush past like waves: our first meeting, the second, and the third—when I foolishly proposed. She said no, of course. How could a girl say yes in just three meetings with a stranger?
Still, I waited—not for her reply, but for another chance to see her. Months later, we met again. She had forgotten the proposal, or maybe she took it as a child’s play. She liked me from the beginning, and I used that liking to turn into love. We never said it out loud, but yes—we rose in love. Remembering all this, I laugh quietly to myself.
Then, from my right, a sweet voice calls my name:
“Sagar!”
I open my eyes. Krishna sits beside me, holding my hand, her head resting on my shoulder, her puzzled eyes full of love, asking silently: Do you love me? I want to say Yes, my baby! but remain quiet.
She repeats, “Sagar!”—this time with a childish hint of anger. I gaze at her, stunned. She looks more beautiful than ever. Around us, I realize, is a seashore. The sun is half-set, painting the ocean gold and orange. Waves touch our feet before retreating. I wonder how we got here.
Again, “Sagar!”—sweet, but with a drop of impatience. I smile. How can she look so cute and dangerous at the same time? She reads my thoughts through my eyes and smiles back. Her anger melts away like waves returning to the sea.
She tilts her head, watching me. I ask, “What happened, Krishna?”
“Nothing.” Her smile brightens like the setting sun.
She runs her fingers through my hair—her favorite habit, one I never resist. She stares at the ocean, following the tides. I stare at her, wondering how someone could look this beautiful every single time.
“Krishna?” I ask.
“Hmmm?” she answers, eyes still on the horizon.
“Where are we?”
“Not we—you.”
“What?”
“Yes. You are here, but I always stay here.”
“Here? Where?”
“Ohhh, too many questions. Isn’t it enough that I’m with you? No matter where?”
And she’s right. With her hand in mine, nothing else matters.
Suddenly she asks, “Do you love me?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No. Say it.” Her cuteness leaves me defenseless.
“Well… actually not really—”
“Okay, bye then!” She pretends to leave.
I pull her back. “Of course I do. I’ve loved you since our first meeting. I loved you even more when you said no. I love you more than anyone could love anyone.”
She smiles, “I knew it. But I love you more than you can love me.” We both laugh, her eyes sparkling brighter than the ocean.
She whispers, “Sagar, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She stands and pulls me up. We walk along the shore, hand in hand, her head resting on my shoulder. She hums a song I don’t recognize—I’m too lost in thoughts. Just yesterday, we had the worst fight, the kind that breaks things apart. We even decided to never see each other again. I unfriended her on Facebook like a fool. Knowing her, once she decides something, no one can change her mind. So how is she here with me now?
“Krishna, do you remember what happened yesterday?”
“Mmmm… nah,” she answers innocently.
“Seriously, we fought. We broke up.”
“Broke up?” She laughs. “You really think I’d be walking with you now if that were true?”
I sigh. “But I swear it happened.”
“Then it must have been a nightmare,” she says, smiling.
And so I tell her the nightmare…
The Nightmare
I messaged you: At park, 6 pm. Love you.
You replied: Be sharp. Okay, my baby.
I arrived late—6:45. You weren’t there. I called, but your phone was out of coverage. Just as I was about to leave, you entered. I rushed to you, scolding:
“How can you be so irresponsible? I’ve been waiting an hour! Where’s your phone?”
You cut me off. “When did you come?”
“6:05,” I lied.
“Really?” Your eyes sharpened.
“Yes… you told me to be sharp at 6.”
“Then you must know what happened here half an hour ago?” you asked.
“No…”
“A child fell from the swing, bleeding. I took her to the doctor, called her parents, and stayed with her. In the process, I lost my phone.”
I froze. “Sorry…”
You snapped, “No, I’m sorry—for coming on time, for helping that girl, for losing my phone. And sorry for your anger without reason.” A tear welled in your eyes.
“Krishna, I was teasing—”
“But you shouted without asking. And you lied.”
You pushed me away. “Enough. We’re over. Don’t call me again.”
I begged, but you walked away, mounted your scooty, and vanished.
Back on the shore, I finish telling her. We’ve walked into waist-deep water.
“So I broke up just because you lied?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m not that stupid, am I?”
I laugh. “How can I know?”
“And you—idiot—how could you let me go?”
“What could I do? It was my fault. You would never stop if I tried.”
She looks at me seriously. “So if I say bye, you’ll just let me go?”
“Krishna, no! Of course not. It was just a nightmare.”
She smiles faintly, steps deeper into the sea, then turns to me.
“Sagar, whatever happens, whatever I say—never let me go.”
And she dives under.
“Krishna!” I shout, jumping after her—
And wake up.
On my bed. Her photo on my chest. The clock says 5 a.m.
It wasn’t a nightmare. It really happened.
Her voice still echoes in my head: Never let me go.
I jump out of bed and rush to her place.
