Arnav's POV
The flight from Delhi to Paris was seven hours of pure torture. Not because of the cramped seats or the mediocre food—no, because Khushi sat beside me in a cream silk dress that rode up her thighs every time she shifted, and I couldn't touch her the way I wanted. Not with the flight attendants passing by, not with the businessman in the next seat stealing glances at her legs.
I have started something I am not even sure anyone would read. Now here we are. Me—still writing. You—still here. I’m not backed by fame or algorithms, just pure passion… and you. So if you’re reading this, thank you. Your support doesn’t just help—it builds this journey. And every share, every comment, every cheer? It’s another “Keep going.” And I will. For you to read. Comment your darkest desires to read in the story.
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