Chapter 2: Eyes That Remember

Three years ago — Goa, late September.

The sea whispered under a gray-blue sky as delegates shuffled into the final evening of the international creative summit. Amid the clinking of glasses, half-hearted networking, and meaningless promises of collaboration, Kabir stood near the bar, swirling a drink he hadn’t touched. His mind was elsewhere — it always was. Crowds drained him, especially when filled with people who smiled too easily and listened too little.

Across the room, Mira adjusted the strap of her gown and scanned the crowd with disinterest. She had delivered her talk on “Emotion in Design” that morning, earning applause, but applause meant little when your life was built on carefully controlled silence. All she wanted was to disappear, maybe sneak back to her hotel room and drown herself in music or wine — whichever came first.

Fate had other plans.

They reached the bar at the same time.

“One glass of regret, neat,” Mira murmured under her breath.

Kabir glanced sideways, amused. “Bad night?”

“Bad week. Bad year. You?”

“Same.” He held out his hand. “Let’s trade sorrows over whisky?”

“No names,” she replied, shaking his hand anyway.

“No expectations,” he agreed.

They didn’t sit at the bar. They wandered outside, barefoot on the sand, the salty breeze tugging at their words. Their conversation was surprisingly light. Favorite books, most hated clichés, childhood dreams they no longer admitted aloud. He told her he wanted to photograph the Northern Lights; she said she wanted to erase three years of her life.

They laughed like strangers who would never meet again.

But sometimes, one night is all it takes.

Later, in the half-lit corridors of the hotel, she paused outside her room.

“This is me,” she said quietly.

He nodded, hesitating. “So, goodnight?”

She looked at him — really looked at him. His eyes weren’t flirtatious. They weren’t needy. They were… searching. And maybe that’s what broke her resolve.

“Or,” she said, “we make a pact.”

“A pact?”

“One night. Once a year. Same room. No contact otherwise. No interference in real life.”

Kabir blinked. “You’re serious?”

She was.

Room 407. Her room.

He followed her inside.

---

Now, back to the present — the sixth year.

Kabir sat at the edge of the bed, his shirt half-buttoned, watching Mira quietly as she pulled her hair into a loose bun. The air between them was still warm from the closeness they'd just shared, but something unspoken clung to the silence.

He cleared his throat. “You remember Goa?”

She smiled faintly. “You asking me if I remember the night I wrote the first rule of this madness?”

“I mean, do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we’d never met at that bar?”

“No,” she said softly. “Because then I wouldn't have had these six nights to look forward to. That’s enough.”

But her voice had a tremor. And he caught it.

Kabir leaned back on his palms, exhaling slowly. “Back then, I thought it was just one of those intense, impulsive things. But even the first year… I stayed awake after you slept. Just watching you breathe. That doesn’t happen with flings.”

Mira stood still, her back to him. Her reflection in the window looked like a painting — poised, distant, unreachable.

She didn’t respond.

He continued. “And I never went back to Goa after that. Didn’t want to rewrite the memory.”

She finally turned around. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we agreed.”

Kabir rose from the bed. “Yeah, we did. But who are we fooling, Mira? It’s been six years. This isn’t just lust. It’s not just ritual. I know it, and I think—deep down—you do too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was loud.

Mira sat down, her eyes distant. “I made that pact because I didn’t believe in forever anymore. Because the last man I trusted used my love as a weapon. Because I don’t want to give anyone the power to destroy me again.”

Kabir’s face softened. “I’m not him.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I am still me.”

He walked to her, knelt down. “Then let me remind you who you could be — with me.”

Her eyes welled up, just for a second. “Kabir, if we break the rules, what if it breaks us?”

“And what if we’ve already broken them by pretending we don’t care?”

She looked at him. Eyes that once held only memory now held fear — and hope.

“Stay,” she said.

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a plea.

It was an opening.

But Kabir stood slowly. His hands were gentle, but his voice was unsure. “Not like this. Not because you’re scared to be alone tonight. I want to stay when you want me to stay forever.”

He kissed her forehead.

And walked out.

The door clicked shut.

Mira sat frozen.

Then, almost involuntarily, her fingers brushed the bedsheet where his hand had been. Still warm.

Still real.

She whispered to the empty room, “I already do want you to stay.”

But the walls of Room 407 had heard many things over the years. And they never repeated any of them.

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