Sitara Khanna, a twenty eight year old librarian, is an acid attack survivor. With a half burnt face but a heart full of determination and calibers to survive in the world, she missed a certain element in her life. Love.
Yash Chaudhary, a twenty ni...
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Sitara and I text almost nonstop leading up to our Saturday date. We probably exchange ten-thousand text messages. That's not an exaggeration. That is a very accurate estimate of the number of text messages sent back-and-forth between us.
I don't mention the date to my parents because I know Ma will make me crazy over it. I'll tell them the night of the date, maybe just as I'm leaving the house. Not before though. I'm already nervous as hell. I don't need my mother making me more anxious.
I don't go to the library again after the Storytime. As much as I want to go there and be with her, I don't want to distract her while she's working. Also, I know it sounds dumb, but I don't want her to see me and somehow change her mind about us going out. It's unlikely but not impossible. What if I go to the library and trip over a chair or something right in front of her? And then she thinks to herself, What the hell am I going out with a guy who can't see for?
Safer to avoid any chance of that. I'll wait for our date then I'll charm her best I can. I hope I get a kiss out of her. It's all I can think about.
On Thursday night, while I'm lying in bed, working my way through one of my braille books, I send her a text that says: Hey, I'm getting tired of having my phone read me your texts. Can I call you?
Her response comes after a minute: Sure.
I quickly call her.
The phone rings twice, and then the sound of her voice immediately makes me smile: "Hi, Yash."
"Hi, Sitara."
"What's going on?"
"I have to tell you," I say, "I like your voice so much better than the voice that reads me your texts."
She laughs. "What does that sound like? The voice that reads your texts, I mean."
"It's a female voice, at least. But it's British."
"British?"
"Yeah, it's not my first choice, but I can't figure out how to change it."
She laughs again. "I could try to figure it out for you."
"That's okay—I've gotten used to it. I'd miss her if it changed." I hesitate. "Although if there were any way to make it your voice, I'd take that."
"Don't you think that would be weird though? If your texts from, like, your dad were read in my voice?"
"Yes, that would be really weird. Now I'm glad I can't do that."
She laughs again.
"Sitara," I say, "can I ask you a question?"
There's a brief pause on the other line. "Sure."
"What do you look like?" I blurt out.
The second the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Way to sound shallow right before we're supposed to go on our first date. But the truth is, I'm dying to know. I've got a picture of Sitara in my head, and sometimes I wonder if it's entirely wrong. Like when I first met her, I imagined she was a little chubby, but when I took her arm to let her guide me, I could tell she's skinnier than I thought.
When she doesn't answer right away, I quickly add, "I'm sorry. That was a dumb thing to ask. You don't have to answer that."
"No, it's..." Her voice is soft. "I'm just wondering why you asked..."
"Just curious, I guess." My laugh sounds strangled, even to me.
"I wonder if the way I'm picturing you is right. Like... I don't even know your hair color."
"It's brown." Oh.
I clear my throat. "And, um, how tall are you?"
"Five feet, five inches."
"Perfect height," I joke. She doesn't laugh.
"I shouldn't have asked that," I say quietly. "I'm sorry. It doesn't matter what you look like."
"No," she says. "I can understand why you'd want to know. If I were you, I'd be curious."
"Well, it's just weird," I say. "Most of the people in my life who I talk to a lot, like my family and Dev—I already know what they look like. But we talk all the time and I've never seen you. And... well, obviously, I never will."
"Okay, so..." She pauses on the other line.
"What would you like to know?"
"I don't know. Um, is your hair straight or curly?"
"Straight."
"What color are your eyes?" "Brown."
Brown eyes. Brown eyes and straight brown hair.
"My eyes are sort of green," I say. She lets out a little chuckle.
"Yeah, I know."
Yeah, of course she knows. I'm the one who can't see. I wonder for a moment if she thinks I stare a lot, the way Dev says I do. I don't want to ask. It will just psych me out before our date.
"Sixty Two kilograms," she says out of nowhere. "Huh?" I say.
This time she giggles. "That's what I weigh. I'm sure you were afraid to ask."
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Also," she adds, "C-cup."
Oh man.
"Is there anything else you'd like to know?" she asks.
I close my eyes and picture this smart, sexy girl who is five feet five inches and one hundred and twenty pounds with straight brown hair, brown eyes, and perfect C-cup tits. I'm very happy with what I'm imagining.
"No, I'm good."
There's a long silence on the other line. "Yash," she says softly, "I should... I should probably..."
" No ," I interrupt her.
God, it was a dick move to ask the question in the first place.
The last thing I want is for her to have to explain and apologize for all her bodily imperfections. I'm not going to let her to do that.
"I told you, I'm good."
"Are you sure?" she presses me. "Very sure," I say.
I can't wait for Saturday night.
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Hmm...
50 comments and I'll upload the next chapter today itself!
