Priya, a young woman from Andhra Pradesh, India, embarks on a journey to her family's beach house in Goa, where traditions intertwine with modern friendships. As summer unfolds, hidden feelings for Tristan, the older son of family friends, emerge. T...
The moment Tristan and I stepped through the doorway, Mom was red with anger. As I was heading to my room, she stopped me and asked where we had been. Aunt Jane, standing behind her, mimicked gestures for me to remain silent, indicating she might have already known my secret—that I'm working at the shack. I stayed silent. My stomach churned; the secret summer job at Peter's shack, a delicious thrill just hours ago, now felt like a ticking time bomb.
"Priya!" Mom's voice thundered, echoing through the hallway. "Pinky Aunty saw you at the shack, working as a waitress. Is that what you call responsible behavior?"
"In everyone's life, there are these kinds of nosy neighbor aunties ready to turn our lives into tragedies. Right now, I'm furious at Pinky aunty."
Mom continued, her voice tight with disappointment, "Working where adults drink? What if something happens? You're not a child anymore, Priya!"
My summer dreams of sun-kissed freedom were rapidly turning into a nightmare. I knew my mother was going to ground me for the rest of the summer.
But then, like a knight in shining armor, Tristan stepped forward. His voice, calm and collected, cut through the tension. "Aunty, what's wrong with Priya wanting to be independent? Learning the value of hard work? She's responsible, dedicated. And for studies, I'll help her manage her time. Math, especially."
He paused, his gaze meeting mine with reassuring warmth. "She'll still have fun, enjoy her summer. As for safety, I'll take care of it. Pick her up, drop her off. Everything alright with that, Aunty?"
My heart fluttered with relief. He was weaving a spell, his words charming away Mom's anger. "Alright," she finally agreed, a sigh escaping her lips. "But be careful, both of you. And Priya, focus on your studies. Math, especially."
Relief washed over me, My summer wasn't lost after all, thanks to Tristan. And in that moment, as his eyes locked with mine, a new feeling bloomed in my chest - admiration, deeper than ever before. This wasn't just a crush; it was something stronger, something thrilling and unknown.
I slipped into my pajamas, standing on the balcony, mesmerized by the sight of the sea and the swaying coconut trees in the breeze. A smile curved my lips as I recalled Tristan's charming defense earlier. My gaze then landed on him, seated on the deck with his legs dangling above the water, where we had spent countless summer days in laughter and sun-kissed memories.
"This is for you," I said, handing him a small package, watching his face light up as he unwrapped the framed picture. It depicted the hospital named "Jeevan Raksha" - the very name he had shared with me, expressing his aspiration to establish it one day. "This will keep you motivated," I explained. "I know how much this dream means to you."
But that wasn't all. I reached for another package and handed it to him. His eyes widened in surprise as he pulled out a Virat Kohli jersey, signed by the cricketing legend himself. With a grin, he swiftly exchanged his shirt for the jersey, and I couldn't help but admire the sight of him wearing it.
But there is more. I handed him a diary named "Northern Lights," the twin of my diary, and asked him to write his bottled feelings in it.
"Quite the reward for convincing aunt," he teased.
"Remember," I countered, "it's our tradition. Every summer, the day we arrive, I have gifts."
He winked. "Okay, cool. Thanks. Wait right here."
Tristan was back in a flash, books replacing his empty hands. A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he pulled out a pen drive. "Listen to this when you get home."
I was very curious to discover what was on the pen drive. He then handed me the books, saying, "These are fine literature books I found. They'll help with your writing."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, our conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked continuously for three hours about spirituality, dreams, food, relationships, books, content creators, travel, and childhood memories. There was no room for awkwardness or flirtatious comments between us. Our conversations flowed effortlessly, one topic seamlessly leading to another. Good conversations don't happen every day and they don't happen with everyone. It happens only when souls meet. I feel like a good conversation is the best romance. The best part is, we both have many similar interests. I can talk about whatever is on my mind with him; he doesn't make me feel weird. Instead, he becomes a part of that weirdness. Even if I keep talking about silly stuff, he pays attention, listens to everything, and even replies to it.
At one point, I confessed, "I don't know if I can become a good author one day. There's something lacking in my writing. I can't quite feel it. And my future seems like a big question mark." Suddenly, he started gazing intently at me. "You don't know the power you hold," he said softly, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "One day, you'll discover it." And then, hesitantly, our lips met. His touch was tender, exploring my neck while my fingers rested on his nape. It's like a drug, it's making me nauseous, but I want more. I had always been afraid and awkward about this moment, my first kiss. But with Tristan, it felt comfortable, gentle, and smooth. The man before me is like my world, my galaxy. That's it; this is all I want. God, do with all the men whatever you want, but this one man right before me, make him mine.
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I went to my room with excitement and plugged the pen drive into my laptop. There, I found songs by Taylor, sung by him. My favorite lyrics from my favorite man. Not a professional singer, but a summer night serenader, his gift touched my heart. This is the best gift. I'm going to keep it until I die. I can't believe he did this.
