The Monsoon Fling

His curls fell over his forehead like the story of someone not yet written. He sat at the desk, surrounded by papers and quiet, unaware that I was watching. I did not know who he was. Just a man in a place that wasn’t home, and yet for some reason, my smile stretched wide, almost silly, and I said, “Hiiiiii, I have a booking.”

It was raining the day I arrived. That kind of soft, endless rain that feels like background music to a memory still forming. The hostel felt warm and damp and alive. The air carried stories. And he, with his calm, unreadable face and soft rebellion of hair, felt like he had always belonged to the rain.

He was a volunteer. Always busy, always moving, yet somehow always finding me. It began with a cigarette, passed in silence on the balcony as the sky whispered secrets. We learned each other in slow moments, between breakfast shifts, cigarette runs, and late-night joint rolls on the stairs. The rain gave us shelter, and we used it as an excuse to never step outside.

The others knew. Of course they did. They giggled when we passed each other notes in the kitchen, smiled knowingly when I waited near the front desk just to catch a glimpse of him.

One night, the rain felt louder than usual. The hostel was asleep, and he slipped into my room like a secret too soft to keep. We kissed with the desperation of people who knew time was short. When he touched me, it felt like something important was unfolding beneath his hands. Slow. Honest. Like we were trying to memorize each other.

We made love with the urgency of a monsoon, thick air, tangled sheets, skin warmed by candlelight and closeness. It wasn’t just desire. It was a need to stay in the same breath, to fold into each other and disappear. I remember tracing his shoulder with my fingertips like I was trying to write a poem directly onto him.

After, we lay tangled together, rain tapping the window. I wanted more. More time. More of his voice in the dark. More mornings where I’d wake to him looking at me like I wasn’t temporary. The wanting didn’t stop. It still hasn’t.

We laughed. We made dumb jokes. We were friends wrapped in something deeper. And even though no promises were spoken, I felt the shape of one in the way he held me.

On the last day, it still rained. Of course it did. At the doorway, everyone sat across the lobby, pretending not to stare. He kissed me goodbye like we had lived a whole lifetime in that hostel. Like something had started, even if it had to end.

It was a fling, yes. But also a commitment. Even if only for the monsoon.

And I, foolish and full-hearted, still cannot let it go.

And well, the story's not over yet :)