Discover with Saee

Part 2 of waterfall series

She walked away, her footsteps soft against the grass, the fireflies settling again as if nothing had disturbed them. But everything inside her was disturbed. Her chest felt tight, breath shallow, as if she’d been holding it since she’d first heard his voice. The night swallowed her figure, but she knew he was watching, just as she could still feel the weight of his gaze.

He stayed where he was, standing on the rock, wet clothes clinging to him, the cool breeze biting at his skin. But he barely felt it. He watched her until the shadows took her, until he could no longer see the outline of her hair, or the sway of her walk. Only then did he sink down onto the blanket, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

The night stretched on. Neither of them slept.

When dawn broke, soft and pink over the mountains, the village stirred slowly to life. The air was crisp, the fields misted with dew, and the first birdsong broke the quiet. He stood at the guesthouse gate, hesitating. The place hadn’t changed—the white walls, the red bougainvillea, the green gate just as he remembered. Yet everything felt different.

He found the key where it had always been. His hand trembled as he picked it up.

Inside, the room welcomed him with its quiet simplicity—the white walls, the old wooden bed, the balcony facing the fields. It smelled faintly of wood polish and the flowers outside. He set down his small bag and stepped out onto the balcony. The morning light spread across the fields, warm and golden, but it was the sight of her—walking between the trees at the edge of the garden, gathering fallen mangoes—that drew his eyes.

She hadn’t seen him yet. She moved gracefully, unaware of his gaze, hair loose around her shoulders, the skirt of her simple cotton dress brushing the grass. He remembered every curve, every tilt of her head, every small, unconscious gesture. And he felt that same pull, deep and quiet, that had haunted him for five years.

He stayed there, watching, until she finally glanced up. Their eyes met across the distance. She didn’t look away, nor did she smile. Just a long, silent look that said everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say out loud.

Then she turned, and with the basket of fruit in her arms, walked back towards the kitchen.

Breakfast was quiet. The other guests chatted softly at the long table under the mango tree, but between him and her, words felt too heavy, too dangerous. She brought him his plate—poha, fresh fruit, strong coffee. Her fingers brushed his briefly as she set down the cup, and it was like a spark passed between them. She didn’t look at him, just moved on, as if the touch hadn’t happened.

He watched her as she worked, moving between the tables, checking on the guests, always composed, always gracious. But he saw it—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her hands lingered too long on the edge of a chair, the way she avoided the balcony that overlooked the pool.

And he felt it too—that tightness in his chest, the longing that clawed at him, kept in check only by sheer will.

After the meal, when the other guests drifted off on their day’s adventures, she lingered by the table, gathering plates, but not meeting his eyes.

“I’ll stay a few days, if that’s all right,” he said, his voice quiet, careful.

She didn’t look up as she stacked the plates. “Your room’s ready. It always was.”

And before he could say more, she turned and walked away, leaving him sitting there, the weight of everything unsaid between them thick as the morning heat.

The days passed, slow and quiet, wrapped in a fragile peace neither of them trusted. He stayed—helping with small repairs around the guesthouse, wandering the village, always finding himself drawn back to her orbit. And she let him stay, let him linger, though every glance, every brush of his presence, frayed the edges of her resolve.

They spoke little. What could be said that would ease the ache between them? It was all there, in the silences, in the stolen glances, in the way her breath caught when she sensed him behind her, in the way his hands clenched at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her.

One evening, the rains came.

It started with the soft patter on the leaves, then built into a steady rhythm that drowned out even the cicadas. The air smelled of earth and rain and something wilder. She stood at the edge of the veranda, watching it fall, arms crossed over her chest as if to keep herself together.

He came out quietly, drawn by the sight of her. The rain blurred the world beyond the garden. It felt like they were the only two people left.

She didn’t turn, but she knew he was there.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly, more to herself than him.

“So are you,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her breath hitched. His voice, so close, so raw, broke through the wall she’d tried to build around her heart. She closed her eyes, but it was no use—the memory of his hands, his mouth, his warmth flooded back with a force that stole her strength.

She felt him behind her now, nearer than before. Not touching—but she could feel the heat of him, the tension in his body.

“Don’t,” she whispered. But she didn’t move.

“I’ve tried not to,” he said, voice low, as if the storm outside might overhear. “But I can’t.”

And then his hand was at her elbow—light, hesitant. When she didn’t pull away, he let his fingers trail down to her wrist, his thumb brushing the inside where her pulse raced. The simple touch undid her. Her arms dropped to her sides. She exhaled, shaky.

He stepped closer. His forehead lowered until it rested against the side of her head, just above her temple. His breath warmed her skin. She stood still, afraid even to breathe.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

Her eyes filled with tears, the rain outside echoing the storm inside her. “You broke me,” she said, voice shaking.

“I know.” His hand lifted to cup her jaw, gentle, reverent. “I hate myself for it.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. But then she turned, slowly, and their faces were inches apart. The rain cast silver streaks beyond them, but all she saw were his eyes—pleading, full of regret, full of want.

And then the restraint shattered.

She rose onto her toes, and his mouth found hers in the same breath. The kiss wasn’t hurried, wasn’t wild—it was the meeting of all that had been held back, all that had ached in silence. His arms wrapped around her, drawing her in, as if to make up for every moment lost. She clutched his shirt, feeling the tremor in his body, knowing it mirrored her own.

When they broke apart, breathless, foreheads resting together, neither spoke. Words would only break the fragile magic of the moment. The rain kept falling, but the storm between them had found its release.

For now.