baby nose

I was told I have a baby nose by a guy obsessed with Indian cows.

“Look at that baby nose of yours!”

“What does that even mean, G?”

“It means there are bumps on your nose like a newborn’s. It’s unusual and adorable.”

“It’s weird of you to notice it, lol.”

“Can I eat it?”

“Absolutely NOT!”

How absurd to have met this golden-haired man through the dead ritual of swiping left and right. What begins as boredom will soon be archived as a story of the past, a little myth of they did it for love. So I write it here before we stop texting, before it slips into folklore.

Your eyes were the colour of the ocean after a storm—grey, green, blue, ash, all at once. I know because I stared too long, trying to name them, while you stared into mine.

You were coming to pick me up while I wrestled with clothes. Shraddha peeked in, her smile already knowing.

“I have a date and I don’t know what to wear!” I screamed listlessly.

“Wear whatever. He’ll like you anyway,” she said.

“Is this too much? Do I look like a child?” I asked, wearing a Minnie Mouse crop top and ripped shorts.

She didn’t disagree. I collapsed on the bed like a dying heroine. “My hair isn’t dry and he’ll be here in five minutes. I don’t want the potential love of my life thinking I look like Fido Dido on our first date!”

Then you texted. I ran.

There you were—blue shirt, denim, damp hair—pacing, waiting like a scene already set.

“Hey Kriti!”

“Hello! Nice to meet you finally.”

“Can I hug you?”

“Yes, of course!”

“You smell so good.”

“I like your shirt.”

Breezy compliments. Breezy conversations. Breezy rides. We spoke of feminism and world order, disagreed, stayed open to discomfort. I liked your patience. I traced your dimples with my eyes while you explained how England is politically fucked. It was easy, all of it. I messaged my best friend while you looked away, ordering watered-down jasmine tea: “He’s hot. He’s DEFINITELY coming home with me.”

Wind in my hair as you drove, your mirror tilted just to catch me. The beach. The horizon swallowing the sun. Pink skies, wet hair, your hand in mine. I felt you leaning closer. Remember when we ran on the beach? You carried my bags, bent to help with my shoes. Kind. Romantic. And I remember the men too.

“They’re staring. Fuck them.”

“Let me help you.”

You raised your film camera, pointed it at them.

“You’re crazy, G!”

“No, why aren’t they looking at you now? Is it the camera?”

“Come back. Let’s go.”

I laughed. You laughed. I couldn’t wait to hold you.

Intimacy is a wound for me. Men have called me too much, then left me sobbing into midnight. I am hot and desirable until I am not. Until my body is theirs but my heart is mine. That part, they never want. I was scared to touch you. Do you know I was afraid you might have a weapon in your bag? That’s how women fear men, G. Even when we fight them, we’re still terrified of them.

Yet in those fever-dream days, I opened myself to you, a stranger, after four long years. It felt like a crime but also like a ritual that had to be performed. To learn how raw my wounds still were, despite all the sutures I had stitched within, I had to walk into the hunting ground. I had to risk being prey. And so I did. And so did you. We both knew you were leaving soon, but it felt sinful not to give ourselves fully to the fire.

You are silly, adorable, passionate, informed, considerate, annoying, annoyed, romantic, a little distant, sometimes oblivious, sexy, handsome, present, distracted, politically charged.

Then the day came. You had to leave. The night before, we simply held each other and stared. Days of no sleep pressed on our eyelids, but we clung to the hours. Sleep would return. This would not. The next morning, I dropped you at the airport. You cracked a girlfriend joke. I didn’t mind.

“Come with me to Bombay,” you said.

“No, G. It’s time. You must go,” I replied, eyes stung with tears.

“Please.”

“Go.”

I watched you walk away. I cried. You joked about running behind the car, and I laughed through my grief. Was I falling in love? No. Too soon. You hadn’t seen me unravel yet. I hadn’t seen you grow cold. But there was love. There was love.

I returned home, heavy with the echo of your laughter, your silliness, your warmth in the mornings. My friend, who I hadn’t seen in two years, was waiting. It felt wrong to greet him with a heart still damp. But we hugged. And I felt safe.

12:30 p.m.

“Where’s G? He left?”

“Yes. I just dropped him off,” I said with a painful smile.

“Where is he?”

“Bombay.”

“Do you want to go?”

“You’re not serious.”

“Dude, let’s go.”

“Waheed, you just arrived. I can’t ask you to do this.”

“Let’s go, Kriti.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Surprise him. He’ll love it.”

18:00 p.m.

“I cannot believe this. Is this absolutely crazy?” I said, staring into nothing.

“Yes. But it’s amazing,” Waheed assured.

“What if he gets scared and asks me to leave?”

“Then we have three days in Bombay together.”

“This is crazy.”

“Yes. Chalo, fasten your seatbelt.”

It’s not that I’m incapable of madness. I just fear showing it because people say I’m too much. But this was new, G. I didn’t know how you’d respond. I was scared you’d shut me out too. I didn’t expect this to become anything lasting, but in that moment—it was everything.

We arrived. I lied to you, sent old photos, cloaked my trail. Did you know? Maybe. I joked about seeing you that night; you didn’t believe me.

“Leaving for airport now,” I texted, thirty minutes away.

“Ok.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just tired.”

“Okay, get some rest.”

“I’ll try.”

“I’m kidding.”

“I know you’re kidding. I’m a little upset. At least now I know you’re not coming. Why joke like that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll call you.”

“I don’t want to speak actually.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I genuinely thought you were coming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Then—silence. Undelivered texts. Twenty minutes away and I felt abandoned, foolish. I wanted your face lit up with surprise, three more days pressed into my palms. I scrambled for a plan B. But then you came around. I told you I was in Bombay. You didn’t believe me. I sent my live location. You called me an absolute bitch. And then I saw you—in ten. Handsome as ever, brown shirt tucked in, flawless hair, kind eyes, smiling in disbelief. You pulled me close.

I knew the next three days would be intimate, raw, maybe conflicted. But isn’t that the work of love? We sit with it. I saw your wounds. You saw mine. We weren’t perfect. Not to ourselves, not to each other. But we tried. In those three days, I built resilience, tenderness, patience, love, space.

Now you are 5.5 hours behind. We speak sometimes, soft, fond, knowing it will fade. How did we do it, G? How did we brace for impact? Is love a choice? Because we chose it, acted on it, and knew when to let go.

That final morning—6:30 a.m. Your alarm went off. You snoozed it.

“Five minutes, please,” you murmured, pulling me closer.

“I have to let you go,” I whispered.

“Five minutes.”

“Let me go, G.”

“Stay. Five minutes.”

It stretched into eternity. And in that eternity, I let you go.

Love, I’ve learned, is not always the clutching, feverish thing we are taught to crave—it can also be the patience of opening your palm and letting the bird fly, even as your skin remembers the weight of it. To love is sometimes to resist the urge to grasp tighter. It is to sit with the ache of absence and still call it tenderness. Letting go, in its truest form, is not abandonment; it is trust—that what was shared has already altered you, and that is enough. The love I gave you is yours to keep, G. What you do with it is your choice.

“I must let you go now,” I told myself, facing the mirror.

“Wait.” I leaned closer.

“He was right.” I traced my face.

“I do have a baby nose.” I smiled.

love,

k