Where The Rain Never Dies

A dim deteriorating part of the delhi where the rain never quite dries off the roads . The world feels like it’s always surrounded by mysteries. The story begins in a tattoo studio nestled between a bar that never closes and a shuttered bookstore. It smells like ink, antiseptic, and forgotten stories. The rain was a dull, relentless thrum against the iron roof of the crumbling tattoo studio—a sound Arjun usually found soothing. Tonight, it only sharpened the edge of his nerves. Each drop sounded like a verdict. A tiny, ceaseless accusation.Then came the click-click-click of her boots on the floor .

She was early. He didn’t turn, couldn’t. Instead, he focused on the stencil beneath his gloved fingers a coiled dragon, razor fine lines whispering of pain and transformation. The client flinched as the needle touched skin, but Arjun barely noticed. His own fingers trembled, a subtle quake he felt down to the marrow. Not now don’t let her that. Don’t let her see you .The machine’s low buzz filled the room like a growl. Familiar steady it was his anchor.

She stood by the counter arms crossed, backlit by the greasy glow of the streetlights through the fogged window. Still as stone silent watching. She always watched.There was something almost violent about how calm she looked like a woman who had made peace with chaos long ago.

Her name was Aksha. That was almost all he knew. She’d started working part time at the front a couple months ago. Said she needed somewhere quiet somewhere dark. She found both. And somehow she had found him too.She rarely smiled. When she did, it was never full. Just the barest curve at one corner of her mouth a flicker of something fierce and private. It didn’t make his heart skip. It wrecked him left him breathless, raw, aching for more than she ever gave.Arjun was a man shaped by silence. A man of ink and shadows and scars. He lived quietly but not by choice. His are shoulders hunched, voice low, never meeting eyes too long. His art was brilliant. He is gifted undeniably.But he never liked praise.Praise made his skin crawl. Every compliment felt like well crafted lie . Every kindness a trap. He didn’t know how to accept goodness without suspecting its cost.He saw himself as a flaw in motion. A wrong note in a quiet song. Mirrors weren’t tools they were punishments. And every glance told him what he already knew you are not enough . You will never be enough.

But Aksha… Aksha was a storm dressed in calm. A woman who wore silence like armor and weapon both. When she looked at him really looked he felt someone has stripped him . Her eyes didn’t just see him they peeled him apart. She cut through the practiced stillness, past the ink and the careful hands, and straight into the small, shaking boy who never learned how to be loved.And worse far worse was that he wanted her to do it.He craved her gaze like oxygen. He needed her attention, sharp and merciless as it was, to feel alive to feel real. He wanted her to find the hollow parts inside him and fill them with something violent and warm.He wanted her to keep looking, even if it tore him apart.Especially if it did.

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