Valentine’s Day in Vizag wasn’t meant to be special for me.
The city was beautiful, sure—sunlight dancing off the waves, warm golden sands. Lovers dotting the shoreline like scattered pearls—but I wasn’t one of them. Not today. Not this year.
I walked along the promenade. A hoodie pulled over my head like armour against the smug happiness. The salty breeze tangled my hair. It carried snippets of laughter, the sound of scooters zipping by, and the scent of cheap perfume and street food. It was everything the city had to offer—alive, radiant, loud.
And there I was. Just another guy watching the world couple up around him.
No dinner plans. No flowers. No calls, texts or surprises. Just me, my overused hoodie, and my phone, which I unlocked out of habit, not hope. I opened a dating app. Not because I believed in serendipity, but because I was bored. Lonely? Maybe.
But mostly bored. I wasn’t really looking. My thumb moved lazily across the screen, swiping left more out of reflex than judgment. Profile after profile blurred into each other. Filters. Pouts. Gym selfies. Quotes from Rumi and Rabindranath Tagore.
Then… her.
No filters. No exaggerated poses. Just her—a dusky, confident face framed by long, dark hair. Her eyes stared straight into the camera, like she knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it.
The neckline of her black top dipped just enough to be bold, but not attention-seeking. It was natural. Unapologetic.
Her bio was just five words: “Not for the faint-hearted.”
I hesitated. Then swiped right.
It’s a match!
My heart did a stupid little jump. I chuckled at myself and sent a message before I could overthink it:
“Honestly, I didn’t think someone like you would swipe on someone like me. I feel lucky already.”
I didn’t expect a reply. But she typed back almost immediately:
“Send your WhatsApp number.”
No emojis. No small talk. Direct. Disarming.
I blinked at the message, unsure if this was real or a prank. But curiosity—and something else I couldn’t name—pushed me forward. I typed my number and sent it.
Seconds later: unmatched.
Just like that. Gone.
I stared at the empty screen, stunned. Then… laughed. She came in like a spark and disappeared like smoke. No name. No history. Just that one jolt of connection.
I told myself to forget it. Probably some elaborate joke or a bot or who knows what. I shrugged it off.
But then, on Valentine’s Day, at 6:04 PM, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I stared at it, heart thudding. Something told me to answer.
“Are you still in Vizag?” a low, smooth voice asked.
I froze.
“Yeah… who’s this?”
“Rishikonda Beach. 7 PM. Come alone.”
Click. She hung up.
I sat there, my phone still pressed to my ear, even though the line had gone dead. A mix of excitement and confusion surged through me. Was it really her? Why now? Why me?
I didn’t ask questions. I just went.
By 6:50 PM, I was standing on Rishikonda Beach.
The sky was dipped in gold. The sun had already kissed the horizon, leaving a trail of orange and pink behind. Waves crashed rhythmically against the shore. Couples ambled past hand-in-hand. The breeze was cooler than I remembered.
I stood near a set of stone steps leading down to the sand. I tried calling the number back.
She picked up.
“Almost there,” she said. “Ten minutes.”
I exhaled. “Okay.”
Those ten minutes turned into thirty. Then forty-five. Then sixty. The beach was quieter now. The vendors were packing up. The sun was long gone, leaving behind a dusky blue sky and a crescent moon.
I checked my watch. 7:52 PM. I was about to leave.
And then… I saw her.
Walking slowly down the steps. Black top. Tight jeans. Hair blowing wildly in the breeze. She was maybe 5’5″, with curves that caught my eye instantly and that same confident, disarming energy from her profile.
Our eyes met. She smiled. Then walked right up and hugged me.
“Sorry for the wait,” she murmured. “I had to be sure you’d actually show up.”
Her voice was deeper in person, smooth like honey with a husky edge. I could feel her warmth, smell her—something soft and musky and addictive.
We started walking. No direction, just movement. Away from the noise. Toward the darker, quieter part of the beach. Our footsteps sank into the cool sand. The waves grew louder as the world around us faded.
We talked. About nothing. About everything. Names. Work. Music. Travel. Her laugh was easy, her sarcasm quick. She teased me. I flirted back. Her fingers brushed mine once—accidental, I thought. But the second time felt intentional.
She stopped. I turned toward her, heart pounding. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even think. I leaned in and kissed her.
She didn’t hesitate. Her lips met mine with hunger. She pulled me closer, hands on my neck. I wrapped my arms around her waist, feeling her press into me.
That kiss was heat and salt and wind and fire all at once. We kissed like we’d done it before. Like we were picking up from somewhere we left off in another lifetime.
When we finally pulled away, breathless, she bit her lip and said, “I want to come with you. Not to a hotel. To your place. Hostel, whatever. That excites me more.”
We laughed. I made a quick call to my landlord and spun a story about a cousin visiting from Hyderabad. He wasn’t thrilled, but I managed to get a hesitant yes.
We stopped by a nearby pharmacy. She grabbed a pack of condoms and a bar of Dairy Milk Silk. At the counter, she winked at me. I was both aroused and terrified in the best possible way.
We reached my room a little after 9:30 PM. The door hadn’t even fully closed when she pushed me against it and kissed me again—harder this time. Clothes came off in a blur.
My hoodie. Her top. Her jeans. My shirt. Bras. Boxers. Everything dropped to the floor between kisses. We stumbled to the bed, half-laughing, half-breathless.
Her body was real. Not the airbrushed kind. The kind you want to memorise with your hands. Warm. Soft. Wild. Her skin against mine sent electricity through every nerve.
She climbed on top of me, hair falling like a curtain around my face. She kissed my neck, whispered something I didn’t catch, then sank into me with a gasp.
We didn’t just have sex. We melted into each other.
Fast. Slow. Rough. Gentle. Her moans were like a secret I didn’t deserve to hear. My name on her lips felt sacred. The way her fingers dug into my shoulders, the way her body responded to mine—it was all too much and not enough at the same time.
We stopped only to kiss. To catch our breath. To nibble on the chocolate she’d bought. To laugh. It wasn’t pornographic. It was something else. Something raw. Something intimate.
We dozed in each other’s arms, naked, tangled in sheets and warmth and sweat.
Around 6 AM, I woke up to her still beside me—hair messy, back bare, skin glowing in the pale morning light. I watched her sleep for a moment, then kissed her shoulder.
She stirred. Smiled. Kissed me like it was the end of the world.
We did it again. Slower this time. Familiar. Smiling. Like a memory we were carving into each other’s skin. After, she helped me get ready. Teased me while I shaved. Wore my hoodie as she brushed her hair. We didn’t talk about what this meant. We didn’t need to.
She booked a cab. I booked mine for work. At the door, she kissed me once more and said, “See you around, stranger.”
We did see each other again. Not regularly, but often enough.
Weekends when we were in town. Long texts that turned into voice notes. The occasional call late at night. No labels. No promises.
Just… connection.
And that night—Valentine’s night—remained untouched. Pure. A memory I revisited whenever life felt too dull or too heavy.
She came with the waves. Unexpected. Beautiful. Gone before I could ask what came next. And no matter where life takes me, I’ll always remember her.
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