This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers’ Group. This month, each of us examined the concept of ‘SEASONS’. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.
1.
Shortly after we exchange phone numbers, my screen lights up with the first text. A volley of playful messages follows, until we give in to a phone call. We speak in the nighttime, the chosen hour betraying a furtive thrill. Every utterance is a tease; the more we say, the more remains to be said. The night dissolves into crimson morning, awakening our conscience. In obeisance to the watchful daylight, we wait until nightfall, the sound of our voices a balm against the daily assault of mediocrity. The longing deepens into an abyss. We know where this ends—it doesn’t. We jump in.
2.
One of us says it first. To go first is risky, for you have dared to contain the thrill, to box it, to stamp it with a label. The words hang in the air for a moment that feels like an eternity. Is it too soon?, we both wonder. But once the three words are repeated, tone and lilt intact, the balance is restored. Sweet nothings are offered and returned, even and whole. We preserve the joyous equilibrium with weekend getaways, dinner reservations and movie nights that double as magnificent social media posts. But when no one’s looking, there are meal plans, grocery runs, utility bills, and the enduring discontent of an unequal division of labour. Monotony, monogamy, monogamy, monotony, until you can’t tell them apart. Cracks begin to appear along the decorated walls of our shared home.
3.
Like the sunshine in September that dims most imperceptibly, we’ve slipped into the autumn of our time together. The texts that once proclaimed love are first ignored, then left unanswered. The longing is gone, for we’ve had enough. You were the one to say it first; they will be the one to say it last. I love you is never a question, yet they choose to answer it for you, over and over again. What keeps us together is not devotion, but disbelief. Am I still the person they once loved, or was I never that person?
4.
One of us says it first. A different set of three words this time: I’m done. We feign surprise, as if we don’t know what is to happen next. The door cracks open, admitting the shadowy third who has always waited at the threshold. Never as a person, but always as an idea. This is the equinox, with the light and dark in equal measure. How it ends is also how it begins.
1.
The screen lights up with the first message, characteristically tentative, surely harmless. You already know what follows, but I’ll tell you what changes. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen sink and the drone of the television in the drawing room give way to the lilt of laughter, doused with longing. The rhythm feels new, but it is old as time. The thrill returns, and so does the feeling that this might last forever. For a while, it does. Until, as always, it doesn’t.
You can read the other essays in this series here:
Seasons of Change by Devayani Khare, Geosophy
Seasons of Change by Aarti Krishnakumar
Bengaluru Weather: Our Greatest Love Affair by Vikram Chandrashekar, Vikram’s Substack
#10 On Seasons By Siddhesh Raut, Shana, Ded Shana
The deck of Seasons by Siddarth RG, Siddarth’s Newsletter
Festival Season by Rakhi Kurup , Rakhi’s Substack
One Long Summer Afternoon by Mihir Chate, Mihir's Substack
In Glory of Monsoon and Love by Aryan Kavan Gowda, Wanderings of a Wanderer
How to steal a summer by Sailee Rane, Sunny climate stormy climate
Seasons will come and go by Priyanka Sacheti, A Home for Homeless Thoughts
A rain song that makes you wonder what season it is by Eshna Benegal, The Deep Cut
A Season for Murder by Gowri N Kishore, About Murder, She Wrote.
What I Remember by Avinash Shenoy, Off the walls
Phobjikha by Ayush, Ayush’s Substack
Feels like Spring by Shaili, Lit Curry
Brilliant! Love how the circular structure captures the relentless pattern of romantic cycles perfectly. There's something profound about how endings begin long before we admit them.
I liked what you did with the prompt, Richa. 'Everything has its time' came through nicely. Well written.