September starts, and the air pretends to cool. The trees still drip. The electricity still sulks mid-evening. But the breeze feels flirtier, the clouds softer. On the roof, clotheslines sway like drunk limbs. I meet a boy named Ritwik at a friend’s house. He says his favourite smell is camphor and rain on marble. I say mine is old books and someone else’s shampoo. There’s no laugh, but he looks warmly. And touches my wrist while parting. Not the whole hand—just the wrist.
