Morning arrived quietly. Soft golden sunlight slipped through the half-drawn curtains, warming the room inch by inch. Somewhere outside, faint sounds of utensils and distant conversation drifted through the palace corridors. Life had started moving again. Inside the room though, neither brother had moved much. Rishikesh was still asleep against the couch, head tilted slightly back, one arm securely around Aksh even now.
Sometime during the night the blanket had slipped halfway down, though neither seemed to care. And Aksh…Aksh was still asleep. Properly asleep. No tension in his shoulders. No furrow between his brows. No restless shifting every few minutes like his body expected danger. Just sleep. The sight alone would have stunned anyone who knew him well. The door opened carefully.
For the Flame to Burn, It Needs a Spark These words—these poems, musings, echoes of soul—they are pieces of me, offered to the void. If they’ve ever stirred something in you, made silence feel understood or chaos feel poetic… Then let your support be the wind beneath this fire. A small gesture. A mighty impact. Because art survives on love—and the occasional coffee. ☕✨
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