It had to have been, what, four years ago? Five? That one-line email in his inbox: I liked the black. He remembered it had piqued his curiosity. He had meant to reply to it when he had a spare moment, but then an important call had come in from Saigon, and there had been problems with the crackling line, and, once deciphered, more problems relayed, and it wouldn’t do; they couldn’t contain the situation, he would have to get over there right away.

He wondered when the image of Anaya’s naked body would replace the one that persisted in dogging him, wondered it only in the periphery of his consciousness, letting it happen without acknowledging it into existence. But Jay decided he should—he would—drink to her. Not from his usual decanter of Walker Blue, but a slow, mellow cup of Daiginjo. As he drank, he made a concentrated effort to stay on the bridge; to dive in now would be to drown. And when the sake started taking full effect, he determinedly sidestepped the memory of the shadow that had flickered across Anaya’s face and settled in her eyes after his fifth glass of clear gold liquid at the sangeet.

It passed so quickly that he didn’t really even have time to register it. Like a little lick of lightning, he felt a sudden jolt of thick, unadulterated, punch-to-the-gut sadness. It was a disconnected sort of sadness, though. Vir didn’t feel entirely in possession of it, sensed he was holding on to it for someone else. And yet, he felt very full, very filled, like he had eaten it out of another person, leaving behind an empty body, weightless and free.

His fingers itched to write about the sensation before the lingering after-effects evaporated, taking with them the spark of inspiration that he felt far too rarely these days. It had been so long since he had cracked open a spine, so long since he had stained his hands inky blue with a cheap old fountain pen and come out, on the other side of forty-two caffeinated hours, with thousands of words. Words full of him, full of the madness that made him want to weep for joy, for the relief of having released them and for how much like himself he had felt.

But that would have to wait, wouldn’t it? Vir was marrying Anaya. No, Virvardhan Dhillon was wedding Anaya Arora. It was done. The future had been signed. The future did not hold cracked leather spines weathered from constant dives into the pages. The future did hold, however, the distinct possibility of stratospheric success and contentment passable as happiness. That was something. That was definitely something.