Page 11 of Drunk On Love

The silence pressed in too thick, the cottage too still. So I stepped outside, barefoot, letting the ocean breeze slap me awake.

The beach was quiet, moonlight streaking the water like silver threads. I walked toward it, not thinking—just trying to breathe through the weight I’d carried for two years.

Shivanya Patel.

Her name still felt like a bruise.

I stopped at the shoreline, eyes locked on the horizon. The waves kept coming. Relentless. Indifferent.

They asked if I had something to do with her disappearance.

They asked if I still planned to propose.

I had the ring.

She never saw it.

Last time I saw her, it was chaos.

And after that, just… nothing.

No goodbye. No closure.

Just headlines. Whispers. Accusations.

And no matter how tightly I shut my eyes or how deeply I tried to breathe, it didn’t stop. The memories come back—uninvited and relentless. Haunted memories.

The ocean whispered in the dark, waves lapping gently at the shore.

I found Kiara lying on a lounge chair, eyes closed, her feet swaying like she was floating between dreams.

“Good morning?” I said quietly.

She jumped, fumbling with her phone. “Holy shit—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“I live here, remember?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe you're secretly the serial killer I hired as my chef.”

“Highly probable,” I said, sitting beside her. “You seem like the type who’d hire danger.”

She didn’t laugh. Just looked up at the stars. “Can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

A pause stretched between us—comfortable, like shared silence was something we were both starved for.

“Wanna play a game?” I asked.

She turned slowly. “Are we twelve?”

“Truth or dare.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

I shrugged. “Keeps the insomnia interesting.”

“Fine. One round. Truth.”