🖤 To Love You Was Not a Sin

This isn't just a story. It's a confession

Some things start slowly.

A glance.

A joke.

A night that doesn’t end with goodbye.

This is what longing looks like before it’s allowed to bloom.

❁ Chapter Two: Something Almost

Krit had always been good at ignoring things.

His father’s expectations. His own loneliness. The whispers that came after that boy in Bangkok—the one he was forced to forget. The way his reflection looked at him sometimes like it didn’t recognize who he’d become.

And now?

He was trying to ignore Mihir Kapoor.

Mihir didn’t flirt like other boys.

He didn’t use pickup lines or overt touches. He didn’t toss compliments around like candy.

He lingered. With glances. With words that meant two things. With jokes that hit just a little too close to the heart.

“You need to learn how to relax,” Mihir said one evening in the drawing room, lying upside down on the couch, bare feet in the air.

Krit had looked up from his book. “I’m relaxed.”

Mihir smirked. “You’re gripping that page like it owes you money.”

Months passed.

Meera began calling Mihir "impossible" with growing fondness.

Kartik referred to him as "your chaos factory."

And Krit?

Krit stopped referring to him at all.

But he watched. Always.

The way Mihir’s laughter filled a room. The way his mind moved fast and sharp. The way he treated everyone—from the chef to the chai delivery boy—with ease and kindness.

And every now and then, Mihir would catch him watching.

And he’d wink.

Like he knew.

On Mihir’s last week before college, things shifted.

They were alone in the garden—Krit pruning the bonsai tree, Mihir throwing pebbles into the pond.

“You never tell me anything,” Mihir said suddenly.

“About what?”

“About you.”

Krit didn’t look up. “There’s not much to say.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Krit set down the scissors. “You’re going to college in a week. Shouldn’t you be thinking about your future instead of trying to excavate mine?”

Mihir grinned. “Maybe I want both.”

Krit raised a brow. “Greedy.”

Mihir took a step closer. “Curious.”

Krit’s voice dropped. “Dangerous.”

They were too close now. Again.

Mihir’s voice lowered. “You don’t scare me.”

“You should.”

But Mihir just smiled. That damn smile. “I’ll write to you.”

Krit didn’t reply.

But later, when no one was watching, he saved Mihir’s first email.

And the second.

And every one after that.

College came and went like a season.

And Mihir, for all his chaos, wrote with discipline.

He sent:

Long, messy thoughts about art, books, and heartbreaks he never named.

The occasional selfie with a smug caption: “Miss me yet, Uncle?”

And sometimes, just one line:

“Do you think of me when it rains?”

Krit never replied.

But he read.

Every word.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Three: The Homecoming

The rain had started early that morning, a slow drizzle that clung to the red-and-white facades of South Kolkata like silk over marble. The city smelled of wet earth, petrichor, and old secrets—familiar, heady, and unforgiving.

Krit Suthamchai adjusted the cuffs of his navy kurta, standing just inside the carved teak doorway of the Suthamchai ancestral home. The house, a stately sprawl of colonial columns and modern gloss, had always been a physical reminder of the family’s affluence and control. It was less a home and more a legacy—with eyes in the walls, secrets under the floorboards, and pressure in the air thick enough to crush a grown man’s soul.

Krit had never liked coming back.

“Are they here yet?” came Kartik’s voice, soft but sharp with excitement. His younger brother entered the hallway, carrying two cups of masala tea like he hadn’t aged a day. His smile was brighter than it had any right to be this early in the morning.

“They landed an hour ago,” Krit replied, taking the tea but not drinking it. “Knowing Mihir, he’s probably flirting with the immigration officer.”

Kartik chuckled, clearly unfazed. “He only flirts with people he likes.”

Krit gave him a look. Kartik only smiled deeper.

The car pulled into the driveway like a cinematic entrance—black, sleek, and obnoxiously well-timed. As the door swung open, Mihir Kapoor emerged in a flourish of patterned shirts, rolled sleeves, and effortless charm.

He looked like summer and rebellion.

“Namaste, Kolkata!” Mihir shouted dramatically, arms thrown wide to embrace the rain. His laughter rang through the courtyard as he twirled once under the gray sky, rain spotting his cheeks and shirt. “I’m home!”

Krit sipped his tea. “He’s loud.”

“And you love it,” Kartik said, patting his brother on the back and walking off to greet his wife.

Krit stayed where he was.

And that’s when Mihir looked at him.

For the briefest moment, the world dipped out of focus—like a camera lens catching on the wrong subject. Their eyes locked across the tiled veranda, and for a second, Mihir’s dramatic flair vanished. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He just… looked.

Krit felt that look like a tug behind his ribs.

Then the spell broke. Mihir beamed and bounded up the steps, two at a time.

“Uncle Krit!” he grinned, his accent bouncing between Indian warmth and foreign rhythm. “Still handsome. Still brooding. Still allergic to emotions.”

Krit frowned. “You’ve grown.”

“Lies. I’ve always been devastatingly gorgeous.”

Krit blinked. Mihir laughed.

That evening, the house was filled with the echo of voices, music, clinking silverware, and the thrum of generational wealth. Meera fussed over everyone. Kartik played diplomat between his wife and the overbearing family elders. The old patriarch, Kaushik Suthamchai, sat at the head of the long dining table like a silent judge, nodding occasionally but mostly brooding in silence.

Mihir sat beside Krit.

Far too close.

“Do you always look this tense when someone smiles at you?” Mihir whispered during the soup course.

“I’m just not used to people being so... performative.”

“Performative?” Mihir raised an eyebrow. “Darling, I’m a symphony. You should try enjoying the show.”

Krit didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away, either.

Later that night, long after the guests had left and the help had retired, Krit found himself outside on the terrace, nursing a half-drunk glass of whisky and watching the rain return.

“You always drink alone?” Mihir’s voice came from behind.

Krit didn’t turn around. “I don’t like noise.”

“That’s tragic. Because I am noise.”

He walked over and leaned on the railing beside Krit, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

“You know,” Mihir said softly, voice losing its playful edge, “I used to wonder what you were like. I saw pictures. Heard stories. But none of them really captured this version.”

Krit looked at him. “What version?”

“The one that hides thunder in his bones.”

Krit’s throat tightened. He looked away.

“You should get some sleep,” he said finally.

Mihir didn’t move. “I think I just woke up.”

And then, like the rain itself, he was gone.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Four: The Breakfast Table Battlefield

The next morning, the Suthamchai mansion was already buzzing before 8 a.m. The smell of ghee, toasted spices, and Meera’s signature ginger chai drifted through the marble halls like an invitation—or a warning, depending on who you were.

In the dining room, Meera Kapoor-Suthamchai reigned like a benevolent queen, ladling out spicy aloo paratha with the efficiency of a general and the grace of a Bollywood matriarch.

“Mihir! Get off your phone and eat before your paratha gets cold,” she called out, already halfway through prepping a second stack.

“I’m texting Kamya,” Mihir called back from the hallway. “She wants a full report on everyone’s looks and emotional damage.”

Krit’s brow twitched as he entered, crisp in a charcoal shirt and slacks like he’d walked out of a boardroom and not a bedroom.

“You’re up early,” Mihir said, looking him up and down. “Did the stock market call and say it missed you?”

Krit sat across from him, expression unreadable. “Some of us have work.”

“Some of us have charisma,” Mihir grinned, biting into his paratha with way too much satisfaction.

Meera raised an eyebrow. “Language, Mihir.”

“What? I haven’t even started being inappropriate.”

Kartik entered next, ruffling Mihir’s hair as he passed. “Beta, don’t tease your uncle so early in the morning.”

“I wasn’t teasing. I was appreciating.”

Krit finally looked up, expression slightly sharper. “You have a strange definition of appreciation.”

Mihir grinned wickedly. “What can I say? I’m fluent in many languages—especially sarcasm and seduction.”

Krit scoffed quietly. “You forgot ‘shameless.’”

“Oh no, that’s a dialect.”

Halfway through breakfast, Mihir leaned in too close. “Uncle Krit,” he said in a mock-whisper, “are you always this serious, or is it just with me?”

Krit didn’t answer, but Meera did.

“He’s always been serious,” she said, without looking up from her tea. “But you do get under his skin faster than anyone I’ve seen.”

“Is that so?” Mihir’s eyes lit up. “Krit Suthamchai, beware—your facade is cracking.”

Krit shot him a look. “Pagal ho tum.”

The room went quiet for just a second.

Mihir blinked, caught off guard. “You just spoke in Hindi.”

Krit cleared his throat. “It slipped.”

Mihir smiled slowly. “Cute.”

Kartik snorted into his tea. “Aaj toh mazaa aayega.”

Later, Mihir followed Krit into the sunroom, pretending it was by accident. He found him reading a newspaper, glasses perched on his nose.

“You know,” Mihir said, flopping onto the chaise lounge, “you don’t have to pretend I’m not flirting with you. You can just... shut me down.”

“I thought I already had,” Krit said dryly, not looking up.

“Maybe. But I’m persistent. Also adorable.”

A pause. Then Krit finally lowered the paper.

“You shouldn’t joke like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because people might misunderstand.”

Mihir tilted his head. “And what if I mean it?”

Krit’s jaw tensed. His voice dropped low. “Bas karo, Mihir.”

Another slip. Another silence.

Mihir sat up. “You only speak Hindi when you’re irritated... or when your guard is down.”

“You should stop reading into everything,” Krit muttered.

“You should stop pretending you don’t feel anything.”

Their eyes locked.

But before anything else could be said, Meera’s voice echoed down the hall: “Krit, your father’s asking for you.”

Just like that, the moment shattered.

Krit stood, brushing past Mihir with only the barest glance.

Mihir whispered under his breath, “Yeh toh shuruaat hai, uncle.”

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

❁ Chapter Five: Of Ghosts and Gardens

The rain had stopped sometime in the afternoon, leaving the sprawling garden of the Suthamchai estate slick with dew and heavy with scent. The moon hung low over Kolkata’s skyline, hazy and watchful, casting silver shadows along the ancient stone paths that wound through Krit’s private sanctuary—the only place in the mansion untouched by his father’s legacy.

Jasmine vines twisted along the iron gates, and a few bougainvillea petals floated lazily in the koi pond.

Krit stood near the far corner, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, fingers curled tight around the rim. He stared down at a worn stone bench half-covered in moss.

It had been their spot, once.

His spot.

“Thai rak khong chan...” he murmured, voice barely audible.

(My love...)

He didn’t notice Mihir until a soft voice came from the pathway behind him.

“You talk to ghosts often, Uncle?”

Krit stiffened but didn’t turn.

“I assumed you’d be asleep,” he said, curt.

“I assumed you’d be less haunted.”

Silence.

Mihir approached slowly, barefoot, wearing loose linen pants and an oversized kurta that hung off one shoulder. His anklet jingled softly with each step, a careless contrast to the graveyard tension in the air.

“You come here a lot?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“This was my mother’s garden.”

“Beautiful. A little overgrown. Kind of like your emotions.”

Krit turned sharply, and Mihir grinned, unrepentant.

“You should stop sneaking around like this.”

“I don’t sneak. I drift,” Mihir said, settling onto the mossy bench with the confidence of someone who didn’t care about lines—especially not forbidden ones.

Krit sighed. “Baccha ho tum. You don’t understand these things.”

Mihir narrowed his eyes. “Twenty-two isn’t a baby, and neither is falling in love.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Oh?” Mihir tilted his head. “Then what is it, Krit? Hmm? Why do you keep running away like I’m dangerous?”

Krit took a long sip of his drink, silent.

Mihir stood and stepped closer—close enough that their shadows touched, then overlapped.

“I know about him,” Mihir said gently. “Your... Thai rak. Kartik told me once. In whispers.”

Krit’s jaw locked. “He shouldn’t have.”

“He only said it because I asked why you look like your soul is held together with cello tape.”

Krit barked a bitter laugh. “Khon rai. You shouldn’t say things like that.”

(Wicked boy.)

Mihir blinked. “Was that Thai?”

Krit looked away. “I said you’re trouble.”

“You like trouble,” Mihir whispered, suddenly bold.

Krit turned toward him. Their eyes met—one pair guarded and stormy, the other soft and shimmering like the last light before dusk.

“You think this is a game,” Krit said. “But it’s not. This—this would ruin you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Mihir said. “I need you to stop pretending you feel nothing.”

For a beat, there was silence. Then Krit said, low and broken:

“Toh phir kya karun, Mihir? Should I fall again and watch it be ripped away?”

(Then what should I do, Mihir?)

Mihir took his hand. “Maybe this time... let someone fight for you.”

Krit didn’t pull away.

But he didn’t hold on, either.

Somewhere in the house, Meera stirred from her reading and looked toward the window.

She saw two figures in the garden, silhouettes framed by moonlight and jasmine. Her expression tightened, but her eyes were unreadable.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

🖊️ Author’s Note

These chapters are the burn before the fire.

The soft pulling. The slow undoing. The "almosts" that hurt worse than silence.

Thank you for stepping into the quiet.

Tomorrow… we set things ablaze.

— Nox Veil

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

💬 Leave a Whisper...

What was your moment?

The line that stuck. The glance that lingered.

Drop your thoughts, theories, or a 🖤 in the comments.

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

📅 Coming Tomorrow:

✨ Chapter Six: The Old Photograph

✨ Chapter Seven: The Ghost and the Boy

✨ Chapter Eight: Rumors and Revolutions

✨ Chapter Nine: The Ultimatum

✨ Chapter Ten: House of Glass

✨ Chapter Eleven: Ashes

⋯ ❁ ⇝ ✦ ⇝ ❁ ⋯

💬 Follow me where the shadows linger:

Let’s stay veiled together.

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