I still remember the first time I heard her voice. It was raining, and the power had gone out again. Everyone was on their balconies, fanning themselves in the humid dark. Then—her window opened, and she began to sing. Not for anyone. Just for the night. Just for the rain. I stood there, soaked, heart pounding like a dholak, knowing my life had changed. Now, weeks later, I’ve written a song. My song. Our song. But do I play it? Do I let her know it’s for her? Or do I keep it hidden, like all the other things I’ve never said?

The cassette is in my hand. Her window is open. The street is quiet. This is the moment.

But what if she laughs? What if her family finds out? What if… she already loves someone else?