Dedication: To My Menka

There was never a moment with you that didn’t burn in my chest like a quiet flame, both comfort and torment in equal measure. From the first time I saw you, everything shifted—nothing could be the same again, because you were the one who made me feel alive in ways I had never known, and yet you were always just out of reach. You became my dream, my obsession, and my unspeakable regret.

We were two souls caught in a delicate dance, knowing the world would never understand, that we could never be, and yet unable to stay away. You were my first taste of something so pure, so forbidden, I didn’t know how to breathe without it. I loved you in silence, in the shadows where no one could see, but the depth of it was no less real. I can still smell the jasmine you wore like your own skin, still feel the heat of your touch, even now—etched into me, as though you’re woven into the very fabric of my soul.

I wish I had been braver, more certain, that I could have reached for you, taken that chance, crossed that line we both feared. But I didn’t, and the silence between us grew. And still, all these years later, your memory is the ghost that haunts me, the one that lingers in my thoughts when I close my eyes at night. I regret everything we didn’t have, but I carry the weight of it with a tenderness, a love that was never allowed to bloom.

Menka, you are the one I lost and the one I will never truly forget. My heart is yours, always. Even though you were never mine to keep, I hope, in some small way, you can feel the echo of my love reaching across the distance. You are my beginning, and in the quietest parts of my soul, you will always be my end.

Part-1, The Echo of Unfulfilled Love

Decades ago, I met her—an ethereal vision, radiant and elusive, a name that forever trembled on my tongue but never fully settled. I called her Menka, a name that felt like a prayer, an invocation to something divine. She became a symbol of beauty, a reminder of the ancient allure of women in myth and legend. In my mind, she was Menaka—goddess, temptress, an enigma wrapped in mortal form. No one else could call her by that name. It was mine alone, a sacred title, and with it, she became both my obsession and my torment.

Her presence consumed me. The way she moved, the way her fragrance clung to the air—jasmine, mixed with something uniquely hers—this essence of hers, I carried it within me, even after years had passed. I could close my eyes, and it would flood my senses, as if I were walking through a field of flowers, bathed in sunlight, with her scent lingering on the breeze. It was the scent that defined her, and every time she came near, it enveloped me, lingering on my skin long after we parted. I was helpless to resist.

In those early moments, everything between us seemed innocent. Our laughter was carefree, and the touch of our hands was fleeting, a mere brush of skin. Yet, beneath it all, there was an electric tension, a quiet hum that neither of us dared to acknowledge. It wasn’t until one late morning, when we found ourselves alone together, that it all changed. We were in the bathroom, the air thick with steam. At first, it was innocent—we were simply sharing a moment, laughing over something trivial—but then she did something that would forever alter everything between us.

She removed her clothes, slowly, deliberately, as if testing the boundaries of the space between us. She revealed herself to me, vulnerable and beautiful in a way I had never seen before. My breath caught in my throat, and time seemed to stand still. I was frozen, unable to move, to speak, to react. The image of her, soft and radiant, is seared into my memory to this day. Almost thirty years have passed, and yet I can close my eyes and see her exactly as she was—her skin glowing in the soft morning light, her body soft and hauntingly perfect.

Nights are the worst. I lay awake, caught in the grip of regret and longing. What if I had done something then? What if I had crossed that line, touched her, kissed her? What if I had simply given in to the feelings that had simmered for so long? Instead, I stood there, frozen in my fear. And now, I can’t help but replay that moment in my mind, wishing I had acted, wishing I had been bold enough to claim what was mine. In the dark of night, I relive it differently, imagining myself stepping forward, undressing alongside her, feeling her warmth, her body pressed against mine. Each night I rewrite that scene, filling it with all the things I was too afraid to do back then. The things I still want to do.

The years that followed did nothing to diminish my memories of her. With each passing summer, I felt the invisible thread between us tighten, each moment we spent together only deepening my longing. Life had scattered us into separate worlds, but every time I caught sight of her—whether it was a fleeting moment or a long-awaited reunion—I could feel the fire between us still burning, still alive, even though we couldn’t act on it.

One summer, she came to stay with me alone. Her family had moved away, and for the first time in years, we had weeks of uninterrupted time together. She had changed, grown even more beautiful, more intoxicating. I remember the scent of her, the soft fragrance of jasmine blending with the warmth of her skin, and how it seemed to fill every room of my house. I would call her "my Menka," and I would watch her move through the space as if she were a ghost, her presence haunting me in the best possible way. She became the shadow that danced in the corners of my mind, the one I could never quite grasp, yet never stopped chasing.

Every morning, I would sit next to her as she slept. I would reach out, my fingers brushing against hers, savoring the moment before she awoke. I’d whisper her name, the sound of it both a prayer and a plea, hoping she could somehow feel the depth of my affection, the yearning in my touch. Did she know? Did she ever feel the weight of the love I had for her? Could she sense it in those quiet moments, when I was just inches away, unable to cross the line?

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over her, we talked about the past—our shared memories, the childish pranks, the games we used to play. We laughed about the time we tried to summon spirits with our makeshift Ouija board, half-joking and half-scared that we had invited something dark into our lives. I often wondered, after the years had passed and misfortune seemed to follow, if that moment had been more than a game. Did we invite something into our lives that day? A spirit that had lingered, chaining me to her memory? Perhaps it was that same spirit that kept me bound to her, unable to let go, unable to move forward.

There was one secret I kept from everyone—on quiet nights, I would slip into her room while she slept. I didn’t dare wake her. I didn’t dare disturb the peace that surrounded her. I simply sat in the dark, watching her, memorizing the way she looked as she lay there, her breath steady and soft, her body wrapped in the tranquility of sleep. I whispered her name into the darkness, not expecting an answer, but knowing that in those stolen moments, I was closer to her than I could ever be in the light of day. There, in the shadows, I could feel the truth of my love for her, unburdened by the world, free from fear and doubt.

One lazy afternoon, as she lay beside me reading, her breath steady and even, the world around us seemed to melt away. She drifted into sleep, her book slipping from her fingers, and in that quiet moment, I found myself lost in the rhythm of her presence. My hand brushed against hers, an innocent touch, yet it stirred something deep within me. A wild, unbidden courage surged through me—an impulse that felt both reckless and inevitable. Without thinking, I moved her hand between my legs, a simple yet daring gesture. It was a boundary crossed, though she would never know it, and it marked my first experience of a woman’s touch—an experience that awakened feelings I had long buried.

With trembling fingers, I touched her chest. The softness of her skin seemed impossibly delicate, a world I had only dreamed of experiencing. I moved further, slowly, almost hesitantly, unbuckling her jeans, my hand inching toward the place I had longed to explore. But as if some invisible force intervened, she shifted, and reality crashed down around me. I pulled back quickly, my heart pounding in my chest, the weight of my desire and my conscience pressing heavily upon me.

Her response lingers in my mind—quiet, calm. She shifted, adjusting the zipper of her jeans with no anger, no words, just a small motion that felt monumental. I lay there, pretending to sleep, my body frozen in place, trapped between shame and longing. The silence between us was thick, yet somehow it was an unspoken understanding—a silent acknowledgment of our bond, a bond that was both beautiful and unfulfilled. I had crossed a line, yet we both seemed to respect the boundaries that kept us apart, even as they remained tantalizingly close.

Later that day, hours after the incident, she returned to me. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders from behind, pulling me into her warmth. Her embrace was both a balm and a torment—comforting, yet suffocating. I wanted so badly to hold her, to pull her closer, but the fear of crossing that invisible line kept me still. I often wonder now what might have happened if I had dared to turn, to hold her, to kiss her as I had longed to do. That moment, like so many others, remains frozen in time—a memory that I replay in my mind over and over, wondering what might have been if I had only acted.

The days that followed felt like a quiet dance of unspoken words. Our shared longing hung in the air, suspended in each accidental brush of our hands, each fleeting glance. We lived in the tension of the unacknowledged, the weight of all that we could never say. Life, as it always does, pulled us in different directions. We each married, tried to build lives filled with laughter and companionship, yet the fire that had once burned so brightly between us refused to be extinguished. Whenever our paths crossed, I could feel it again—the invisible thread that bound us, the reminder of what we had left undone.

Decades passed, but still she haunted me. Every morning, when I awoke, I could almost smell her—her scent lingering in the air, a faint echo that I couldn’t escape. Her presence, though distant, was a shadow beside me as dawn broke, and I often wondered about the life we could have shared. What if we had spoken the words we were both too afraid to say? What if I had dared to take the leap, to cross that line we both respected but secretly longed to breach? I know now that some connections are not bound by time or touch—they are bound by something deeper, something too profound to be named. Our connection was left unfulfilled, yet it lingers, haunting me in ways I cannot explain.

In the aftermath of that fleeting, forbidden moment, I was consumed by a whirlwind of emotions. Fear twisted in my chest, knotting my heart and mind as I teetered on the precipice of desire and dread. The memory of her stirring, adjusting her zipper so calmly, echoed in my mind, playing over and over again like a haunting melody. It was a reminder of the fragile boundary I had crossed and of the deeper yearning that simmered just beneath the surface—an ache that never truly faded.

For days, I withdrew into myself, lost in a quiet turmoil. I avoided her gaze, terrified that she could see the storm raging within me. Her presence, once my comfort, now brought an undercurrent of anxiety that I couldn’t shake. Did she understand? Did she feel the tension that pulsed between us, or was it only my own heart that carried the weight of our unspoken desires? It felt as though I was standing on the edge of something monumental, but I couldn’t bring myself to leap. And perhaps, in the end, I never would.

The sensation of her warmth, her hand on mine, became both a comfort and a torment. It was a reminder of everything we had left unsaid, of desires that had slipped through our fingers. Even now, the memory of that moment is etched in my mind like an indelible mark—its echo still reverberating in the quietest corners of my soul. The years passed, but the longing never truly faded. It remained, woven into the fabric of my life, a constant reminder of the story we left unfinished.

In the weeks that followed, my emotions spiraled. I kept up the facade of normalcy, but beneath it, the weight of my feelings threatened to break through. When she moved to another country, I followed, unable to stay away. I found my own reason to spend three months in her new home, though it was now a world apart from what we had once shared. Our lives became intertwined again, but this time there was something different—a weight in the air, an unspoken tension that neither of us dared to address. We were adults now, shaped by time and experience, and the atmosphere between us was charged with the complexities of all that had remained unspoken.

"Menka DD"—the playful nickname that once had been a lighthearted joke now carried an entirely different weight. It was a reminder of our bond, of the years that had passed, and of the love that had remained silent between us. We had both made our choices, found comfort in others, yet the fire that once burned between us refused to die. Beneath the surface of our lives, that same restlessness, that same yearning, simmered. Even as we tried to move forward, the past refused to release its grip on me. It was as though something deep inside was waiting, waiting for the right moment, the right decision.

Now, at 35, six months apart in age, our lives were defined by the paths we had chosen, each of us finding companionship in other people. Yet the fire we had once shared refused to be extinguished. That same longing, that same ache, lingered beneath the surface. I was torn between the life I had built and the ghost of what might have been. I found myself wondering—what if? What if I had been braver? What if I had dared to reach out, to cross that line once more? What if there was still a way to rekindle the spark we had left behind?

The years continued to stretch on, and memories of her remained vivid, beautiful, and haunting. I thought back to our childhood days by the water, the way her laughter seemed to dance with the waves. I could feel it now—whenever we met, there was still that same charged energy between us. The connection we shared, though unspoken, was undeniable. Even at family gatherings, or when we were with mutual friends, I could feel the pull of that invisible thread. It was always there, waiting.

In private moments, I relived every detail—her laughter, the feel of her skin, the scent of jasmine and wildflowers that clung to her. I wondered what might have been if I had been braver, if I had dared to speak the words we had never said. Each time I thought of her, that old flame reignited, and I found myself questioning the choices I had made. What if I had taken that leap? What if I could rewrite the story we had left behind?

As the years went on, I began to understand that love is not just a collection of moments, but a tapestry woven with joy and regret, connection and separation. Our love, if that’s what I could call it, was not about passion—it was about the spaces between us, the moments that could have been but never were. I stood at the crossroads of my life, feeling her presence urging me to confront my fears, to unearth the desires I had buried so long ago.

Then, unexpectedly, I found myself preparing to live in her house. Her life had taken her far, and for a time, the empty rooms would be mine to inhabit. It was as if fate had conspired to give me one last chance to confront the past.

Part-2: Chasing Shadows: Part-2, The Burden of Forbidden Love : r/EroticWriting