The next morning, I woke up to birdsong, the smell of something frying in the kitchen, and the sound of Reva humming along to a Kishore Kumar song playing on her old Bluetooth speaker.

Her flat was tiny—just two rooms, a cracked balcony, mismatched curtains, and peeling sea-blue paint—but it was alive. There were plants in chai glasses, postcards pinned to the fridge, and fairy lights draped like they were holding the ceiling together.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a guest.

I padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Reva grinned when she saw me. “The sleeping beauty awakens. Sit. You’re about to eat the best aloo parathas this side of the Mandovi.”

“I doubt that,” I laughed softly.

She turned and winked. “Oh, she laughs! Goa’s working already.”

We sat on her tiny floor mattress with our plates balanced on our knees. I hadn’t laughed with food in my mouth in months. But here, with pickle on my fingers and buttery paratha flaking all over the bedsheet, it didn’t feel messy—it felt real.

After breakfast, we took a long walk to a tiny book café tucked behind a church. The owner knew Reva by name and gave us masala chai in chipped mugs. I flipped through secondhand books, the pages smelling like someone else’s memories.

By the afternoon, we were on her scooty again, zipping through narrow Goan lanes lined with Portuguese houses. Bright walls, sleepy dogs, laundry fluttering like flags of freedom.

She took me to a beach that wasn’t crowded. Not one of those Instagram beaches. This one was raw, quiet, hidden behind a little bakery and a crumbling gate.

We walked barefoot on the warm sand, waves licking our ankles, and just existed. No makeup. No pretense. No tight clothes trying to tame our bodies.

Just us. Free.

As the sun dipped low, Reva pulled out a little Bluetooth speaker and started playing old indie songs we used to scream along to in college.

She looked at me suddenly and said, “Dance with me.”

I laughed. “No way. I look ridiculous when I dance.”

She stood up anyway, barefoot and grinning like a wild woman. “Exactly. That’s the point. Come on, Ames.”

I got up slowly. Hesitant. Awkward.

But then she twirled, her hair catching the wind, and I remembered how light I used to feel—before I learned to make myself small.

So I danced. Badly. Joyfully. Freely.

I threw my hands in the air. I sang off-key. I laughed until my stomach hurt. And for the first time in what felt like years, I didn’t think about how I looked.

I just felt.

Later that night, back on her mattress, wrapped in an oversized T-shirt and smelling like coconut and salt, I whispered into the quiet:

“I forgot I could feel this way.”

Reva turned to me, half-asleep, and murmured, “You’re remembering. That’s what healing is, babe. Just… remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.”

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual. The sun was just beginning to stretch across the sky, casting a soft golden hue on the sea-facing windows of Reva’s flat. Goa was quiet at that hour—sleepy, slow, almost sacred.

I slipped into my loose joggers and a cotton T-shirt, tied my hair into a messy bun, and left a note for Reva on the fridge before stepping out for a walk.

The coastal breeze brushed against my skin like silk—cool, salty, alive. I wandered past shuttered cafés, silent churches, and the edge of the beach where the early risers moved through their rituals—fisherwomen arranging their morning catch, foreign couples jogging in sync, an old man saluting the sun in slow, reverent poses.

That’s when I heard it.

Two women, maybe in their late twenties, sat outside a charming café that had just started pulling up its shutters. Their voices were hushed but urgent, electric with gossip.

“Did you hear?” one of them whispered. “He’s back. The Russian. The club reopened last night.”

The other laughed knowingly. “Oh my God, that place? It’s wild. I went once with someone. It’s not just dancing—they say things happen there… things you’d never imagine.”

I slowed down, pretending to retie my shoelace, heart suddenly thrumming.

“They say once you’re inside, it’s like another world,” the first one said, lowering her voice. “Everything’s allowed, if you want it. And the men… they’re trained. Like professionally trained. I mean, trained to please.”

The other woman smirked. “And the owner? Ivan Volkov. Russian. Dangerous eyes, built like sin, but totally untouchable. He doesn't sleep with the guests, though. Never. He just runs the place. They say he hand-picks every man who works there—tests them, trains them himself. Women go there to feel… worshipped. Not judged.”

A chill ran down my spine.

Ivan Volkov.

I didn't know the man. But the name settled into my chest like a secret I wasn’t ready to say out loud.

The women noticed me listening and gave me a curious glance. I quickly smiled and walked on—but the words stayed with me, clinging to my skin like the salty air.