It is safe there. It is beautiful there. But it is also a trap.
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Not the partner you hold hands with in the park. Not the person you fight with over chai. This is the one who visits you only when your eyelids grow heavy. The one who lives in that purple haze between sleep and awake. I remember listening to Ilaiyaraaja’s interludes on a crackling FM radio late at night. Every guitar strum, every humming chorus felt like a conversation with someone invisible. As a teenager, I used to believe that my Kanavu Kadhali was waiting somewhere in the future—maybe in a different city, maybe in a different decade. It is safe there