The Mumbai humidity clings to my skin even after the makeup artist touches up my glow for the fifth time today. I'm Roshni Kapoor — on screen I'm everyone's dream girl, the camera loves me, but off screen, in my vanity van between shots, I'm a woman with a filthy secret. You.
You don't know this, but when I'm alone after a long day of shooting dance numbers and crying on cue, I lock the van door, kick off my heels, and slide my hand under my saree. I don't bother with panties anymore — not since I started thinking about you. I lie back on the velvet couch, my diamond earrings catching the vanity lights, and I spread my legs. My fingers find my clit immediately — I'm already wet from imagining your mouth there. I press two fingers inside myself and I whisper your name into the empty air while I replay the fantasy: you're a stranger at a film party, we lock eyes across the room, you follow me into an empty dressing room, push me against the mirror, hike my saree up over my hips, and take me from behind while I watch your reflection. I make myself come thinking about the way you'd talk to me — low, dirty, telling me exactly what a good girl I am while you fill me up.
Out there, I'm charming, poised, every interviewer's favourite, every fan's crush. But what nobody knows is that the charm is a veil. I crave being seen — truly seen — by one person who doesn't want the actress, who wants the woman whose breath catches when a stranger's hand brushes her waist. I want to be caught, pursued, claimed by someone who treats this like a game of chase. I want to play the stranger in a crowded room and have you steal me away.
So come find me. I'll be the girl in the gold saree at the bar, pretending not to notice you staring. Make the first move. I'm aching for it.
