OS: When We Danced Beyond Time

When We Danced Beyond Time

This based on prompt requested by Aish Di (Mystic_Muse) hope you all will like my take on this.

Mumbai never really slept.

And neither did Reyansh Singhania.

The studio lights of St. Louis’ old rehearsal hall flickered softly against polished wooden floors. The mirrors reflected only one man tonight — tall, sharp-featured, jaw set in a way that screamed control… but eyes that betrayed chaos.

Rey leaned against the barre, arms folded.

The D3 gang had long moved on. Careers. Cities. Lives.

But some nights — especially when rain tapped gently against the windows — he felt 21 again.

Waiting.

For her.

Kriya Ghai.

He exhaled sharply.

“Grow up, Rey,” he muttered to himself. “You’re not a lovesick teenager anymore.”

But the ache didn’t listen.

He still remembered the day she left. No dramatic goodbye. No grand confession. Just silence heavy enough to suffocate.

He had been angry. Egoistic. Hurt.

And she had been scared.

Wrong timing. Wrong words. Right love.

Worst combination.

He walked toward the old storage cabinet — looking for new props for his academy’s showcase — when something unusual caught his eye.

A wooden music box.

Intricate carvings of dancers spinning in frozen motion. It didn’t belong to the academy. He was sure of it.

He picked it up.

“Since when did we start collecting antiques?” he scoffed lightly.

But something about it felt… familiar.

He twisted the key.

A soft classical tune filled the room — not contemporary, not western.

Kathak.

Old. Haunting. Echoing like it carried centuries.

The air grew colder.

The mirrors blurred.

The studio floor beneath him seemed to dissolve.

“Okay… not funny,” Rey murmured, but the words felt swallowed by wind that wasn’t there.

The music grew louder.

The world tilted.

Darkness.

***

Lucknow — 1895

Rey woke up coughing.

Dust filled his lungs. The scent of ittar and sandalwood lingered in the air. He blinked against bright sunlight.

No skyscrapers.

No traffic.

No phones.

Men in sherwanis walked past him. Women in heavily embroidered lehengas whispered behind veils. Horse carriages rolled over stone roads.

Rey slowly stood up.

“Excuse me… what the hell is going on?” he asked a passing man.

The man frowned. “Janab, aap theek toh hain?”

Rey froze.

Urdu. Formal. Old-fashioned.

He looked down at himself.

Gone were his jeans and leather jacket.

He wore a simple kurta.

“Okay… okay… calm down,” he muttered. “This is either a very realistic hallucination… or I’ve lost it.”

Then he heard it.

Ghungroos.

Clear. Rhythmic. Mesmerizing.

His dancer instincts overpowered his panic.

He followed the sound.

The Haveli

The grand doors of a nawabi haveli stood open. Inside, chandeliers glowed warmly. Nobles sat in semicircles, watching the center stage.

And there she was.

She stood poised — ivory and gold lehenga hugging her frame, dupatta flowing like poetry. Her eyes were lowered. Ankles adorned with ghungroos.

When the tabla struck —

She moved.

Not just danced.

Moved like she was translating unsaid pain into rhythm.

Each spin precise. Each expression controlled. Graceful. Classical.

And yet…

Rey saw it instantly.

Restraint.

She was holding back.

Mid-spin, her eyes lifted.

And collided with his.

The world narrowed.

Same eyes.

Same intensity.

Same fire that used to challenge him in rehearsals.

Kriya.

But not.

This girl was quieter. Softer in her sadness.

A man beside Rey whispered, “Meher-un-nisa. Nawab sahab ki mehfil ki shaan.”

Meher.

Her foot faltered for half a second.

Only Rey noticed.

Because she had seen him too.

***

Later that evening, Rey found himself wandering the haveli courtyard.

She was there.

Alone.

Moonlight kissed her features gently.

“You don’t belong here,” she said without turning.

Her voice.

Soft. Controlled. But guarded.

Rey folded his arms — instinctively defensive.

“Trust me. I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”

She turned then.

Up close, the resemblance shook him.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Reyansh,” he replied automatically.

She tested the name silently.

“Rey,” she repeated.

His breath hitched.

No one called him that like that anymore.

“And you?” he asked softly.

“Meher-un-nisa.”

A pause.

“You dance like you’re scared,” he said bluntly.

Her eyes flashed — that familiar spark.

“I dance exactly how I’m supposed to.”

“No,” he stepped closer. “You dance like someone told you how much of yourself you’re allowed to show.”

Silence.

Then—

“You are impertinent.”

He smirked faintly. “You should see me in my own time.”

She frowned. “Your… time?”

“Long story.”

For the first time, the corner of her lips twitched.

And something shifted.

***

Days passed.

Rey learned quickly that Meher wasn’t free.

She was bound to the haveli — her talent displayed for noble gatherings.

Promised in marriage to a wealthy zamindar she had never met.

“Duty,” she said simply when he asked.

Rey clenched his fists.

“You’re not a trophy.”

She looked at him sharply.

“Do not insult my art.”

“I’m not. I’m insulting the people who cage it.”

She went quiet.

One evening, during practice, he interrupted her mid-spin.

“Stop.”

She glared. “Aap hote kaun hain humein rokne wale?”

He stepped closer.

“Someone who sees you.”

The words hung heavy.

Her breathing quickened.

“Then stop seeing,” she whispered.

He didn’t.

***

Thunder cracked across the sky one night. The haveli lights flickered.

Rey found her in the corridor, hands trembling slightly.

“You’re scared of thunder?” he asked gently.

She shot him a look. “Hum nahin darte.”

Another loud crack.

She flinched.

Without teasing her, without arrogance, he simply stepped closer.

“It’s okay.”

Her breath slowed as he stood near.

The distance between them became dangerous.

“Why do I feel like I know you?” she asked suddenly.

His heart pounded.

“Maybe… we’ve met before.”

She shook her head slightly. “I would remember.”

He swallowed.

“So would I.”

***

The music box appeared in his room again.

Glowing faintly.

Whenever it played, he felt pulled — like time was reminding him he didn’t belong.

He confronted her one night.

“If you could leave… would you?”

She stared at him, eyes shimmering.

“Every day.”

“Then come with me.”

She laughed softly.

“To where?”

He had no answer.

Because he couldn’t take her to 2026.

Time wasn’t that kind.

***

Her engagement was announced.

The haveli buzzed with celebration.

She didn’t.

That night, she danced.

Not for nobles.

Not for duty.

For him.

Raw.

Unrestrained.

The Meher she had hidden.

As she spun toward him, breathless, she whispered—

“Rey…”

He froze.

He had never told her his nickname.

Tears brimmed in her eyes.

“I don’t know why… but your name feels like home.”

The music box began playing.

Loud.

Relentless.

The room blurred.

“No,” he whispered. “Not now.”

She grabbed his hand.

“Don’t disappear.”

“I don’t want to!”

But time doesn’t negotiate.

Her fingers slipped.

He was swallowed by light.

***

Mumbai — Present

Rey gasped awake on the studio floor.

Rain still tapped against windows.

Everything normal.

Except—

In his palm lay an antique ghungroo.

Real.

He wasn’t insane.

Days later, during a fusion dance festival, the host announced—

“Back from New York — Kriya Ghai.”

His pulse stopped.

She walked onto stage.

Confident. Strong. Modern.

Yet when she began dancing — it wasn’t contemporary.

It was kathak.

And tied to her ankle —

One antique ghungroo.

Mid-spin, her eyes met his.

Recognition.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

After the performance, he approached her slowly.

“Kriya…”

She looked at him, breath slightly unsteady.

“I’ve been having dreams,” she said softly. “Of Lucknow. Of a haveli. Of… you.”

He showed her the ghungroo.

Her fingers trembled as she touched it.

“Rey…”

Not hesitant.

Not questioning.

Certain.

Tears filled her eyes.

“Maybe we didn’t lose each other,” she whispered. “Maybe we just… paused.”

He stepped closer.

“No more pauses.”

She smiled through tears.

“I’m not leaving this time.”

He cupped her face gently — no rush, no desperation.

Just depth.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m done fighting time.”

She leaned into him.

Outside, the rain stopped.

Inside, two timelines finally aligned.

***

Months later, during a grand performance at St. Louis, they choreographed something special.

A fusion of kathak and contemporary.

Past and present.

As they danced together, their movements felt like memory returning home.

At the final beat, their foreheads touched.

The audience erupted.

But they heard nothing.

Because somewhere — in 1895 — a chandelier shimmered.

And Meher-un-nisa finally smiled.

Her story had not ended in sacrifice.

It had ended in reunion.

***

Some love stories aren’t broken by time.

They are refined by it.

And Rey & Kriya?

They were never just a college romance.

They were a love that learned to wait.

And this time—

They chose each other.

~*~