Sirf uske lea

umar 25, finding the right girl 🧿

[sirf-uske-lea]

She left — but Sunday still acts like she's coming back.

I still cook on Sundays, like we used to. It's funny — I tell myself it’s just habit, but the truth is, I still half-expect her to walk in, roll her eyes at my chopping skills, and say, “Need me to rescue dinner again?” Like she always did — smirking, but proud.

She made those afternoons feel easy, like love was just something that simmered quietly in the background. We laughed, teased, stole bites off each other’s plates — and honestly, she flirted with more than just her eyes. Even now, I catch myself smiling at an inside joke no one else is around to hear.

And yeah, I’m angry. Not the storming-out kind — just that low, steady ache that comes from being left without a real reason. Like she just decided one day that what we had wasn’t enough. But I still remember how she’d bump into me on purpose while I stirred the sauce. How she’d say “Careful, chef” — when she was the one always causing trouble.

I don’t know if she ever thinks of those Sundays. But me? I still set out two plates sometimes. Just in case she remembers how good we were — and how much she liked teasing me while pretending it was all about the food.

[sirf-uske-lea]

"She Came Back with the Night"

The night had that softness again—

the kind that slips through the window

and lays beside you like memory.

A whisper in the air,

too familiar to be a dream,

too distant to be real.

I swear—

for a moment, it smelled like her.

That warm jasmine and rain kind of scent

she always wore without knowing.

And in that second,

she was everywhere.

In the silence.

In the curve of the moonlight on my skin.

In the ache behind my ribs.

I didn’t call her name.

But my body did—

in the way it tensed,

remembering her hands.

In the way my breath caught

thinking about lips I still taste

in memory.

Nights like this don’t ask permission.

They come in soft,

and leave you burning.

[sirf-uske-lea]

Saw a post today—just a girl in an oversized T-shirt and tiny shorts, smiling like she knew the effect she had. And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

Because that was her.

She’d lounge around in those same little shorts, shirt slipping off one shoulder, looking like comfort and sin in the same breath. She’d brush past me, stretch just enough to tease, then pretend she didn’t notice the way I watched her.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And I? I was already gone—every time.

Now it’s just the quiet, the memory, and the echo of bare legs against mine in the heat of an afternoon I’ll never get back.

Some things don’t fade. They haunt.

[sirf-uske-lea]

You shift in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, her ghost still clinging to your skin. You swear you can feel her—soft, warm, draped across you like she used to be. The way she'd press her body into yours, skin to skin, just enough friction to make your breath hitch. Her lips would trace your collarbone, slow and deliberate, as if she were memorizing you with her mouth.

She knew your weak spots—how to drag her nails down your back just enough to make you groan, how to whisper things in that low morning voice that turned need into poetry. And you? You’d answer her with your hands, with your mouth, with every part of you aching to prove how much you needed her, how much you still do.

Now, you're left with the echo. The smell of her still faint on your pillow, the imprint of her thighs in your memory, the way she’d bite her lip when she caught you staring.

And God, you'd give anything to wake up tomorrow with her breath on your neck, her fingers on your skin, and that same wicked smile pulling you back into the heat of her all over again.

[sirf-uske-lea]

Mornings without her feel like a slow ache. You miss the way she'd slide her body against yours, still warm and bare from sleep, her lips brushing your neck just to see you stir. She knew exactly what she was doing—fingers wandering under the covers, hips pressing into you with that lazy rhythm that said 'good morning' better than words ever could. You’d tease back, hands exploring, mouths finding each other in soft moans and half-laughed gasps. Now, all you have is the memory—the scent of her skin, the weight of her thigh over yours, and the way she made every sunrise feel like sin wrapped in silk.

[sirf-uske-lea]

When you can't delete the blog you created for her because all the posts are like a conversation in itself that we had and the long discussions on the posts.

Soch raha huun kisi aur ke lea save kar luun, koi to hogi, kahi to hogi, but kabhi kabhi lagta h ki agar maine usko ye dikhaya aur use laga ki ye sab kya h tab kya hoga like a total different personality jo usne kabhi nahi dekhi

[sirf-uske-lea]

uske lea ek blog shuru kia tha (romantic and nsfw), pasand tha usko bahoot, chali gayi wo kisi aur ke saath aur mai akela he reh gaya

Kya karun iss blog ka ab?