“That’s exactly what he’s here for.”

Varun blinked at me like I’d lost my mind. Meanwhile, Pluto needed no further encouragement.

His jaw locked around the fabric, tail wagging furiously like he’d just been promoted to CEO of Destruction. One vicious tug and the first rip tore through the couch, the sound sharp and almost thrilling.

“Vedant!” Varun hissed, lunging again, but I caught his arm.

“Relax,” I said calmly. “This couch has served its purpose.”

Pluto shook his head with gusto, seams splitting, stuffing spilling across the floor in tufts of white.

He paused for half a second, looked up at me as if asking for approval, and then dove right back in, paws digging at the cushion with manic joy.

I watched the carnage unfold with a strange calm. 

Varun groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve actually lost it. People normally train their dogs not to do this. What am I even looking at right now?”

“You’re looking,” I said smoothly, eyes fixed on the couch, “at the solution to a very complicated problem.”

The couch was still being gutted behind us when I pulled Varun onto the balcony and shut the door with a click. Pluto could finish his mission in peace.

The early evening air was cool, brushing against my skin, but all I could hear was Varun’s voice, low and loaded with disbelief.

“What the hell are you even doing?” he demanded, arms folded like he was interrogating me.

I exhaled slowly. “She won’t take the bed.”

His brow furrowed. “And?”

“And she’s been sleeping on that couch. This morning she was practically sliding off the edge.” The memory gnawed at me, sharper than I’d expected. “It’s uncomfortable.”

Varun let out a humorless laugh. “So naturally, your grand plan is to unleash my dog on it?”

“It’s the only way,” I said, jaw clenching. “If the couch disappears, she won’t have a choice.”

The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of Pluto’s triumphant growl inside. Varun didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just studied me like I was some puzzle he’d already solved.

“What?” I snapped.

He tilted his head, lips twitching like he was fighting a smirk. “You don’t even hear yourself, do you?”

“Hear what?”

“That tone.” His voice was softer now, almost teasing. “Like a man trying too hard to sound rational when every damn word is screaming irrational.”

My glare only widened his smirk.

“I’m being practical,” I said stiffly.

Varun chuckled, soft and knowing. He turned his gaze to the view inside the room, but that damned smirk lingered. “Sure, Vedant. Practical.”

Before I could reply, a muffled scream rang from the room.

It was her.

I caught Varun’s arm before we stepped in.

“Act surprised,” I muttered under my breath. He shot me a look, but still nodded as we walked into the room.

Foam littered the floor in snowy flurries, clinging to furniture, drifting under the table. A particularly majestic chunk perched on Pluto’s head like a crown.

He sat in the center of it all, tail thumping, tongue out, chest heaving with pride as though he’d just won us a war.

He had. For me.

Diya stood a few feet away, staring at the scene like she’d stumbled onto a crime scene. Her poor couch looked murdered, and judging from her expression, she was ready to call the cops.

Varun launched into his performance immediately.

“Pluto!” he barked, scolding, but the fake anger cracked when his voice wobbled on the edge of a laugh.

Diya’s horrified eyes flicked from the ruined couch to us. I kept my expression straight, letting her think we were just as shocked.

Varun glanced at me and muttered, “Sorry,” though his eyes were sharp, deadly, like he was going to strangle me later.

I didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t be sorry to me,” I said flatly. My eyes cut to Diya. “Be sorry to her. She used to sleep on that.”

Varun turned to her quickly. “I’m sorry, bhabhi. He’s usually well behaved, I swear.”

I expected disappointment. Scolding. Retreat.

Instead, her lips curved faintly as she looked at Pluto. “It’s okay.”

Then, soft as a whisper, “Can I… pet him?”

Varun nodded, and Pluto, sensing the invitation, wagged harder. Diya crouched ever so slightly, stretching out a cautious hand.

Her palm brushed his head once. Twice. And then Pluto barked suddenly, a single sharp sound, his way of answering her touch.

She flinched hard, stumbling back, her small scream colliding with his bark, and she looked genuinely rattled.

Pluto, delighted, trotted forward after her. Diya’s wide eyes found mine, body inching back until she was nearly pressed into my side. “Why is he following me?”

“He won’t hurt you, bhabhi. He just wants more pets,” Varun said gently.

But Pluto nosed closer, sniffing at her jeans.

And then, instinctively, without even realizing, her fingers clutched my forearm. Tugging, hiding behind me like I was her shield.

I bit back a laugh, though my chest ached from how adorable the entire scene was.

My other hand found Pluto’s head, steady, firm, redirecting his excitement toward me. “Enough, buddy.”

Pluto huffed once, then licked my wrist in surrender, tail slowing.

Diya still hadn’t let go of me.

And for a ridiculous moment, the couch, the foam, even Varun’s amused and knowing smile— all of it vanished.

All that mattered was the way her small hand clung to my forearm, seeking safety there, like I was something she could trust.

Her fingers slowly slipped from my arm, leaving behind the ghost of her touch as she exhaled shakily.

She looked at Varun with that small hesitant softness of hers and said, almost guilty, “I’m sorry. I… I love dogs, really. I just don’t know how to handle them. I’ve never been around them.”

Her voice was steady, but her hands were still twitching like she was preparing for Pluto to come charging at her again.

Varun shook his head immediately, that easy smile tugging at his mouth. “Don't apologize, bhabhi. He’s usually calmer. He’s just excited today.” His tone was reassuring, and I could tell she relaxed just a little at that.

We drifted out of the room after that, leaving the disaster behind. I muttered to one of the staff to clear the foam and get rid of what used to be a couch.

By the time we entered the living room, it already felt like the house had rearranged itself around Pluto’s chaos.

Vivaan was already on the floor, laughing as Pluto climbed half onto his lap. Effortless, the way my brother handled him, as if he was made for the noise and fur that came with dogs.

And then there was Diya.

She lingered nearby, curious but wary, watching him with that soft distance. Like she couldn’t understand how someone could be so unbothered about a creature that chewed furniture for evening snack.

I caught myself thinking about her cat plushie. Of course. She wasn’t a dog person. She was probably expecting Pluto to purr or meow instead of bark.

Meanwhile, on Tanya’s lap, Mishki was clapping her tiny hands in delight, eyes wide at the furry whirlwind stealing the room.

Varun and I slipped out quietly, heading to the garden like it was muscle memory.

We talked, catching up with each other’s lives— the endless workload at the hospital, the night duty waiting for him, the exhaustion still hadn’t dulled Varun’s grin.

We didn’t need to say it, but it was there in the pauses, the laughter, the ease. Gratitude. For years, for friendship. For the rare thing we never had to question.

After a while, I said goodbye to them.

Pluto padded to the door when Varun rose, as if he already knew the visit was over, nails clicking lightly against the floor.

I crouched to appreciate his noble work. His fur brushed against my knuckles as I cupped his face between my palms. Looking into those dark, trusting eyes, I said softly, “Good job. Thank you for today.”

He tilted his head before licking my chin in response, clearly proud of himself.

Varun laughed. “Don’t inflate his ego. He’ll expect a medal next.”

“He deserves one,” I murmured seriously, he leaned into my hands, and for a second, just a second, I wished he wouldn’t leave.

But Varun tugged the leash, smiling as he walked away. “Don’t worry. He’ll dream of your destroyed couch tonight.”

I shook my head, a huff of laughter slipping out. Watching them leave, I couldn’t shake the strange warmth that lingered.

🪔

When we entered the room after dinner, it felt strangely hollow. The couch was gone for good, replaced with bare space that still smelled faintly of cleaning supplies.

But when Diya's gaze landed on the empty spot, everything in her body went rigid. She moved toward it like she was being pulled by gravity.

“Where is Honey?” Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

I blinked. Honey?

Confusion slowed me. I stayed rooted as she crouched, checked under the side table, even tugged at the rug’s corner.

Then began pacing across the room with frantic, jerky movements, scanning every corner as if the air itself had swallowed something she couldn’t afford to lose.

That’s when her eyes met mine. Wide, teary and drowning in panic.

Her voice wavered. “Where is Honey? Did Pluto…?” She couldn’t even finish that sentence.

My chest clenched.

I closed the distance in two long strides and gripped her arms gently, trying to ground her. “What are you searching for?” My voice was calm, steady, but watching her tensed, I was anything but.

She looked at me as though I should already know. “My cat.”

And then it clicked.

Leaving her in place, I turned toward the bed. My hand slid between the pillows where I’d absentmindedly tucked her plushie before Pluto's visit.

When I lifted it, her reaction was instant.

“Are you talking about this?” I asked quietly.

She rushed forward before the words had even finished leaving my mouth. Snatching the plushie from my hands, she hugged it tight to her chest.

Her entire body sagged with relief, tension unraveling in one long exhale.

And standing there, watching her cradle that non living thing with such desperate tenderness, I understood. That thing was more than just fabric and stuffing to her.

I hadn’t meant to panic in front of him like that. I tried, really did. But the moment I saw it missing, the surge of panic clawed up my throat before I could stop it.

It might seem childish, an overreaction even, but this wasn’t just a random plushie I’d named Honey. It was a replica of the first cat I’d ever truly loved. Honey.

He isn’t here anymore, but the year we shared was the happiest stretch of my life. Every laugh, every quiet evening, every soft purr tucked into my chest. Losing him had left scars I couldn’t quite hide.

My eyes prickled with tears, panic threatening to spill as I assumed Pluto had destroyed him along with the couch.

I lifted my gaze and caught him watching me. His expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” I muttered, barely audible, before turning toward the couch.

But when I spun around, emptiness hit me like a jolt. There was no couch, just bare space where it had been.

And before thought could catch up, his voice came, low and steady. “Take the bed.”

I turned, the protest slipping out before I could stop it. “Are you okay with a stranger sleeping on your bed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head, his eyes dark and impossible to read, like he was dissecting my question before returning it to me.

“Why were you okay with a stranger in yours?”

“You’re not a stranger to me,” I admitted, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

He looked at me then, long enough to make me glance away. His silence pressed heavy, a weight I wasn’t sure I could carry.

And then, just as quietly—

“You’re not a stranger to me either.”

A question I hadn’t dared to ask lingered in the quiet between us. What are we?

Then he picked up a pillow and began walking toward the door. My voice, small and hesitant, followed. “Where are you going?”

“To sleep,” he answered simply, as though that explained everything.

“Not here?” My brow creased.

He paused only to reply, his tone careful. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

And before I could gather a response, he was already moving again, intent on leaving the room.

“I’m not,” I blurted, barely above a whisper. He halted mid step. “I’m not uncomfortable… we can share the bed.”

And I meant it. We had shared one before, and nothing had felt wrong.

Nothing, except the dream that followed, where distance dissolved and I was shamelessly cuddling him.

It had only been a dream. Yet it clung to me as if I had crossed a line I shouldn’t. Something forbidden, something I hadn’t truly done, but it felt real.

When we finally lay down, it felt... different. I tugged Honey under the duvet, trying to anchor myself, trying to sleep. Trying.

But the bed betrayed me. The sheets carried the faint warmth of him. It felt unbearably intimate.

Every breath filled with traces of his presence, reminders that this space was his, that he belonged here, and I… I was only a guest. A guest allowed too close.

And just like yesterday, my thoughts spiraled.

How could I move freely in a house that wasn’t mine? How could I eat without shame, walk without fear, breathe without guilt pressing on my chest? Each question gnawed at me, sharp and relentless.

Then the tears came. Slow at first, hesitant, but impossible to stop. An ocean I usually kept locked away. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t deserve to cry. But once my defenses cracked, anxiety swept in and overtook me.

I felt small. Helpless. Stuck. I didn’t know where I belonged anymore.

During the day, I could distract myself with studies, with conversations, with laughter. I could try to blend in, to exist quietly, invisibly.

But at night, the ache grew sharper. The guilt heavier. They were all so kind, so endlessly giving. I had no right to feel lost, no right to cry when everyone was trying so hard to make me feel at home.

My world had shifted so suddenly— married, part of a family I didn’t fully know, expected to live, love, and belong as if I’d always been here.

But I hadn’t.

And in that gap between expectation and reality, I felt invisible, unmoored, like I’d lost the map to myself.

So I let the tears fall silently. Stayed still, frozen, because I couldn’t let him or anyone see just how pathetic I’d become.

But then, in the quiet darkness, his voice came. Soft, gentle, hesitant.

“Do you miss home?”

I wanted to laugh, so I did.

“You have a good sense of humour,” I chuckled, trying to sound light.

“Imagine missing something you don’t even have.” The absurdity of it made me laugh harder. Ridiculous. Funny.

“Diya.” His voice, low and steady, cut through the dark.

“Yes?” My laughter faded, my tears stalling under the sheer weight of the question.

“Just… cry.” he said quietly.

I froze.

“Don’t force yourself to laugh when you feel like crying,” he added, his words piercing something deep inside me, something I had been keeping buried, ignored, controlled for far too long. “It’s okay to cry.”

And just like that, something inside me gave way. My lips trembled, and the dam broke. The tears came, unstoppable, flooding me with twice the intensity.

Sniffles and sobs escaped freely, no longer contained, no longer silent. I let them wash over me, raw and unguarded.

And then I felt his arm slip beneath my head.

Instinct guided me before thought could intervene. I buried my face into the curve between his bicep and forearm, as if that hollow had been carved just for me.

I wasn’t facing him. His body never closed the distance. He didn't touch me beyond that single stretch of arm.

Tears spilled fast, soaking the fabric of his sleeve. My chest trembled with every broken breath.

Fear. Guilt. Loneliness. All the things I had carried like a second skin slipped loose in the dark, dissolving into his silence.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask me why, didn’t try to console me with words. He was simply there, and that alone was enough.

I don’t know when I drifted into sleep. The world had shrunk to the warmth of his arm and the rhythm of his breathing.

When I finally stirred awake, my head was still pillowed against his arm, my hands still curled around the only space that had felt safe in longer than I could remember.

Slowly, carefully, I began to move. Every shift felt reluctant, as though letting go might shatter the fragile shelter I’d borrowed for the night. I eased away inch by inch, holding my breath, praying not to disturb him.

But when I finally sat up and turned, he was already watching me.

I stilled. My pulse stuttered. The wall clock read 6:45. He should’ve been back from the gym by now. Instead, he was still here. Was he awake all this time?

My stomach twisted.

Oh god, this is embarassing.

I didn’t trust my voice to work. My body moved on autopilot instead, I slid off the bed, grabbed the first clothes I could find, and slipped into the bathroom, hoping I was invisible in the process.

The shock of cold water against my skin yanked me into clarity. My mind raced backwards, and shame bloomed hot across my cheeks. His arm— he must have slept like that all night, sore and stiff just because of me. I cursed myself internally.

Post-cry clarity is worse than post-nut clarity.  I had cried on him. Not just in front of him— on him.

What the hell is wrong with me? How could my body betray me like that— so unguarded, so foolishly comfortable? I’d never even broken down in front of Tara. Yet with him, the tears had spilled without permission, without shame.

I let the cold water slap some sense into me. Dressed quickly, and gave myself a little pep talk. You can do this, just get out of here, act normal, breathe.

When I finally stepped back into the room, it was empty.

I froze again, scanning, and then… relief washed through me. He wasn't here. I don't have to face him— not yet. Thank god.

I made my way downstairs, the kitchen came into view. I haven’t stepped in here since that day. My chest felt tight, but I forced myself forward.

To be honest, I’d avoided kitchens for the longest time. Not because I hated cooking, but because everywhere I’d seen it, from every woman I'd known. It was a thankless duty. Suffocating, joyless, bound to expectation.

I hated that weight.

Yet, looking at it differently, I realized I did love it. Cooking for people, creating something small that could bring them warmth or comfort. It mattered to me, even if my skills were limited to a handful of ingredients and clumsy attempts.

The kitchen smelled faintly of spices and early sunlight. Meera aunty and Kavita aunty were already there, chatting and giggling over some small, shared joke.

Their laughter was light, unburdened, and for a moment I just watched, letting the warmth of normalcy touch me.

I greeted them softly, then asked if I could help.

I think, deep down, I wanted the work to take me out of my head. Maybe peeling vegetables or stirring something would make me feel less guilty, less… outsider.

But Meera aunty simply refused, her smile gentle, insisting everything was taken care of. “You should rest,” she said.

I insisted anyway, and she handed me a small bowl of peas to peel. I got to work, my fingers clumsy but steady, peeling them carefully.

They kept me included in their conversation, laughing with me, letting me feel like part of the morning instead of a visitor.

After a while, Tanya walked in, all energy and warmth. She smiled at both mother in laws and sent them off.

She leaned in, letting me believe I was helping her, all while doing most of the work herself. I didn’t mind. The act of being included, of having a role, even a small one felt enough.

By 7:20. the breakfast was ready.

I walked back upstairs, each step tugging me away from that warmth of the kitchen and closer to the gravity of him.

When I slipped back into the room, I froze.

He was standing by the wardrobe, damp hair dripping at his temples, a towel slung carelessly around his neck.

His shirt hung loose in his hand, forgotten the moment I stepped in. The sharp lines of his shoulders caught the morning light, his chest still glistening faintly from the shower.

Heat rushed to my face so quickly it almost made me dizzy. My gaze betrayed me before I could stop it, slipping lower to the sculpted lines of his abdomen.

My lungs refused to work properly, and my mind went haywire. And still I shamelessly stared.

His eyes found mine, he blinked, clearly caught off guard too.

“I—sorry, I didn’t—” The words tumbled out in broken pieces, my tongue tripping over itself. My skin burned, my pulse reckless in my throat.

I turned toward the door, desperate to flee, to erase the sight of him from my memory.

And then— impact.

Pain bloomed across my forehead as I collided headfirst with the wooden frame. The sharp sound echoed in the quiet room.

“Ahh—” The yelp slipped out, raw, as my palm flew to the aching spot. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I had shut the door myself and then rammed straight into it.

Before I could even process the pain, he was there. Standing in front of me, his expressions alert.

His presence eclipsed everything, the faint scent of soap still clinging to his skin, the warmth radiating from his body.

One hand cupped the back of my head, steady and protective, while the other rubbed my forehead gently, coaxing the sting away with a touch that was both gentle and unshakably sure.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low, threaded with worry, careful, each word deliberate.

He was still shirtless.

And far, far too close.

The air between us thickened, heavy with the warmth radiating off him.

My pulse stuttered in my throat, then raced as if it wanted to bolt straight out of my skin. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, not when my eyes would betray too much, so I did the cowardly thing.

I shut them tight, clinging to the dark like it could shield me from the heat curling through my chest.

“Does it hurt?” His voice came low, measured, careful. A sound that brushed against my skin like a touch of its own.

“No,” I rushed, the lie falling awkward and uneven. My tongue tripped again, scrambling to cover itself. “I didn’t… see anything.”

His hand was still in my forehead, still rubbing gently at the sore spot. His thumb swept once, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of my pain.

“What did you not see?” he asked, voice dipped in quiet curiosity. The question shouldn’t have made my stomach twist the way it did.

“Your…” My lips faltered, the word clinging stubbornly to the back of my throat.

“My?” His tone bent softer.

I couldn’t answer. My lips stayed sealed, heavy with mortification. I stood there alone, eyes still closed.

Then came the rustle of fabric. The shift of air as he moved. When I finally opened my eyes, he stood before me, no longer bare.

He guided me toward the bed, his hand firm at my elbow, a silent command I obeyed without thought. He opened the drawer beside the bed, retrieving a small tube.

With a sigh, almost exasperated, he muttered, “Why are you so clumsy?” more to himself than me, squeezing out a pea sized drop onto his finger.

He uncapped the tube, pressing a careful line of gel onto his finger. Then, without warning, his hand cupped my face, tilting it upward with quiet authority.

My breath snagged. His grip wasn’t rough, but it left no room for refusal.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, eyes holding mine like he’d already decided he wouldn’t look away first.

I lifted a shaky finger to the corner of my forehead, and he followed, lowering his touch there. The cool sting of the gel spread against my skin, but it wasn’t the medicine I felt most.

It was him.

The gentle drag of his fingers, the way he worked with such precision, like even the smallest hurt deserved his undivided attention.

“Don’t try to become Usain Bolt next time,” he said finally, the faintest hint of dry amusement curling at the edge of his voice as he capped the tube.

The throb in my head started fading but the embarrassment, regret and the desperate wish that I could summon some clever retort, anything at all, instead of sitting there mute beneath the weight of his hands, lingered.

🪔

After breakfast, I decided to spend some time with Dadu.

It wasn’t new, I’d often sat with him and Misha in the evenings, watching the child’s laughter stitch itself into his quiet smiles.

But today wasn’t like those other days.

Because Tanya had told me something I hadn’t known before, something that made my chest ache with a sudden, sharp guilt.

Dadu had suffered a cardiac arrest before our wedding. All this while, I had assumed it was just age that had dulled his energy.

I knocked softly before entering his room.

Inside, Dadu was resting, propped up on his pillows. And beside him, like an unmoving shadow sat Mr. Malhotra.

The sight stopped me cold. Before I could think, my body reacted and I turned to leave. The intimacy of their relationship felt too sacred to disturb.

“Diya.”

The sound of Dadu’s voice, weathered but firm, pulled me to a halt.

“I’ll come back later, Dadu,” I murmured quickly, the excuse clumsy even to my own ears.

“Kyun?”

[“Why?”]

The single word struck me harder than a hundred could have. There was no accusation, only the quiet insistence of someone who saw more than I wanted him to.

And I had no answer. None that would not sound like cowardice.

I turned slowly. His hand lifted, weak but deliberate, tapping the empty space beside him. A gesture so simple, it unraveled all my hesitation.

I crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight.

My eyes brushed against Mr. Malhotra’s for the briefest moment. I looked away almost immediately.

“Baad me kyu aati tu?” Dadu’s voice was soft, but the question landed heavy.

[“Why would you come later?”]

I opened my mouth, but nothing came. He had always been quick to read me, quicker still to fill in the silences I couldn’t bridge.

“Tera hi ghar hai ye, beta,” he said, eyes warm as ever. “Tu kabhi bhi, kahin bhi aa sakti hai.”

[“This is your house only.”]

[“You can come anytime, anywhere.”]

The lump in my throat swelled. “Why didn’t you tell me about your health?”

“Meri health ko kya hua hai?” he chuckled, brushing it off with the stubborn pride of a man who had never admitted to weakness. “I’m fit and fine, like always.”

[“What has happened to my health?”]

Beside him, Mr. Malhotra quietly handed over the medicine and a glass of water. The casual ease between them was warm and gentle, like the soft hum of an old song they both knew by heart.

“You’re a bad liar, Dadu,” I called him out, my lips curving despite the heaviness in my heart.

His smile, mischievous yet tender, was answer enough.

He squinted at the tablets in his palm. “Why the pink one today? Where’s the orange one?” he asked, suspicion lacing his tone.

“You don't need those anymore” Mr. Malhotra replied calmly.

Dadu’s frown deepened. “And the white one?”

“With dinner,” came the dry response, arms crossing as if to end the discussion.

But Dadu wasn’t convinced. He kept turning the tablets over in his palm, inspecting them.

I shook my head, a smile tugging at my lips. “Your best friend was a terrible influence on you.”

He glanced up at me, brow lifting, amusement flickering in his tired eyes.

“He used to fiddle with his medicines too,” I said, plucking the glass from his hands before he could stall again.

His lips curved into the faintest smile, the kind that carried years of mischief and memories.

“Eat them, Dadu,” I said softly, though my tone left no room for escape.

He gave me a wounded look, sulking like a child caught red handed. “Ye kam pareshan karta tha…” he glanced at Mr. Malhotra, “jo tu bhi iski team mein shamil ho gayi?”

[“As if he wasn’t enough, now you’ve joined his team too?”]

I smiled, shaking my head at his drama. “Jaldi khao. Pills shouldn’t be left out in the open.”  My tone was mock stern, but I nudged the tablets toward his mouth, coaxing him until he finally gave in.

[“Eat quickly”]

I guided the glass to his lips, my fingers brushing his, steadying the tremor he pretended wasn’t there.

When the glass was empty, I passed it back to Mr. Malhotra, and then we stayed.

For a while, the room filled with nothing but his voice, sometimes grumbling, sometimes teasing, often breaking into laughter that echoed against the walls.

I found myself laughing too, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks, like he had tugged me back into childhood without even trying.

Stories were told, memories retold, jokes half forgotten and then made funnier because of it.

Every now and then he would scold Mr. Malhotra for something trivial, only to wink at me a second later.

And as the hours slipped by, I noticed it, the way his face seemed to soften, the way the weight of his years loosened its hold.

His smile carved away the lines, his laughter brightened the skin, and for those two precious hours, he looked a decade younger. Almost like time itself had bent to indulge him.

🪔

Night had a way of knowing me better than anyone.

By the time the lights went out, I already felt it coming, the familiar spiral of thoughts, the quiet panic curling in my chest, the helpless urge to overthink everything until I could barely breathe.

I knew the pattern. I knew it would pull me under, no matter how tightly I gripped myself.

So when the room fell silent, and steady breaths filled the darkness, I slipped away. Quiet as a shadow, I closed the bathroom door and twisted the tap, letting the sound of running water mask the breaking of my own silence.

And then I cried.

I cried until my throat burned, until my shoulders trembled, until my eyes ached and emptied themselves dry.

The plan was simple: Let the tears die here, so when I walked back to the bed, I would take nothing with me but quiet.

When the storm inside me had spent itself, I splashed water on my face, rubbed the redness away with my towel.

I waited for the last tremor of my chest to calm, for the redness and puffiness to fade into a quiet semblance of composure.

I was going to slip back into bed as quietly as I had left it, leaving nothing behind, not making a single sound that could disturb him.

But the moment I pushed the door open, the world seemed to tilt. I was greeted by a sight I hadn’t braced myself for.

He stood there, just beyond the doorway, still as the night itself, with two helmets dangling loosely from his hands.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Aaja meri gaadi me baith ja 🏍️

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