It was unusual for me to be in the gym at this hour.

Five in the evening was when the house was loudest, footsteps in corridors, doors opening and closing, Misha’s giggles filling the living room, Vivaan blasting music somewhere.

Not the time I’d willingly be here. I preferred the early mornings, but today predictability was useless.

So here I was, palms wrapped around cold metal, trying to outrun whatever the hell had been sitting under my ribs since morning.

The weights weren’t light. They just weren’t heavy enough.

I pushed through my third set, muscles straining, breath hard, sweat pulling warm trails down my back. Normally this would settle me, burn off the static crowding my head.

But not today.

My mind kept drifting, slipping between moments I didn’t want to revisit and sensations I definitely shouldn’t have memorized.

The barbell rose and fell, but my thoughts kept spinning in their own orbit.

Every clang of metal echoed too sharply, every breath felt too tight, every rep pulled me further into a restlessness I couldn’t name.

I tried switching exercises, hoping the shift would help, but even as my body moved something inside me refused to fall in line.

My grip tightened around the dumbbells, my jaw locked, my heartbeat kicked unevenly against my sternum, quick and restless for no logical reason.

No matter how much I pushed through, it felt like I was trying to silence a storm that wasn’t interested in listening.

By the sixth set, my muscles finally gave up, or maybe I did. The weights clattered to the floor, loud enough to cut through the haze.

I dragged a hand through my hair, breath unsteady, skin burning in a way no workout had ever managed.

Useless.

I grabbed my towel and headed out of the gym.

The hallway to my room echoed with the fast, uneven rhythm of my footsteps, like I was running from something... or toward something. I didn’t know which.

The moment I stepped into the bathroom, I knew I needed a cold shower.

Not because I was overheated or the gym had pushed me too far, but because my mind wouldn’t shut up.

I turned the tap all the way to freezing, stepped under it, and let the first hit of icy water crash onto my skin.

For a moment, for a brief, stupid moment I thought the cold would help.

It didn’t.

If anything, the water made everything worse because the cold reminded me of the pond. The pond reminded me of her.

And her...

God.

The memory rose so fast, so vividly, I almost stumbled back.

The image of her in that soaked saree punched straight into me. The way it was clinging to her like it had been painted on, outlining every curve with a softness that shouldn’t have been meant for anyone’s eyes.

Not even mine.

The fabric had become almost translucent near her waist, and I had seen more than I should have, more than I was prepared to.

The memory of her hair dripping down her back, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her lower lip had trembled ever so slightly when she whispered she was scared — it was all too much.

I could still feel the softness of her soaked and weightless body pressed against mine.

I could still feel the shape of her.

I let out a slow, shaky breath and pressed my palm to the cold tile, trying to anchor myself.

But It didn’t work, because her voice came back too. “Don’t leave me.” She had whispered, not in the air but into my skin.

Her lips had grazed the base of my throat when she said it... and my entire body had reacted before I could think: pulling her closer.

The cold water slid over my collarbone, a thin and sharp line of sensation, cruel in how familiar it felt.

Because that was exactly where she had buried her face earlier.

All because I’d lifted her in front of two people. Literally two human beings who weren’t even looking at us.

I’d only done it so she wouldn’t slip on the wet stairs, because she’d already gone stiff with that quiet fear she had around water.

But she’d tucked her face into my neck like we were doing something forbidden.

And the memory of that soft, shy warmth on my skin throbbed now, right where the water traced its cold path.

I ran a hand over my face, dragging water down with it, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to not think — none of it worked.

Frustrated at myself, at the way I was reacting, at the way the water wasn’t cooling anything inside me. I twisted the tap off sharply.

The water still clung to my skin, cold, but my body felt too hot, too tense, like it had been rewired entirely.

I stepped out, towel drawn across my shoulders, breath uneven, heartbeat refusing to return to normal.

I changed quickly, hands moving on autopilot, mind still stuck beneath the surface of that pond.

Her face against me, her voice still echoing in my ears, her grip that didn’t loosen even once. Every detail replayed with brutal clarity.

With clothes finally on, hair still dripping, I pushed open the bathroom door.

I needed to work.

Needed to bury myself in spreadsheets or calls or anything that didn’t come with soft breaths and softer skin.

But the moment I stepped into the room I realised the day wasn’t done with me yet.

Because now, she was here.

Propped against the headboard, a thick textbook balanced on her knees. Her hair had dried into loose, soft waves that fell over one shoulder.

She was underlining something with absolute concentration, the tip of her highlighter tapping the page every few seconds, her brows drawn in that tiny frown she got when she was absorbing too much information at once.

That part wasn’t unusual. She studied like breathing.

What halted me was the sight of her sitting there in a saree. I’d never walked into our room and seen her like that.

It was the same saree from this morning.

The same one I had draped around her, the same fabric my fingers had smoothed along her waist while pretending my pulse wasn’t a disaster.

The same pleats I had folded too carefully, because touching her felt like stepping into fire and pretending it didn’t burn.

Seeing her in it again, sitting on our bed, barefoot, absorbed, utterly unaware of what she was doing to me…

My heart lurched, hard enough that I almost pressed a hand to my chest.

I forced myself to move, forced my legs to remember how to walk and made my way toward the mirror.

I rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt, slow and deliberate, grounding myself with each fold against my forearms.

The act was mechanical and familiar, something that made sense when nothing else did.

I fixed my collar, ran a hand through my hair, slicking back the damp strands and watched my reflection try to look composed even though I could feel the fracture lines forming beneath my ribs.

Even leaving the room felt like lying to myself, because I knew I’d have to walk back in. And I knew the second I did, she’d still be there.

So I gathered whatever pieces of my composure I could find. I searched for the voice I used on days when she wasn’t wearing the exact thing that made my pulse misbehave.

“You should change out of that,” I managed before leaving the room.

I didn’t wait for her reaction, didn’t even glance her way because if I looked at her for a second longer, that tight, restless thing in my chest would turn into something I wouldn’t be able to ignore.

🪔

“I expected you to be here sooner or later,” He said dryly, not even glancing up from his files, “but I didn’t expect you to show up on a random Sunday evening.”

Varun finally lifted his eyes, he looked utterly unfazed, didn’t even pretend to be surprised.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d been waiting specifically for me to walk in and ruin his peace, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck, legs crossed, expression irritatingly smug.

The hospital felt quieter than usual at this hour, dimmer lights, half empty corridors and stillness that made every small noise echo twice as loud.

His cabin smelled of overbrewed coffee, antiseptic, and the lingering fatigue of someone who’d treated too many people today.

I dropped into the seat across from him.

“What brought you here at this very inconvenient hour?” he asked, sipping his coffee like I was interrupting his honeymoon.

“I’m sick,” I said simply.

His eyebrows shot up. “The fitness freak is sick? Sick where? You look absolutely fine to me.”

“Run some medical tests,” I replied, ignoring the mockery. “All of them. I might have a serious heart condition.”

He snorted into his cup.

“Impeccably professional, Dr. Varun,” I muttered.

“Fine,” he said, dragging his chair closer. “If you insist on ruining my Sunday evening, at least let me look like a professional.”

He yanked open his drawer, pulled out a blank consultation sheet, and slapped it onto the table. Then he grabbed a pen and clicked it twice.

“Name?” he asked without looking up.

I stared at him. “Seriously?”

He adjusted his glasses with two fingers, pure arrogance. “Please don’t interrupt the doctor while he’s working.”

I clenched my jaw. “Vedant Malhotra.”

“Age?”

“Twenty eight.”

“Gender?”

I shot him a long, tired glare that should’ve burned his entire medical degree.

He lifted both palms in surrender. “Alright, alright,” he said, folding his arms, pretending he was capable of seriousness.

“Well then, Mr. Malhotra, enlighten me. How did you arrive at this… fascinating conclusion? What are the symptoms?” His tone was surgical level professional, but his eyes were gleaming like he was front row at a circus.

I leaned back, inhaled slowly, and said the most humiliating words a grown man could say with a straight face.

“My heart’s been… acting weird.”

Varun tapped his pen thoughtfully. “Define weird.”

“Fast, random and restless. It happens when—” I cut myself off before I said her name out loud. It almost slipped, like my mouth was two seconds ahead of my brain.

But his eyes were already sparkling with amusement, the kind that made me want to walk out and never come back.

He leaned forward a little, smile twitching. “Oh?” he drawled softly. “Happens when… what?”

“Continue,” he said sweetly, like a cat watching a mouse walk willingly into the trap.

“…when I’m not doing anything,” I corrected. “It’s irregular and unsettling. Probably a condition.”

“Hm.” He nodded like a sage, then proceeded to scribble absolute garbage on the sheet. Actual nonsense, I saw the doodle.

“Any pain?” he asked.

“No.”

“Shortness of breath?”

“…occasionally.”

His eyebrows flicked up.

“Dizziness?”

“No.”

“Thoughts racing?”

My shoulders went rigid. “Yes.”

He made a thoughtful noise, pen scratching. “Did it start recently?” he asked, pen poised like a needle.

“Yes.”

“Recent onset condition. Very concerning.” He scribbled aggressively. Then asked “What was the trigger?”

“I don’t know.”

“Interesting.” He wrote: ‘patient plays dumb intentionally.’

“Erase that.”

“No,” he said, cheerfully disobedient. “And what exactly were you doing when the symptoms appeared?”

Silence... Which was unfortunately its own answer.

“Oh. Interesting.” He dragged the word out. “So this condition flares up only during specific activities? Running? Stress? Cardio?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Next question: does your heartbeat feel weird randomly or around someone?”

“Someone,” I muttered, already regretting my existence.

“Oh? A person triggers it. Not stress or caffeine or your own brain?

“No.”

He scribbled with gusto: ‘patient admits direct human trigger.’

I glared at him while he looked delighted.

“Varun—”

“A moment, please.” He raised a finger like he was delivering a TED talk. “Now tell me, does this person happen to be someone you see daily?”

“…yes.”

“Lives in the same house?”

“Yes.”

Varun paused, smiled, and wrote: ‘domestic trigger.’

“I swear to god—”

“Next question,” he continued. “Does this happen only when they look at you? Only when they talk? Or any time the air molecules around them move?”

I clenched my jaw so hard I could feel a headache forming. “I don’t know.”

He clicked his pen, offended. ‘Patient refuses specificity, definitely hiding something.’ He glanced at the ceiling. “Fine. Let’s try another angle.”

“Is the trigger related to physical proximity?”

“…sometimes.”

His smile sharpened. “Sometimes,” he echoed. Then leaned forward a little more. “Define sometimes.”

Every muscle in my body locked. My brain ran through a slideshow of moments I absolutely did not want to narrate to this idiot.

“When she’s close,” I said under my breath.

He went still. His pen froze mid-air and his face lit up like he’d solved a murder.

“She,” he repeated, savoring every letter. “She. Aha.”

I shut my eyes for two seconds, because if I didn’t, I’d strangle him.

He immediately scribbled: ‘patient defines trigger as female.’

“Stop writing that.”

He held up the sheet. “Patient Profile Summary,” he announced cheerfully.

“One: reacts to close proximity.

Two: triggered by the breathing and movement of one singular female entity.

Three: said entity is present daily.

Four: patient refuses clarity because patient is a coward.”

I was two seconds away from snatching the sheet from him and leaving this room.

“Who could it be?” he asked gleefully, tapping his chin like Sherlock. “Hmm… could it be your wife?”

I didn’t respond.

He slammed his pen down triumphantly.

“Patient confirms experiencing tachycardia upon visual contact with his legally wedded wife. Sounds serious, possibly fatal. Causes may include overwhelming attraction, emotional stupidity, or marriage.”

I rubbed my temples. “Run. The. Tests.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, stood up, and grabbed his stethoscope.

“If the ECG machine prints out tiny hearts instead of a graph,” he said, “I’m charging you double.”

I followed him toward the bed where the ECG setup waited, wires coiled neatly, the machine humming softly. The room felt colder now, or maybe that was just my pride freezing to death.

Varun snapped on gloves. “Lie down.”

“I swear,” I muttered, climbing onto the bed, “if you laugh—”

“Oh, I’ll do worse.”

He placed the cold electrodes on my chest, one by one, while shaking his head.

“You know,” he said, attaching the last wire, “there are simpler ways to tell your best friend you caught feelings.”

“I didn’t.”

“There’s this river in Egypt…” he began.

I shut my eyes.

“De-nial,” he finished proudly, plucking the ECG printout.

He lifted the graph, squinting dramatically. “For a man who pretends emotions are a health hazard, this is impressive.”

I stared at the ceiling, praying for selective hearing. “Interpret it properly.”

“I am interpreting it properly,” he said, waving the paper. “Do you see these spikes? Those are the peaks of your dignity collapsing.”

“Fine.” He said looking at my thoroughly done face.

“Your rhythm is fine, heart is fine, everything is fine. What’s not fine is whatever chemical reaction happens inside you when your wife breathes.”

“I didn’t say it happens when she breathes.”

“Oh?” His eyes sparkled. “So what is the trigger? Let’s do this clinically.”

He grabbed a pen and pulled out another sheet. Is he planning to make a whole medical file for my humiliation?

“Alright,” he said. “Trigger list. When does it happen?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. When she’s around.”

“Around as in… what? Within five feet? Ten? Across the room? Across the house? I need perimeter data.”

I shut my eyes. “Close. Happy?”

He hummed, all fascinated. “Mmm. Proximity induced tachycardia. Classic.”

“I’m leaving.” I sat up.

“No, you’re not.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and shoved me back down. “I’m not done. Now tell me… does your heart do the same thing during any physical touches?”

My throat bobbed. “…No.”

“No?” He tilted his head. “Are you sure?”

“It gets worse.”

“Worse as in…?” he asked, leaning forward like he was about to hear state secrets.

“Worse,” I repeated flatly, because I would rather be hit by an ambulance than explain that sentence further.

He flipped the sheet again and wrote with unholy excitement: ‘Patient exhibits escalated cardiac activity upon tactile stimuli from wife.

Severity level: dangerous.

Prognosis: man is finished.’

I dragged a hand over my face. “I came here for answers.”

He tapped his pen again, eyes glinting with pure wicked curiosity. “Last question: Is this reaction limited to innocent, accidental touches… or does it intensify in potential adult situations?”

I sat up instantly. “What the hell—”

“You’ve not reached that stage yet?” He asked cutting me off. “Tragic,” he sighed, pushing me back by the forehead.

I inhaled. Exhaled. Considered, very seriously, the possibility of knocking him unconscious with his own clipboard while he continued scribbling with alarming confidence.

A few seconds later, he tore the sheet free and handed it to me with the gravity of a surgeon delivering a biopsy report.

“Your prescription.”

I wasn’t expecting anything worthwhile, but I still read it.

Diagnosis: Acute Onset Spousal Induced Cardiac Hyperreactivity / Love.

Treatment: Tab. Kissii 2 mg — 2 kisses from wife OD (once daily).

Increase to BID if symptoms persist.

Adjunct therapy: 10–15 minutes of uninterrupted hand holding PRN.

I stared at the page. “What nonsense—”

“You think it’s a heart problem because you have no idea what attraction feels like,” he said, cutting me off.

“Vedant,” he murmured, his voice softened, not mockingly this time, “your heart isn’t malfunctioning. It has finally started working. It’s just reacting, strongly and very normally.”

But the softness lasted only three seconds.

His smirk slid back into place as if affection had been a temporary glitch. “Although, for your ego’s sake, I have written your diagnosis in medical terms.”

I snatched the ECG sheet out of his hand. “We’re done.”

He laughed. “We’re not done until you admit you’re gone for your wife.”

I stood up. “I’m not.”

“My best friend is falling in love,” he announced dramatically. “How refreshing for the medical community.”

“I’m leaving.”

“As you should,” he said cheerfully. “Patients with Latent Affection Induced Tachyarrhythmia require rest.”

He waved a hand. “Come back next Sunday. I’ll check if your condition improved or we need to extend the treatment.”

I walked out before I could give him a real medical emergency.

I stood before the mirror, palms gliding over my crisp white shirt as the morning light gathered around me.

The sleeves were rolled neatly to my forearms, the fabric sharp against my skin, paired with gray trousers that actually made me look like someone who knew what she was doing.

For the first time in days, something inside me stopped drifting. For once, I didn’t feel like a ghost wandering through my own life. There was weight in my feet, purpose in my spine.

I was going back to work today. Back to the firm. Back to a version of myself I thought I’d lost somewhere.

As I fastened the strap of my watch, I caught sight of my wrist.

The henna there had faded into the softest whisper of orange, almost gone.

And beneath it, the inked shadow of his name clung stubbornly to my skin… light and ghostlike, as if it was trying to decide whether to stay or leave.

Vedant.

That name had lived there for days, bold and unashamed, now it looked like a secret dissolving back into my pulse.

I went through my bag next, checking the usual things: wallet, ID, my camera, touching each item like a small reminder that I still had pieces of my life that belonged only to me.

When I straightened, I caught movement near the wardrobe. It was him, quietly buttoning his cuffs.

The realisation washed over me then: I wasn’t the only one getting ready in this room. I wasn’t alone in this morning or in this moment. There was another heartbeat here, another presence occupying the same air, the same silence, the same life I was slowly learning to return to.

And for the first time, it felt less like an intrusion and more like a beginning I didn’t yet have the language for.

As I rearranged the things in my bag, I kept him in my peripheral vision. He was tying his necktie now, the fabric slipping through his fingers in slow, practiced motions.

But beneath that calm, something felt… off.

He has been acting strange since yesterday. Distant and pulled back into himself in a way I couldn’t decode.

He barely spoke after asking me to change out of my saree. He said it like an order, but it wasn't harsh, just… urgent.

Usually, I don’t take orders from anyone. But I had already planned to change the moment he left the room, so I didn’t question it.

Still, I’ve been turning that moment over in my mind, trying to understand why he said it at all.

The whole evening had felt off, like he was avoiding me.

I felt it in the pauses, in the distance, in the way his gaze kept slipping past mine as if looking at me too long would burn.

Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe it’s all in my head, but something about his silence felt unfamiliar.

I moved to the mirror again, doing my hair now.

If he planned on ignoring me today too, I wasn’t going to stand there waiting for something that wasn’t mine to expect.

Work was safer.

So I kept getting ready, quiet hands, steady breath, trying not to look at him again… trying not to want anything at all.

Five minutes passed in silence, then his voice cut through it.

“Can I have some of that?” he asked.

I turned, surprised. He was fully dressed now in his navy suit, looking impossibly put together while I was still fighting with my hair.

I glanced at my hands. “This?” I asked, holding up my sunscreen.

He nodded once.

I offered him the tube. “Here.”

He didn’t take it.

“My hands are dirty,” he murmured, a little awkward. “I just tied my shoelaces.”

“Wash them,” I said, blending sunscreen onto my cheeks, my attention fixed on the mirror.

He didn’t move for a second, as if debating something silently, before finally turning toward the bathroom.

“Wait.”

The word slipped out before I could decide anything.

He paused mid step.

“Come here,” I said, not looking at him directly.

He walked toward me, each step slow and steady, until his reflection hovered behind mine in the mirror.

I was already applying sunscreen on myself, so I figured I might as well put it on him too.

We were getting late anyway, it felt pointless to make him go wash his hands over something so small.

I squeezed some onto my fingertips, turned to face him and rose onto my toes, closing the distance between us.

He didn’t move, just stood there watching me as I dotted his face with sunscreen, tiny pale circles blooming across his skin.

And when I began blending it in with gentle strokes of my fingers, he closed his eyes.

His skin was warm beneath my touch.

If someone pressed cold fingers to my face like this, I would’ve hated it. But he stayed perfectly still, letting me do it without a single twitch.

I worked the sunscreen across his forehead, then his cheeks, then the bridge of his nose. But the moment my fingertips reached the edge of his jaw, he caught my wrists.

Both his hands around mine, firm and steady, stopping me but not pulling away.

He opened his eyes slowly, like someone waking up from a dream.

“We are getting late,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on me.

I glanced up at his face. The sunscreen lay smooth and even across his skin, no streaks, nothing left for my hands to fix.

So I gave him a small nod and stepped back.

I slipped into my shoes next, picked up my bag, letting the strap settle against my shoulder. And without another word, we walked out the room.

🪔

We stepped out of the house together after breakfast, the quiet morning air still soft around us.

Out of habit, I unlocked my phone and opened the cab app, my fingers moving on their own as I typed in the pickup location.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice steady, standing beside his car like the question should’ve answered itself.

“Booking a cab,” I said without looking up.

He started walking toward me then, slow and deliberate. “Did you forget about our conversation?” he asked.

I blinked. “Which one?”

“Did I not tell you that you booking a cab is a waste of resources,” he said, tone painfully matter of fact, “and that it makes more sense for you to come with me since we work in the same firm?”

I stared at him for a second, sifting through my memory for the exact moment he said that.

He didn’t wait.

“Do I need to explain it again with a PowerPoint presentation so you don’t forget next time?”

The worst part wasn't the way he said it, it was the fact that he wasn’t being sarcastic. He genuinely meant it.

And the even worse part? I did remember that conversation and I had agreed with his reasoning.

So I slipped my phone back into my bag and started walking. He followed without a word.

“Are you planning to be a passenger princess today?” I asked when he reached for the door handle at the same time as me.

I knew he was trying to open it for me. He always does. But the gesture dragged up the memory of him doing the same thing the day we went to meet my ‘boss’ and suddenly all I wanted was to be difficult.

“Don’t worry your majesty,” he said, pulling the door wide open with infuriating calm, “I wouldn’t dare take your throne. I know my place.”

We were getting late. That was the only reason I slid into the car without arguing, without another snide comment hanging on my tongue.

He walked around to the driver’s side, got in, and fastened his seatbelt. I did the same, matching his movements without really meaning to.

The engine hummed to life, and we eased onto the road.

When the car stopped at a red light, the question slipped out of me before I could check it.

“Do you have a private jet?”

He turned his head, brows lifting just a little, completely blindsided. His face made it obvious he hadn’t seen that coming. Of course he hadn’t.

“Do you want me to have one?” he replied, throwing the question right back at me. So typical of him it almost felt scripted.

“Do you have one?” I repeated, refusing to let him wiggle out of it this time.

“No, I don’t,” he answered finally.

I hummed, facing forward again as the light turned green.

He started driving, then glanced at me.

“What level of interrogation did we reach?”

I turned to him, confused.

He clarified immediately, like he’d been waiting for my expression to twist. “Yesterday you wanted to make sure I wasn’t an ancestor. So what exactly are you trying to confirm with this question?”

I exhaled slowly, already feeling ridiculous but too committed to pull back now.

“You said me taking a cab is a waste of resources,” I said, keeping my tone even. “So I just wanted to check if you’re an actual environmentalist… or a hypocrite flying around in a private jet.”

I wasn’t even being snarky. It was the truth.

He let out a soft chuckle. “And what’s your verdict?”

“The investigation is still under process,” I said with a light shrug.

🪔

The day at work passed without anything worth remembering.

No one asked why I’d vanished for an entire week. Which didn’t surprise me. I’d only been with the firm a month, too new to be missed, too quiet to be questioned.

Everything went smoothly. The only thing that didn’t sit right was Neha Singhania. My assistant manager had somehow managed to get even ruder.

An impressive talent if you ask me.

At one point, I wondered how his day must’ve gone. It was an uninvited thought, but it lingered anyway.

Watching him now, driving us back home with his blazer tossed aside, sleeves rolled up, tie a little looser than it had in the morning — I didn’t need to ask.

The exhaustion on his face did the talking for him. He pulled up outside the mansion and rested his hand on the gear. “I have somewhere to be,” he told me.

I nodded, unbuckled my seatbelt, and reached for the door handle… but something tugged at me before I could step out.

I reached into my bag. My water bottle was nearly full, no surprise considering I forget water exists ninety percent of the time.

I don’t know what came over me, honestly. I just… wanted to offer him some.

I held it out to him.

He looked at me for a moment, like he wasn't expecting it. Then he took it, unscrewed the cap and took a few slow sips.

When he finished, he extended it back to me.

“Keep it with yourself.” 

I didn't wait for his reply and stepped out of the car.

By the time I reached the main gate, the engine had come alive again and his car rolled away.

When I stepped inside the house, I expected the usual noise: the chatter from the living room, Misha’s high pitched giggles echoing in the living room, the soft chaos that always made this place feel alive.

But today… nothing.

The house felt hollow, like someone had scooped the sound out of it. Even my footsteps felt too loud against the marble.

I placed my bag on the couch and walked toward the kitchen, thinking a glass of water might steady me after the long day.

The moment I stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of the space wrapped around me. Meera aunty stood at the stove, steam rising around her as she stirred something in a pan. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling around her face.

When she turned at the sound of my steps, that familiar, soft smile spread across her lips.

“You’re here? Come, have some water,” she said, her voice gentle in a way that always hit the part of me that missed my own mother.

I reached for a glass, and she extended her hand toward it, but her fingers never touched the rim.

Her wrist trembled, her elbow dipped inward, her eyes fluttered strangely, unfocused, and then her whole body swayed.

“Aunty…?” I barely got the word out. And before I could move, she collapsed.

“Maa!” The scream ripped out of me as I dropped to my knees beside her.

Her body was warm, but too limp. I took her head and rested it on my lap. My hands shook as I lightly tapped her cheek.

“Maa…” I whispered, voice cracking as panic pressed into my ribs.

My mind went numb and sharp at the same time.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway, fast and uneven as Vivaan appeared in the doorway. His eyes wide, breath catching when he saw me on the floor.

“Bhabhi?” he said, but the word died the moment he saw his mother.

The fear on his face folded into something raw. “Maa!”

He fell to his knees beside us so quickly his phone slipped from his pocket onto the floor. He lifted her head gently onto his lap, hands trembling violently as he tried to wake her up.

I quickly grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and sprinkled it across her face. For a moment nothing happened, and the panic pressed tighter.

Then her eyelids fluttered, slow and weak, like she was pulling herself up from far away.

Relief washed through me, but it didn’t settle the fear twisting in my chest.

Vivaan immediately lifted her in his arms and carried her toward her room.

We laid her down on the bed, adjusting her head on the pillow. Her skin felt clammy, and her breathing a little shallow.

“Call a doctor,” I told Vivaan.

He fumbled with his phone but managed to connect quickly, his voice shaking as he explained the situation.

While we waited, I sat beside her, brushing stray hair from her forehead, telling Vivaan everything that had happened in the kitchen.

The doctor arrived within minutes. He checked her pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and asked a few quick questions.

I answered everything as clearly as I could.

After examining her, he looked up at us.

“Her blood pressure is low,” he said gently. “It seems like a combination of exhaustion, stress, and dehydration. It’s nothing severe, but she does need rest.”

He prepared an injection, cleaned a small spot on her arm, and administered it.

“This will help stabilize her blood pressure,” he explained. “Let her lie down for at least an hour. Once she’s more alert, give her something light to eat and plenty of fluids.”

Vivaan let out a shaky exhale. I felt my own shoulders loosen, just a bit.

“She should feel significantly better by tonight,” the doctor assured us. “But if she faints again or feels unusually dizzy, call me immediately.”

He scribbled down a few instructions and handed them to me.

The panic didn’t fully leave my chest, but at least now it had a direction to breathe.

Vivaan walked him out while I stayed beside her, watching the color slowly return to her face. Her eyelids fluttered open again, steadier this time, her gaze clearer.

“How are you feeling now?” I asked softly.

“Diya…” she murmured.

I held her hand gently, giving her a small nod that said she could continue.

Her voice was fragile but certain when she asked, “Did you call me Maa before I collapsed, or did I imagine that?”

“I did,” I admitted, the truth slipping out quietly.

And before she could react, before she could think anything at all, I rushed into an explanation, the words tumbling out too fast to catch.

“I got really scared when you fainted like that, so it just slipped out,” I said in one breath. “I’m sorry. I won’t call you that if you don’t like it.”

“This girl…” she murmured, shaking her head with something similar to fondness.

“I would have loved to be called maa by my daughter. But no pressure. You can call me whatever feels right to you.” She lifted a hand and cupped my cheek, warm and soft and heartbreakingly kind.

“How are you feeling now… maa?” I asked, the word settling on my tongue with a strange and unexpected warmth.

I’d always told myself that even if this marriage had been forced on me, nothing else would be.

No names, no relationships, no pretenses. I wouldn’t go along with anything I didn’t choose.

Calling her aunty had been one of those choices, it was my boundary. A quiet line I drew for my own sanity.

But now…

This didn't feel forced, it wasn't.

It wasn’t encouraged or expected. I said it because I wanted it to, because the moment she collapsed and fear ripped through me, ‘maa’ was the only word that reached my mouth.

And now, saying it again, this time without fear and without panic filled my chest with something warm and astonishingly soft.

She smiled, a little overwhelmed. “Much better. After that, I think I’m on cloud nine,” she said, laughter softening her words.

From the doorway came a familiar voice, laced with mischief.

“Congratulations, Meera aunty,” Vivaan announced, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. “You’ve officially been promoted to Meera maa. Benefits included.”

The tight worry that had carved itself across Vivaan’s face earlier was gone, replaced by his usual bright amusement.

And the three of us couldn’t help but laugh. A light, relieved sound that filled the room exactly the way it had been empty minutes ago.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐