One afternoon
Shruti was sitting on a low stone bench near the admin block, leafing through a novel. Saranya plopped down beside her with a sigh that felt heavier than usual.
"He's really hard to talk to," Saranya muttered, tugging at the end of her dupatta.
Shruti looked up, her voice careful. "Maybe he's just shy with people he doesn't know well."
Saranya's eyes stayed on the crowd across the courtyard. Arjun stood near the bike stand, waiting for Shruti as usual, one hand in his pocket, idly tapping his phone with the other.
She watched him for a moment, then spoke—slowly, like testing the water.
"But he's not like that with you."
Shruti's hands stilled on the page. "What do you mean?"
"There's something in the way you both talk," Saranya murmured. "Like… comfort. Like history."
Shruti's throat tightened. "We're… friends," she said softly.
Saranya turned to look at her. "But not just that. Right?"
Shruti didn't answer.
The silence that stretched between them wasn't heavy. It was hollow. Like something had been removed from the air.
Saranya smiled faintly and looked down at her hands. "I think I always knew," she said after a while. "Not in words. But in feeling."
Shruti pressed her lips together.
"I liked him," Saranya admitted quietly. "I still do. But I think I confused kindness for affection. You know how rare it is for a boy to treat a girl with decency these days?"
"I do," Shruti said softly.
Saranya looked up again, blinking hard. "It's okay. You don't have to explain. You're not cruel, Shruti. That's why it hurts more."
---
Flashback to earlier moments, now in Saranya's memory:
One morning, Arjun had helped Saranya carry her lab file when she dropped it. She'd said "thank you," but he hadn't looked her in the eye.
"Be careful next time," he'd said simply, then walked away.
That same afternoon, Shruti dropped her pen during lunch. Arjun swooped to pick it up dramatically, waved it like a treasure, and teased, "One rescue a day is my limit."
She'd smacked his arm. He'd laughed. Shruti had rolled her eyes but smiled.
Saranya had watched from a distance.
She'd watched them walking together near the library steps, whispering. She saw the way Shruti laughed into her palm, and how Arjun's eyes never left her. She noticed the way they leaned toward each other unconsciously, how Shruti's elbow rested lightly against his arm.
The signs were all there. They just hadn't been spoken aloud.
---
Now, back to the bench
"I guess I kept hoping he'd change the way he looked at me," Saranya said, voice thick but steady. "But he already has someone he looks at that way."
Shruti couldn't look her in the eye. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be," Saranya replied. "I just needed to say it aloud, I guess."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, just watching the students trickle past.
Then Saranya stood, brushing imaginary dust off her leggings. "You're lucky, you know," she said gently.
Shruti finally met her gaze. "Am I?"
Saranya nodded. "Not because he likes you. But because he sees you."
Shruti felt something shift in her chest.
As Saranya walked away, she didn't look bitter. She didn't walk fast. She just moved on—with quiet acceptance.
Shruti stayed seated, staring at her open book, though she hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.
And she wondered, once again, if keeping her marriage to Arjun a secret had protected anyone… or just prolonged the hurt.
---
That evening, their small kitchen brimmed with familiar warmth. The faint sputter of mustard seeds popping in hot oil filled the air, mingling with the aroma of onions slowly turning golden brown in the pan. A light breeze filtered through the mesh window above the sink, carrying with it the scent of the neem tree outside.
Arjun stood at the counter in his grey t-shirt, sleeves pushed up, chopping vegetables with precise rhythm. The steady thud of the knife on the wooden board created a calming tempo. His hair was slightly tousled, and his brow furrowed in mild concentration as he sorted through green beans and carrots.
Shruti was beside him, stirring the curry base on the adjacent burner. Her fingers moved automatically, swirling the ladle in quiet circles. Her body was present, but her mind kept drifting—to Saranya's words, to the look on her face, to the guilt she carried in the pit of her stomach.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was soft, familiar. But today, there was something unsettled beneath it. Like a song slightly out of tune.
Arjun glanced at her, noticing the way she stared a bit too long at the bubbling curry. He set the knife down and gently reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with practiced ease.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice low.
Shruti blinked, pulled out of her thoughts. "Hm? Yeah… just tired."
He didn't call her out on the lie. He just gave her a knowing smile, the kind that said I know there's more, but I'll wait for you to tell me.
He nudged her elbow lightly. "You're always tired on the days you skip breakfast."
She smiled faintly. "I wasn't hungry this morning."
Arjun raised an eyebrow. "You're never hungry when I'm not around to force-feed you dosas."
She let out a soft laugh, the sound small but real. "You don't feed me. You bribe me with chutney."
"It's an effective strategy," he said proudly. "And speaking of bribes—game after dinner?"
She turned to look at him, pretending to squint. "Only if I win this time."
"You won't."
"I might."
"You won't," he repeated with a smug grin. "Because I've figured out your trick. You wait till I'm distracted and then spam all the buttons like a maniac."
Shruti gave a mock gasp. "It's called strategic chaos."
"It's called cheating," he said, flicking a small piece of carrot at her.
She dodged it with a smirk. "Well, maybe I'll just challenge you to chess instead."
Arjun grinned. "Please. Don't humiliate yourself like that."
"I will checkmate you in five moves."
"In five lifetimes, maybe."
She laughed again, this time more freely. The banter didn't erase the ache inside her—but it wrapped around it like gauze. It didn't fix everything, but it reminded her that she was allowed to laugh. Allowed to feel light, even with guilt pressing on her ribs like a hidden bruise.
As she returned to stirring the curry, Arjun reached for the masala jar behind her, his arm brushing hers. The contact was brief, but grounding. Comforting.
After a moment, he spoke, quieter now. "You know you don't have to hide anything from me, right?"
Her fingers tightened slightly on the ladle. "I know."
"I'll wait till you're ready," he added. "But I'll always listen."
Shruti turned her face slightly, pretending to focus on the flame. Her throat felt tight. She wanted to tell him everything. About Saranya. About the conversations, the weight of pretending, the quiet fear that someday he might wake up and regret her.
But instead, she whispered, "Thanks."
And he just nodded, slipping the chopped vegetables into the curry pot, stirring it gently beside her like they'd been cooking together their whole lives.
The domestic rhythm continued—lid clinks, spice sprinkles, playful glances. They worked in sync, sharing space and silence and the occasional brush of fingers over utensils.
Later, as the curry simmered and rice fluffed in the cooker, Arjun turned to her again.
"Want to make a bet on tonight's game?" he asked with a crooked smile.
Shruti raised an eyebrow. "What's the bet?"
"If I win," he said, "you do the dishes."
"And if I win?"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Then I'll do the dishes and make you tea in the morning."
Her lips twitched. "Tempting."
"Admit it," he grinned. "You're already planning your win."
She gave him a mock glare, then a small shake of her head. "Let's see who earns the tea, then."
As they turned back to the stove, side by side, the tension lingered in the air—but it was held by something stronger. Something steady. The quiet, unspoken kind of love that builds between two people over a hundred small moments… like chopping vegetables, stirring curry, and daring each other to feel lighter—together.
To be continued...