Mornings had become quieter since that day in Ishan's apartment.
Not the silence of peace.The silence that comes after the first crack in glass. You can still drink from the cup, but you know it won't last.
Rekha folded the laundry slowly, letting the sarees fall over her arms like memories she didn't ask for. Ashok had left for work early, a file in one hand and toast in the other. He hadn't noticed her lipstick. He never did.
She had worn it without thinking. A muted plum. Not bold. Not subtle. Just… present.
She didn't ask herself why.
That afternoon, she sat on the balcony with her stitching work, trying to keep her hands busy while her thoughts ran elsewhere.
The summer air was hot but not harsh. A breeze moved through the leaves of the neem tree just outside the compound wall. Somewhere, a child was crying. Somewhere else, a scooter honked like it was in pain.
She wasn't waiting.
But she heard the sound of Ishan's balcony door sliding open.
She didn't turn immediately.Instead, she moved the needle slowly, threading a fine line through cotton. Her fingers trembled only once.
When she finally allowed herself to look up, he was already seated. No cigarette today. A mug in his hand. Black T-shirt. Eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
Watching her.
There was no wave. No greeting.
Just the thick, wordless awareness of each other.
She looked away first.
Later that evening, Rekha poured herself tea. One spoon of sugar, slightly more milk. The way she always liked it.She took it to the window. The one that looked out onto the complex driveway.
Ishan walked in through the gate, talking on his phone, laughing. That kind of laugh that comes from deep in the belly—not forced. Not polite. The kind of laugh she hadn't heard inside her home in years.
He saw her through the window.
This time, he smiled.
Not the seductive kind.Not even the knowing kind.
Just… warm.
And she smiled back, before she could stop herself.
She didn't tell her friend Seema anything.
They had their usual Sunday call, discussing their sons, food prices, Seema's new sari blouse design. But Rekha left out the name that had started to linger behind her eyelids at night.
She wasn't doing anything wrong, after all.
Not yet.
On Monday, she made up an excuse to go down to the gate.
Ashok's parcel was due, she told herself.
She waited near the security desk, phone in hand, pretending to scroll.
Ishan came down five minutes later. Coincidence, maybe. But her body felt it like fate.
"You waiting for someone?" he asked.
"Delivery," she said.
He leaned against the railing. "You always wait so still. Like you're trying not to exist."
She looked up at him, brows furrowed.
"I'm just not loud."
He smiled faintly. "Loud doesn't mean alive. But you... you're holding your breath all the time."
She opened her mouth, closed it again.
Then: "You don't know me."
"I want to."
There it was. The line.
Soft. Clear. Offered like an open door.
She didn't step through it.
But she didn't shut it, either.
That night, in bed, Ashok reached out and touched her waist for the first time in months.
It was a thoughtless touch—dry palms, perfunctory fingers, his breath stale with whisky and sleep.
He didn't say anything. Didn't look at her.
Just moved like he remembered what a husband was supposed to do.
She turned her face to the wall. And felt her body grow colder under the heat.
He finished in silence. Rolled away. Snored.
Rekha lay with her blouse pushed halfway up her chest and a wetness between her thighs that wasn't desire—it was disgust.
Not at him.
At herself—for craving a stranger more than the man she once loved.
The next morning, the wind changed.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
A cool breeze ran through the apartment like a whisper. Monsoon teasing its way into the dry month.
She stood at the window, holding a cup of black tea. No milk. No sugar.She didn't know why she made it that way today.
Downstairs, Ishan was walking across the compound toward his car. He wore jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar open.
He looked up.
Paused.
And held her gaze.
This time, she didn't look away.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
And then… he tilted his head. The subtlest invitation.
She turned, placed the cup down, and walked back inside.Her heartbeat was in her throat.
That evening, she cooked dinner with unusual focus.
Masoor dal, aloo fry, chapatis. She even made rice kheer.Ashok didn't notice. Barely grunted when she served him.
But she wasn't cooking for him.
She was cooking to occupy her hands, to slow the storm rising in her stomach.
The doorbell rang at 9:20 p.m.
She opened it.
It was Ishan.
Standing there with a single yellow rose and an expression that didn't apologize for anything.
"You dropped this," he said, holding out the flower.
She stared.
"I didn't—"
He stepped forward, slowly, until the hallway light caught the gold flecks in his eyes.
"No. But you looked like someone who deserved one."
Her hand reached out before her thoughts did.
She took the flower.
Held it.
Smelled it.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, quietly.
"I know."
"People will see."
"I know."
He leaned in, not enough to touch, but enough to send heat down her spine.
"I won't kiss you," he said. "Not until you ask."
She stepped back. Only slightly.
He didn't move forward.
Just smiled.
And turned away.
The door closed with a sound softer than breath.
She stood there holding the rose.
No lipstick smudged on his collar. No buttons undone. No clothes on the floor.
But something inside her body had already come undone.