The next morning, Arjun woke up to an empty bed.
Sreeja's side was cold.
Her blanket was folded neatly.
And the steel glass on her nightstand? Bone dry.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and checked the time. 6:42 AM.
Too early for her to go out, too late for her to still be in the house without him noticing.
He stood, stretched, and called out softly.
"Sreeja?"
No answer.
He opened the bedroom door and peeked into the hall.
Neat. Silent. Curtains moving a little from the breeze. His laptop was still on sleep mode from last night's mini panic attack.
He walked into the kitchen.
The coffee filter was full. Two cups made. One still steaming.
But she wasn't there.
That's when he saw it.
Sitting on the table, right next to the sugar tin.
Her mangalsutra.
Folded neatly.
Like it wasn't an emotional object at all.
Like it was just… part of a uniform.
For a second, his brain completely disconnected.
Why would she leave it here?
Was she angry?
Did she leave him?
No. That wasn't her style. She didn't walk out — she vanished.
He picked it up slowly.
No message. No note. No lipstick-smeared tissue paper with dramatic dialogue.
Just silence.
And then, the front door opened.
She walked in. Calm. Fresh. In a casual saree and flats.
Holding… two packets of milk.
"Morning," she said, placing them near the stove.
He stared.
She raised an eyebrow. "What?"
He held up the mangalsutra like a lawyer submitting Exhibit A in court.
"You forgot something."
She looked at it for a beat longer than necessary.
Then walked over, took it from his hand, and casually tied it back on her neck.
"Must've slipped off," she said.
"No, it didn't," he said, crossing his arms.
She smiled — tiny, mischievous.
"You're very observant."
"I run penetration tests for a living," he muttered. "I notice missing details."
"Good," she said, pouring water into the kettle. "Then you'll be very useful in the coming months."
He froze.
"What coming months?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she pulled out two coffee mugs, as if nothing happened.
Later that afternoon, Arjun tried to pretend everything was normal.
He cleaned the inbox. Deleted spam. Updated security protocols.
But his brain kept circling back to two things:
She lied. Effortlessly.She brought milk back like nothing happened — while forgetting her wedding symbol.
Even in spy movies, the assassin doesn't leave the wedding chain on the dining table.
His heart wasn't broken. Not yet.
But something inside him was starting to feel… off-balance.
Like he was in a game where everyone else had read the rules except him.
That evening, they went to the temple with his parents.
Sreeja wore a soft green cotton saree, smiled sweetly at aunties, helped a toddler reach the bell rope.
And held his hand in front of the priest.
It was… disorienting.
After the pooja, they sat on the temple steps. Just the two of them.
Arjun, still confused. Quiet.
Sreeja looked up at the sky.
"You're thinking too much again," she said.
"I always think too much."
She tilted her head. "You scared of me?"
He hesitated.
"No," he said. "I'm scared of not understanding you."
She didn't smile this time.
She just reached out and gently touched his arm.
"You will."
Then stood up and walked toward his mother.
Leaving him there, on the temple steps, holding half a garland in one hand and half a theory in the other.