Breakfast became a theater of silence.
She sat across the table, scrolling her phone, humming a stupid song. I stirred my tea like it was a cauldron hiding poison.
She asked, "You're quiet these days, everything okay at work?"
I wanted to laugh in her face. Instead I said, "Yeah. Just tired."
She smiled, warm and practiced. My fingers twitched around the spoon. The urge to slam it on the table was strong. But I remembered Raj's voice in my head: "Patience, man. Don't show your cards."
That morning I learned something strange about myself: I could sit across from the person who'd gutted my trust and still play normal. It felt like swallowing glass with a polite smile.