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"Why did you not listen to me?"I whispered against her lips, my voice husky with a mixture of anger and possessiveness.
"I can do anything I please. You have no right to dictate my movements," she retorte...
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I held her close, letting her warmth press against me as her sobs began to fade. Her breathing turned softer, but the weight in the room still pressed down like a silent storm waiting to rise again.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, lips near her temple.
She didn’t speak, just let her hand slowly find its way over my chest. Her fingers clutched the fabric of my shirt as if to make sure I was real. Still here.
“I don’t want you to get anymore, Amrita. Not because of me. Not ever again,” I murmured.
Then, gently, I helped her to her feet. Her body leaned into mine heavily—tired, fragile. I didn’t rush. I moved at her pace, every movement deliberate, tender.
I guided her to the dining table. She sat, but her eyes stayed downcast, lashes damp.
“You need to eat something,” I said softly, kneeling beside her.
She barely nodded, and I got up, moving quickly to the kitchen. I didn’t want to leave her alone for even a moment longer than necessary. I returned with a simple plate—rice, dal, a bit of vegetable curry—something warm, something familiar.
“I don’t want to eat alone,” she said quietly.
“I’ll be right here.” I sat beside her and took the spoon.
At first, she resisted. Just a little. Then, slowly, she allowed me to feed her—one spoonful at a time. Her hand rested on my knee beneath the table, and her touch felt like a silent apology. Or maybe it was forgiveness. Or maybe just a plea to stay.
When she was done, she looked too weak to move.
I wrapped an arm around her and lifted her again.
She was feather-light. And that terrified me.
Back in the bedroom, I pulled the blanket down and laid her carefully on the bed. She curled up instantly, as though bracing for something—even now, after all that had been said.
I sat beside her. Watching. Breathing with her. As if synchronizing my lungs with hers could make some kind of silent promise.
