Kayal's pov:

The apartment was too quiet without him.

Back home, Amma would have been yelling from the kitchen, Appa would be folding the newspaper for the tenth time, and Paati would have called out for her turmeric box just because she forgot she already had it.

Here... there was just the soft hum of the ceiling fan. And the distant honking from the road below.

I stood in the middle of the living room, staring at nothing for a while.

It still didn't feel like mine — this house, this life. Everything felt borrowed. Temporary. Like I was just visiting.

I walked around slowly, taking it in now without him hovering nearby explaining where the spoons were or how the gas stove had a loose knob.

The sofa had an old throw blanket folded neatly over the side,probably where he slept every night since the wedding. The way he quietly made space for me without making a fuss, without asking for anything in return... it should've made me feel grateful.

Instead, it made my throat ache.

I entered the small study next. His desk was messy, full of scribbled notes, question papers, sticky notes in terrible handwriting, and a half-finished cup of tea from god knows when.

There were books everywhere — some classics, some technical ones, and then... one book with a yellow Post-it sticking out of it.

I pulled it out, curious.

It was my old favorite - Ponniyin Selvan. But this wasn't his copy. This was mine.

My name was written in small letters inside, in blue gel pen. "Kayalvizhi S."

I blinked. How did it end up here?

I remembered losing this book years ago during one of our family vacations. I had looked for it everywhere.

I ran my hand over the cover. Had he... had he taken it? Kept it?

Or did I leave it behind during one of the visits and he never returned it?

He had held on to it all these years?

Something fluttered inside me.

I placed it back gently and walked into the kitchen. Time to distract myself.

I knew he had said he would cook, but I couldn't just sit around waiting. The rice cooker looked simple enough. I found the dal and started preparing a basic sambar — Amma's method, slow and steady.

While cutting the vegetables, my mind wandered.

No.
I should not think about him.

He betrayed me.

And worse, he degraded me.

Why? Was it because I didn't become an engineer like him? Or because I chose not to work?

But I am not dumb.
I scored third rank in my school board exams.

I even topped my college exams - I was a gold medalist.

Then why did I always put marriage before everything? Why was I more excited to become his wife than to pursue a postgrad, like Appa wanted?

Did my love for him blind me so much that I began to believe what Paati always said - "Cook well, keep the house clean, bear children, and keep the husband happy"?

Back then, I would blush and imagine those scenarios like a silly girl. But why didn't I ever stop to question it? Even once?

Arghhhh. Everything hurts.

Maybe I'll ask Ezhil when he comes back.

He's the only one I've ever run to when something felt wrong. Since childhood, it's always been him who quietly fixed things - broken cycles, missing notebooks, even tears I hid from others.

It's not fair to punish him for something he didn't do.

He's been so patient... handling my silence, my nods, my refusal to speak in full paragraphs, even though he was once the one who used to beg me to stop talking so much.

Even he was forced into this marriage. Maybe he too had dreams  of a wife who was perfect, graceful, quiet, beautiful. Not... me.

Maybe... maybe Arjun was right when he said I had a "village mindset."

But was that really something to be ashamed of?
I looked at the small bookshelf again.

My eyes lingered on a few books stacked in a neat pile. One of them was a college entrance prep book  open, dog-eared, used.

I didn't even remember the last time I opened something like that.

For a brief second, just a passing thought , I wondered what it would feel like to try again. Not for anyone else. Not to prove anything.

Just for me.

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