Kayal pov:

Ezhil had promised we'd go out today and like he always does ,he kept his word.

It had been a long while since I had stepped out like this, without layers of sadness wrapped around me. Today felt lighter. Chennai evenings had their own kind of magic, and sitting behind him on the scooty with the wind in my face, I felt something I hadn't in a while—freedom.

"We'll go for dinner later," he said as we parked. "But first, surprise."

He didn't say where we were going, but when I saw the nameboard 'Higginbothams', my heart practically leapt out of my chest.

"Wait... this bookstore? We're going in here?!" I asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah," he chuckled, removing his helmet, "Why? Planning to run away now?"

"Ezhil! It's so big!" I clutched his arm, "You should've warned me I'd have brought a suitcase!"

He just laughed, and that too so casually, like he hadn't just taken me to a place where I could breathe again.

I walked in, and the smell of books—fresh paper, old bindings, words waiting to be heard—it hit me like a warm hug. I wandered through the aisles like a child in a toy shop. Every shelf whispered stories, every spine called out to me.

And then I saw it.

"Kadal Pura..." I whispered, fingers brushing over the cover. "Sandilyan's masterpiece..."

"You've read it before?" Ezhil asked, leaning over.

"No! I've wanted to for years. My copies... they're all at home,that too appa has only one part of the series," I murmured. Home. That word still felt distant.

I picked up 'Sila Nerangalil Sila Manithargal' by Jeyakanthan. A classic. The kind of writing that stayed with you even when the story ended. And then I saw 'Pyre' by Perumal Murugan - only the English translation was available, but I didn't care. His writing always made me ache in the best way.

"You're going to finish all of these?" he asked, amused.

"You don't know the power of a motivated reader," I said with a smirk.

Ezhil picked a few books too,mostly self help and philosophy types. Very Ezhil.

After buying our books, we went for dinner. I spoke a little less while eating because well, I had plans. I had to tell him all about my books. Obviously.

As soon as we came home and I changed into my comfy cotton nightie, I sat cross-legged on the sofa, clutching the books like they were puppies.

"Ezhil, listen na," I began, eyes sparkling. "So this Sandilyan novel—'Kadal Pura'—it's historical fiction. Romance, war, Tamil kings, sea voyages—ugh, what a combo!"

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, nodding as though he was taking notes.

"And this," I held up the Jeyakanthan one, "talks about morality, womanhood, social expectations like, way ahead of its time. Jeyakanthan sir's mind is just... next level."

He smiled.

"And Pyre—oh my God, it's painful. Like heart wrenching pain. You know when a book makes you question society? That -its about a couple who belonged to different caste and communities like she belonged to city he belonged to village and yet got married,god those village people burnt her alive when she was pregnant with his child, and heck they were proud of it.But do you know what's the worst her husband didn't even know she was pregnant,before he could reach home they burnt her alive.

I read it in library - original tamil version but i got only english version now anyways ,I wanted to add it to my bookshelf."

I looked up to see him staring,not at the books but at me.

"What?" I asked, suddenly aware.

"Nothing," he said, walking over. Then, without warning, he playfully pinched my cheek. "You're glowing when you talk about books, Kayal ma."

("ma" is a respectful endearment men in Tamil Nadu use to address women — not romantic, just affectionate and culturally rooted.)

"Hey! I'm serious!" I scoffed, rubbing my cheek.

"I know," he said with a laugh, then gently placed a hand on my head and ruffled my hair  like I was still the kid who used to chase him around with slippers.

Some part of me warmed at the gesture. Familiar. Gentle. Home.

Maybe it wasn't just books I was beginning to love again.

Maybe it was life, too.

______________________________________

It was a Sunday.

The kind of Sunday that didn't rush you. The kind where sunlight filtered through sheer curtains like it had all the time in the world.

I woke up to the smell of filter coffee and something sizzling in the kitchen.

Not gonna lie,I thought I was dreaming. But then I heard the clang of a spoon falling and a low "Aiyyo!" from the kitchen. Definitely not a dream.

I tied my hair up messily and padded out of the bedroom.

Ezhil stood there, wearing one of those soft-cotton white vests and checkered lungis, trying to flip dosas without breaking them. His hair was still wet from a shower, and he hadn't noticed me yet.

"Need help?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He turned, startled, and gave me a sheepish grin. "Ah, I was trying to surprise you."

"You're trying to surprise me by burning breakfast?"

"It's not burnt! It's just... golden brown like my attitude."

I laughed. It slipped out naturally before I could stop it. He smiled like that sound meant something.

"I'll make the chutney," I offered, walking in and tying my dupatta properly.

For a while, we moved around the kitchen like we always had in childhood ,except back then it used to be him stealing snacks from me, or me asking him to pass salt as a code for "I don't want to do homework."

Now, it was different.

Now, it was peaceful.

When we sat down to eat, he poured coffee into my steel tumbler and said, "Taste and tell. I tried making it just like how you like."

I took a sip. "Mmmm. Honestly? It's good. Slightly more decoction, but still good because I love strong coffee."

"You'll never give full marks, will you?"

"Nope," I grinned. "I must keep you humble."

He looked at me for a moment, like he wanted to say something but chose not to.

After breakfast, I started folding the dried clothes from the balcony while he put on some old Ilaiyaraaja songs on the speaker.

As we worked, we didn't talk much. Just the occasional:

"Kayal, that's my towel!"

"Oh. Well, it's folded better than how you do it."

Or

"Pass the clip."

"You didn't say 'please'."

Childish, soft things.

The flat was small, yes. But there was something beautiful about the way we settled into it. I arranged my books near the window sill where the sunlight always came in during the day. He placed his favorite pen stand on the desk. We weren't just living in a house now.

We were building something.

Later in the evening, as he graded some papers on the sofa and I curled up on the floor with one of my new books, he looked at me and said, "Do you like it here?"

I nodded. "It's quiet. Safe. The noise in my head... it's lesser here."

He didn't say anything. Just gave me that small smile of his. The kind that reached his eyes.

That night, as I turned off the bedroom lights and he took the blanket to sleep on the couch again, I stopped at the doorway and said, "Goodnight, Ezhil."

He looked up, a little surprised. "Goodnight, Kayal."

There was no big moment. No dramatic change.

But it felt like we had taken one small step closer to... something.

Something soft. Something real.

Something that, maybe, didn't need words.

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