29. EMOTIONS
VEERANSH:
The room feels different when she lies on the bed. Not occupied. Claimed. I stand near the window with my phone in hand, the call already ended, the screen dark. I don't remember what was said on that call.
I don't remember who it was with. My attention keeps drifting back to the bed like a compass needle refusing to point anywhere else. She's on the far left edge. So far that one wrong turn in sleep would send her falling.
Her body is rigid beneath the blanket, shoulders tight, breath shallow. She isn't asleep. Anyone with eyes could see that. She's pretending, like she pretends with everything else. I tell myself to step away.
I don't. I watch. The light pink fabric of her night clothes contrasts sharply with the dark sheets. Her braid lies over one shoulder, neat, careful, like she prepared herself for judgment even in sleep.
The mangalsutra rests on the dressing table now, bangles aligned beside it with unnatural precision. As if disorder itself might offend me. I loosen my watch and set it down harder than necessary.
Why does she do that. Why does she keep arranging herself like she's temporary. Like she might be asked to leave any second. I move toward the bed and stop midway.
Too close. I turn instead and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door with more force than required.
The mirror greets me with a face I don't recognize.
Not angry. Not calm. Something in between.
I grip the sink and lean forward, staring at my own reflection.
This wasn't supposed to happen like this. Kashmir was meant to be distance.
Neutral ground. A pause from the noise, the media, my mother's watchful eyes, Suhana's questions that are too sharp for her age. It was meant to be strategic.
But strategy doesn't explain why I noticed the way she shivered on the balcony. Or why my hand tightened around her waist when she slipped. Or why the idea of her sleeping on the floor made something in me snap so quickly I didn't even consider arguing.
I turn the tap on, splash cold water on my face. Get control. She's here because of me. Because of a contract. Because of threats I issued without blinking. I straighten and dry my hands, forcing my breathing to slow. When I step back into the room, she hasn't moved. Still pretending. Still stiff.
I pick up my phone again and step onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind me. The cold hits immediately, biting, sharp, but it helps. It clears my head in a way warmth doesn't.
The mountains loom in the distance, dark silhouettes against a starlit sky.
Snow reflects faint light, making everything seem unreal.
I dial a number I swore I wouldn't again.
He answers on the second ring. "You don't sleep, do you?
" he says dryly. "Not tonight," I reply. A pause. "Is this about her?"
"Yes." Another pause, longer. "You sound different." "I don't care how I sound." "That's the difference," he says. "You always care." I lean against the railing. "She stood outside my room for over an hour last night." Silence. "I told her not to enter," I continue. "She followed it. Exactly."
"And?" "And she waited," I snap. "Didn't knock.
Didn't leave. Just stood there." "Veeransh," he says slowly, "you're not angry at her.
" "I know." "You're angry at yourself." The words hit uncomfortably close.
I don't respond. "She doesn't understand your rules the way you think she does," he continues.
"She treats them like laws. Breaking them isn't an option in her mind.
" "I didn't ask for obedience like that.
" "No," he agrees. "You asked for control.
This is what it looks like." I close my eyes briefly.
Inside the room, through the glass, I can see her shape under the blanket.
Still awake. Still careful. "She offered to sleep on the floor," I say quietly.
"And?" "I said no." A small exhale on the other end of the line. Almost a laugh. "Progress." "Don't," I warn. "Listen to me," he says. "You're not dealing with a woman who pushes boundaries. You're dealing with someone who erases herself to fit them." My grip tightens on the railing.
"She looks at me like I might explode," I say. "Even when I'm not angry." "Because you taught her that you might." I end the call abruptly. I don't want analysis. I don't want clarity. I want silence. I go back inside and lock the balcony door quietly. She hasn't moved.
I walk to the other side of the bed and sit down slowly, careful not to shake the mattress. The space between us feels deliberate. Measured. She's breathing faster now. She knows I'm here. "You can relax," I say quietly. "I'm not going to touch you." Her shoulders drop just a fraction.
That reaction, relief, cuts deeper than fear ever did.
I lie down on my side of the bed, facing the ceiling.
The mattress dips slightly under my weight.
The space between us remains, a narrow no man's land neither of us crosses.
Minutes pass. Neither of us sleeps. "You don't need to stay awake," I add after a while. "I won't mind."
A pause. "I don't mind," she whispers. "I can stay.
" I turn my head slightly, not enough to face her fully, but enough to know she's staring at the ceiling just like me.
"That wasn't a request," I say. "Sleep." Another pause.
Her breathing shifts slowly, reluctantly, as if she's negotiating with herself.
It takes time, but eventually, her body eases. The tension bleeds out inch by inch. She falls asleep. I know because the room changes. Because the air feels less guarded. Because for the first time since we arrived, I can breathe without feeling like I'm standing on glass. I don't sleep.
I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint rhythm of her breath. And for the first time, the thought that unsettles me isn't about losing control.
Sleep never comes to me. Not tonight. Her breathing evens out beside me, soft and steady, the sound barely there yet impossible to ignore. It fills the space between us more than words ever could.
I turn my head slightly. She's curled on her side, facing away from me, as if even in sleep she remembers where the boundary lies.
Her hand is tucked near her chest, fingers curled inward.
Like she's holding onto something invisible.
She trusts sleep more than she trusts me.
That thought stays with me. The ceiling above is unfamiliar.
Wooden panels reflecting soft amber light.
Outside, the wind moves gently against the glass, carrying the sound of something distant, maybe trees, maybe snow shifting.
I count breaths. One. Two. Three. I shouldn't be doing this.
I shouldn't be lying beside her, analyzing the way her shoulders rise and fall, the way her brow smooths when she's finally at rest.
This closeness wasn't part of any plan. This trip was supposed to be logistics and silence, nothing more. Yet here I am. I think back to the morning.
The way she stood frozen in red, eyes wide, apologizing before I'd even spoken. The way she wore everything I'd handed her, every symbol, every mark, without question. Like acceptance was her only shield.
I clench my jaw. I didn't ask her if she wanted to wear them.
I told her. That difference matters more than I wanted to admit.
A movement beside me pulls my attention back.
She shifts slightly, murmuring something unintelligible under her breath.
Her hand slips closer to the center of the bed.
Instinctively, I freeze. She doesn't wake.
She just moves. I watch the space between our hands shrink to inches. I don't move closer. I don't move away either. This moment right here is dangerous. Not because of desire. Because of restraint. Because every instinct I've ever honed is about control. Situations. People. Outcomes.
And this, whatever this is, doesn't feel like control at all. It feels like standing still while something changes around me. I sit up slowly, careful not to wake her, and swing my legs off the bed.
The floor is cold beneath my feet. I welcome it. I walk to the window and pull the curtain aside slightly. Outside, the mountains glow faintly under moonlight. Snow reflects the night like it's holding onto the day's memory. I rest my forehead against the glass. I tell myself this is temporary.
That she's here because circumstances forced it.
That once the noise dies down, once the world stops watching, things will return to order.
But the thought doesn't settle the way it used to.
Instead, another memory surfaces, one I didn't invite.
Her standing outside my room. Waiting. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just waiting.
Because I told her not to enter. I close my eyes. I've always respected obedience. Valued it. Rewarded it when it benefited me. But what she gives isn't obedience. It's surrender. And that sits differently in my chest. I turn away from the window and glance back at the bed.
She's still asleep. Peaceful now. Unaware that the man standing a few feet away is questioning things he's never questioned before. I return to the bed and lie down again.
This time on my back, hands folded over my stomach like I'm bracing myself. Minutes pass. Then more. My phone vibrates softly on the side table. I reach for it quickly, muting the sound. A message. From my mother. Is she settled. I stare at the screen.
I type back. Yes. Another message follows almost immediately. "Take care of her." I don't reply. Because I don't know what that means anymore. Does it mean keeping her fed. Safe. Alive. Or does it mean not breaking her further.
I set the phone aside. Beside me, she stirs again, this time more noticeably. A soft sound escapes her lips, a half formed word that never becomes anything.
She turns slightly toward me. Her forehead creases. A dream maybe. Without thinking, I reach out. My hand stops inches from her shoulder.
I hesitate. This isn't allowed. Not by my rules. Not by the man I've always been. But something quieter, more honest, asks a different question.
What harm is there in comfort. My hand settles lightly on her shoulder. Barely pressure. Barely there. She relaxes almost instantly.
Tension melting from her body like she's been waiting for that touch without knowing it. Her breathing evens again. I pull my hand back slowly.
My heart pounds harder than it should. That reaction. That trust. It scares me. I turn onto my side, facing away from her this time. Putting distance back where it belongs. This is how it starts, I tell myself. Not love. Never that. Something more dangerous.
Attachment. Possession that isn't about power, but about presence. About noticing when she's cold before she speaks. About knowing she'll stand outside a closed door rather than break a rule that hurts her.
About realizing that my silence weighs more on her than my anger ever did. I don't sleep. Morning creeps in slowly, pale light edging through the curtains. The world outside begins to wake. She shifts again, waking this time. I hear her inhale sharply, then still. She knows she isn't alone.
I don't turn. I don't want to see fear on her face. I hear the faint rustle of fabric as she sits up slightly. She hesitates. Then softly, "Good morning." "Morning," I reply, voice steady. She doesn't move closer. Doesn't move away. Just sits.
"We'll go out soon?" she asks, tentative. "Yes," I say. "After breakfast." "Okay." Silence again. She gathers her courage. I can feel it in the pause. "Thank you," she says suddenly. "For what?" My chest tightens.
"For last night." I don't respond immediately. Because I don't know which part she's thanking me for. For letting her sleep on the bed. For not touching her. For not shouting. Or for something smaller, something I didn't even realize mattered. "You don't need to thank me," I say finally.
She nods. She always nods. She slips out of bed carefully, mindful of space, of boundaries, of me. She moves toward the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her.
The room feels emptier without her. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the place she just left. This wasn't supposed to change anything. But it has. Not in ways the world will notice. Not in ways I can explain. Just in the quiet moments.
Where I find myself thinking less about control. And more about what it would cost me to lose it.