55
The soft hum of the geyser filled the bathroom as Vaani stepped out, steam curling behind her.
She tied her damp hair in a loose knot and slipped into a pale cotton kurta with pastel embroidery along the neckline, pairing it with flowing white palazzos.
It was simple, breezy, and comfortable — her kind of morning attire.
The kitchen clock showed just past eight when she padded in barefoot, the marble floor cool against her skin. She reached for the kettle, filling it with water and ginger slices, her movements practiced and light. The warm scent of brewing chai slowly began to fill the quiet house.
Just then, the front door clicked open. Dhruv walked in, his T-shirt damp with sweat from his workout, earphones hanging loosely around his neck. His hair was tousled, his steps measured as he entered, glancing toward the kitchen where Vaani stood stirring.
"You're up early," he said, setting down his gym bag. "Going to the office today?"
Vaani didn't turn immediately; she poured the boiling chai into a steel vessel to let it steep. "No," she replied calmly, "I'm free today."
He opened his mouth to ask more, but she added before he could — as though anticipating his next question, "I'm going with Maa for the reception dress shopping."
Dhruv paused in the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder. His gaze lingered on her for a brief moment, unreadable. Then he simply gave a small nod, turned, and walked toward their room without a word.
Vaani pursed her lips faintly but didn't dwell on it. She returned to her task, straining the chai into two cups, steam curling up in fragrant swirls. By the time Dhruv emerged from his shower, fresh in a dark T-shirt and track pants, she was waiting with both cups on the living room table.
He approached quietly, sitting down across from her. She slid one cup toward him without comment, her attention fixed on her phone screen.
Dhruv accepted the cup and sipped, watching her from over the rim. Her face was lit up with amusement as her thumbs flew across the screen. She chuckled softly at something, shaking her head.
"What's so funny?" he finally asked, his voice breaking the calm.
Vaani looked up briefly, eyes still gleaming with laughter. "Oh — it's Ria," she said, smiling. "She's sending me her outfits. Her wedding's next month, you know? She wants me to pick."
Dhruv raised an eyebrow. "What is it with you girls? Why do you all have to show your outfit to every single friend before wearing it?"
Vaani leaned back, amused at his tone. "Because they're our real mirror. They'll tell us if we look fat, or if the color's off, or if something doesn't suit us. They're brutally honest, and it matters."
He nodded slowly, almost skeptical. "Hmm. So that means when you try on outfits today... you'll send the pictures to the entire group?"
"Of course," she said with no hesitation. "It has to go. It's protocol."
"Protocol," Dhruv repeated, a dry edge to his voice. Then, his gaze softened in amusement. "An interior designer unable to figure out which design looks best on herself. That's ironic."
Vaani didn't even blink before retorting. "Similar to a company's CEO who can't string together more than five sentences at a given time. Irony is a cruel mistress indeed."
The words slipped out with a playful lilt, but they landed squarely. Dhruv stilled, staring at her as though no one had dared talk to him like that before. And perhaps no one had. For a heartbeat, silence stretched, thick yet strangely charged.
Then, almost against his own nature, Dhruv's lips curved — just slightly, but enough for her to notice. A smirk, brief and reluctant, but there.
"Whatever," he muttered, leaning back, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand.
Vaani grinned. "Haan haan, whatever."
The corners of his eyes flickered with a faint amusement he didn't care to admit. She got up, setting her cup aside, and crossed the room to pick her purse.
"I'll go pick Maa up and take her from there," she said while slipping her phone inside.
Dhruv looked up, his expression neutral. "Hmm."
She checked her reflection quickly in the glass cabinet door, fixing a stray strand of hair. Then, before leaving, she heard him ask from behind, almost casually, "When will you come back?"
She turned slightly, surprised at the question. "I don't know... depends when I'm done."
He nodded once, accepting her answer without pressing.
"Okay," he said simply.
She gave him a small smile, adjusting the strap of her purse. "Bye."
His eyes followed her as she slipped on her sandals and opened the door. For a moment after it closed behind her, Dhruv sat still on the couch, her "haan haan whatever" still echoing faintly in his head. A corner of his mouth tugged upward again, almost without permission.
~·~
The morning air was already heating up when Vaani steered the car into her parents' neighborhood. Jaya was standing outside the gate, a dupatta wrapped neatly around her shoulders, holding her purse. The moment she saw the car roll up, she waved as though Vaani had rescued her from an endless wait.
"Arre Vaani, you should have just called me, beta. I would have come on my own," Jaya said the instant she settled into the passenger seat.
Vaani shook her head with a smile, putting the car into gear. "Arre, it's okay, Maa. It's on my way anyway. Plus, it's more fun when we go together instead of us meeting there."
Jaya's eyes softened. "Hmm, fun with you always." She patted Vaani's arm, and they drove off toward the boutique, the conversation drifting into what colors Jaya thought would suit her, and what she herself had worn for her own reception years ago.
Meanwhile, the house was quiet. Dhruv had changed into a plain tee and joggers after his shower, and now he was lounging on the couch with his phone in hand. He absentmindedly scrolled through Instagram, half-looking at work updates, half-drifting through travel accounts.
Then he tapped into his own gallery, fingers brushing over the photos from their honeymoon in Scotland and Oxford.
The misty hills, the cobbled streets, the crisp lakeside reflections — he had taken them all himself, and they fit perfectly into the travel aesthetic he had always liked to maintain online.
Without overthinking, he began uploading a few of them to his profile, adding no captions, letting the landscapes speak for themselves.
His thumb paused when he swiped to the next photo.
It was the one Aria had taken — Vaani and him standing at the mountains in Iverness.
His arm was firmly around her waist, her hair spilling down in soft waves, her smile caught mid-laugh.
He hadn't realized back then how natural the moment had looked, but now, staring at the screen, something in his chest tightened.
Aria's words echoed back: "Frame this. It looks like it belongs on your wall."
He exhaled slowly, thumb hovering. He didn't post it. Instead, he saved it into a separate folder. After a moment of hesitation, he opened his contacts and found the number of the person he often used for photo framing — an old acquaintance who ran a small studio.
"Please can you get this framed?" he typed, attaching the picture.
Within seconds, the reply came: "Of course, sir. What size and frame?"
Dhruv sat back, staring at the photo again before typing: "Simple black, medium size. I'll pick it up myself."
He locked his phone, shaking his head faintly at himself. It was unlike him to indulge in something sentimental, yet here he was, arranging to immortalize a picture that — if asked — he would claim was "just a good shot."
The house felt too still, so he wandered into the kitchen. He wasn't an expert cook, but he could manage simple things, and a thought crossed his mind: maybe he could make something light for when Vaani returned.
He rolled his sleeves up, opening the fridge. Vegetables, leftover dough, some masalas — enough to experiment.
Just as he was chopping onions, his phone buzzed on the counter. A message.
Vaani.
"Did you reach?" he had sent a few minutes ago.
Her reply blinked on screen: "Yep, we're trying on clothes."
Dhruv smirked to himself, leaning one hand on the counter as he typed back: "The protocol has begun."
Almost immediately, the three dots appeared, then her message: "Yes it has!" with a smiling emoji.
He chuckled, shaking his head, and returned to the chopping board. The onion slices blurred slightly at the edges as his mind played back her little speech from the morning about friends being "real mirrors." He could almost hear her voice again, animated and certain.
For someone who had only been in his life for a short time, she was already filling quiet spaces with an ease he hadn't known he wanted.
He sighed softly, sprinkling salt into the pan as the oil hissed. Maybe this was what unsettled him — the way she was changing the house, and him, without even trying.
Still, as he stirred, his lips curved again.
He didn't text back after that, but the kitchen air soon filled with the warm smell of sautéed onions and garlic, and Dhruv found himself humming — something he hadn't done in years.
At the boutique, Vaani was twirling in front of a mirror, a deep maroon lehenga brushing the floor around her. Jaya clasped her hands together dramatically.
"Arre, this is perfect, Vaani! Look at you!"
Vaani laughed, sending another picture to her group chat. Notifications buzzed furiously, her friends' opinions pouring in one after another. She read them out loud for Jaya, making her laugh, too.
"Maa, now wait till you see how many versions of this lehenga I'll have to try before they let me settle on one," Vaani teased.
And as the mirror reflected her glowing face, somewhere across the city, Dhruv's phone buzzed again on the counter.
He didn't check it immediately — too busy watching the curry bubble in the pan — but when he did, her message simply read: "Trying maroon right now.
Maa loves it. Sending to the group."
Dhruv smiled, not typing back this time. He imagined her excitement, her endless chatter with Jaya, and for once, the quiet house didn't feel empty. It felt like a pause — a pause before she walked back in, filling it up again.
~·~
The house had never felt this still. Dhruv had already walked from one end of the living room to the other, checked the fridge twice, opened the balcony door, and then closed it again. It had been over six hours since Vaani left with his mother for reception shopping.
At first, he had kept himself busy. He cooked, cleaned up after himself, scrolled through Instagram, even sent off the framed-photo request. For a while, it was enough. But now? Now, the silence was pressing down like an unwanted guest.
He slumped on the couch, tapping his fingers against his thigh, debating if he should go for a drive just to kill the monotony.
He picked up his keys once, then set them back down.
A drive felt too quiet, too pointless. For some reason, his mind kept drifting back to the idea that if she were sitting beside him, the drive would've made sense. Alone, though, it felt dull.
Finally, almost irritated with himself, he reached for his phone. Before he could overthink, he dialed her number.
It rang twice. Then a click. Her voice, faintly breathless but familiar, filled his ear.
"Hello?"
"Where are you?" Dhruv asked, the words coming out sharper than he intended.
There was a pause, then her calm reply: "I've just dropped Maa home. Now I'm coming back home too."
"Okay," he said simply, leaning his head back against the sofa.
"Okay," she repeated, then the line went dead.
Dhruv stared at the phone for a moment longer before dropping it on the cushion beside him. He let out a long sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and resigned himself to waiting.
Twenty minutes later, the sound of the door unlocking echoed through the hall. Dhruv straightened slightly, eyes flicking toward the entryway.
Vaani stepped in, looking drained but still carrying herself with a certain calm. She kicked off her sandals, set her purse aside, and without much of a word, padded straight to their room. Moments later, the faint noise of drawers opening, clothes rustling, and the shower running reached him.
When she came out again, she was no longer in her elegant shopping outfit but in the clothes that made her look most like herself at home — shorts and a loose top.
Her hair was damp, her face scrubbed clean, and she looked far younger, almost carefree, though the slump in her shoulders betrayed her exhaustion.
She flopped down onto the couch, tucking her legs under her, letting out a long exhale.
Dhruv, still lounging on the opposite side, turned his head toward her. "So," he asked, voice casual, "how was your day?"
Vaani leaned back, pressing her head against the cushion. "I'm really tired."
Dhruv raised an eyebrow. "Why did you try on so many things then?"
She shrugged lightly. "Maa insisted. And anyway, it's the right thing to do. She wanted to see how everything looked."
Dhruv scoffed, shaking his head. "So if Maa insists that you jump off a cliff, will you do that too?"
Her head snapped toward him, eyes widening at the absurdity. Then she smacked his arm — not too hard, but enough to make him jerk away with a mock frown.
"Dhruv! That's your mother. Be nice."
He rubbed his arm, feigning pain though his lips twitched with amusement. "She's your mother too. And the point is, you don't have to say yes to everything she says."
For a second, she just looked at him, her gaze searching, almost thoughtful. Then slowly, her lips curved into a small smile.
Instead of arguing, she stood, stretching her arms above her head. "I'm going to get some water."
And without another word, she walked toward the kitchen, leaving him on the couch.
Dhruv rolled his eyes, unable to stop the amused smirk tugging at his mouth. He grabbed the remote, switched on the TV, and let the noise of some random show fill the silence she had left behind.
But his attention wasn't on the screen. Not really. He was still thinking about the way she had smiled before leaving the room, as though she had understood what he was trying to say without him saying it outright.
In the kitchen, Vaani filled a glass of water and leaned against the counter.
Her lips still carried the hint of that smile.
She could hear the faint sound of the TV from the hall, his voice echoing in her head — "It's your mother too.
And the point is, you don't have to say yes to everything. "
No one had ever told her that before. All her life, she had been the one who did things because they were expected of her — the one who never wanted to disappoint, the one who agreed because it seemed easier than saying no.
And here was Dhruv, blunt, unfiltered, telling her she didn't have to.
Her fingers tightened around the glass, not out of anger but because it was strange — this concern that sometimes looked like annoyance, this irritation that was rooted in something softer.
She shook her head, took a sip, and walked back out.
On the couch, Dhruv was pretending to be absorbed in the TV, but when she sat down again, he casually reached for the bowl of snacks on the table and held it toward her without looking.
She took one, her smile hidden, and together they sat in companionable silence, the faint chatter of the television filling the room.
Vaani padded out of the kitchen with a plate balanced in her hands, steam rising from the dinner she had just reheated.
Her hair was still damp from the shower, strands curling against her cheek.
Dhruv, sprawled on the couch in his usual understated way, glanced up only briefly, and without a word, shifted the pillow lying beside him.
He moved it out of the way as if it were the most natural gesture in the world.
She paused, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
No invitation was needed. She understood what it meant.
She settled down beside him, tucking one leg beneath herself, balancing her plate on her lap.
The television buzzed with some random late-night show, half-dialogues and overdone laughter tracks filling the quiet.
For a while, they didn't speak. She ate, he watched the screen, and the silence between them was companionable—until Vaani, mid-bite, turned to him.
"You know," she said, her tone mock-serious, "you really should learn how to cook more than pasta and coffee."
Dhruv tilted his head toward her, his brows lifting slightly. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah," she said with a small nod, lips twitching. "I can't always be the one making things. What if I fall sick one day? Then what will you do?"
He smirked faintly. "Order food. Problem solved."
She rolled her eyes, stabbing her fork into the pasta. "Wow. Very romantic."
"You married me for my efficiency," he replied dryly, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.
She narrowed hers. "I did not."
"You sure?" he asked, leaning back a little, his voice carrying that quiet teasing undertone that always got to her.
"Yes," she said firmly, though she couldn't keep the laugh from slipping out. "I married you for... reasons."
He looked at her with deliberate calm, as though trying to draw the words out. "What reasons?"
She picked up her fork again, pretending great interest in twirling pasta. "Confidential reasons."
"Hmm." He reclined deeper into the couch, letting out a quiet hum. "That means none."
She gasped in mock outrage. "You don't get to put words into my mouth."
"I don't need to," he said, his lips curving, "you do enough talking for both of us."
Vaani opened her mouth, ready with a retort, but paused when she saw the rare smirk tugging at his otherwise unreadable face. Something about the sight softened her response, and she simply shook her head, muttering, "Unbelievable."
He chuckled under his breath, low and almost hidden.
The evening stretched on like that—light bickering, little nudges, his calm replies against her animated ones.
She talked about how exhausting the shopping had been, about the endless rows of outfits and the indecision, about how Jaya had made her try on nearly everything.
Dhruv only listened, his gaze fixed on the TV but his attention undeniably tethered to her words.
Slowly, though, her voice began to fade. Not all at once—just gradually, the way a candle burns down until only the last flicker remains. He didn't notice at first, lulled by the rhythm of her chatter, until he realized that the noise beside him had stilled.
He turned his head.
Vaani's fork rested loosely on her plate, her head tilted to the side, eyes closed. She had fallen asleep right there on the couch, legs tucked up, her posture anything but comfortable. Her breathing was even, her face soft, and yet her neck was craned awkwardly against the cushion.
Dhruv stared at her for a moment, amusement flickering in his eyes. Typical. She never stopped moving until her body forced her to.
For a few seconds, he considered leaving her there. Maybe it would teach her something about exhausting herself. But then he noticed the way her shoulder was bent, the slight twitch in her neck. She'd wake up sore, and tomorrow morning she'd complain—and probably still push herself just as hard.
With a quiet sigh, Dhruv set aside the remote and rose from his seat. He bent down, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but didn't wake. Her head naturally fell against his chest as he lifted her.
Dhruv froze for a second. The proximity.
She was lighter than he expected, though not in a fragile way—more in the way of someone who carried herself with constant energy and never realized how much space she occupied until she stilled.
He carried her into their bedroom. The air smelled faintly of her shower gel, light and fresh. Gently, he laid her down on the bed, adjusting the pillow beneath her head. He pulled the comforter up over her shoulders, smoothing it down, then stepped to the thermostat to switch on the AC.
For a moment, he lingered by the bedside, watching her. Her hair fanned across the pillow, lips parted slightly in sleep, her features utterly unguarded. The constant spark of movement, the chatter, the endless energy—gone, replaced by the quiet innocence of rest.
Something in his chest tightened unexpectedly. He pushed it aside, turning off the light, and quietly closed the door behind him.
Back in the living room, the TV still hummed faintly.
Dhruv sat back down, stretching out his long frame on the couch.
The silence was heavier now, noticeable after the absence of her voice.
His eyes wandered to the plate she had left behind on the table.
Half-finished pasta, the fork still sticking out.
He shook his head with a mix of exasperation and reluctant fondness. "Didn't even eat properly," he muttered under his breath, echoing her earlier words.
Instead of leaving it, he picked up the plate, sat back down, and began to eat what she had left. Not because he was particularly hungry—but because it felt wrong to waste it, and because it was hers.
As the fork clinked against the plate, the TV played on, filling the space with background noise. Dhruv leaned back, chewing slowly, his mind far from the show.
This was becoming a habit, he realized—watching her tire herself out, scolding her silently, then somehow being the one to make sure she was fine after. And though he would never admit it out loud, part of him didn't really mind.
When the plate was empty, he set it aside, his gaze drifting toward the closed bedroom door. A faint smile tugged at his lips before he turned back to the TV.
Tomorrow, she'd wake up and go right back to running around. And tomorrow, he'd probably find himself sighing again, wondering how to make her stop.
But for tonight, she was resting. And that was enough.
~·~
The clock ticked past eleven, the muted sound carrying through the quiet apartment. Dhruv had turned off the TV by then, unable to keep his focus on the meaningless chatter of actors. He gathered up the empty plate, rinsed it in the sink, and stood for a long moment in the stillness of the kitchen.
It was rare that the house was this silent.
Rare that Vaani wasn't filling it with her voice, her footsteps, or the clatter of her doing a dozen things at once.
Dhruv wasn't sure if he liked it. He was used to silence, yes—it had been his constant companion for years.
But this silence felt... different. Almost too sharp, now that he had grown accustomed to the liveliness that came with her.
He carried his laptop out to the dining table, switching it open. There were emails to clear, documents to review, a presentation for next week's meeting. The blue-white glow of the screen cast shadows across his face as he typed, deliberate and quiet.
Every so often, though, his eyes strayed—not toward the work, but toward the closed door of their bedroom. It stood there, perfectly still, but he kept glancing as though half-expecting it to move, for her to come shuffling out with her usual half-sleepy complaints.
After twenty minutes of distracted typing, he sighed, pushed back his chair, and walked softly to the bedroom door. His hand hovered over the knob for a second before he eased it open, careful not to let it creak.
Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the AC indicator. Vaani was exactly where he had left her, curled under the comforter. She hadn't shifted much, her breathing deep and even. A strand of hair clung to her cheek, moving faintly with every breath.
Dhruv leaned against the doorframe, watching for a moment longer than he intended. Something about seeing her like this—utterly still, utterly unguarded—made a strange warmth creep into his chest. It wasn't dramatic or overwhelming, just steady and persistent, like a quiet hum he couldn't ignore.
He pulled the door to again, leaving it half-open this time. Just enough so he could hear if she stirred, if she called out, if she needed anything.
Back at the table, he worked. The minutes stretched into hours, the clock ticking past midnight. His phone buzzed once—an update from Aarav on the group chat. He ignored it, focusing on a report. His fingers tapped steadily on the keyboard, his eyes narrowing at numbers, graphs, summaries.
But again, he found himself glancing toward the door. Still ajar, still dark inside, still quiet. He could almost hear the faint rhythm of her breathing from where he sat, or maybe he just imagined it.
He shook his head at himself, muttering something under his breath, and tried to return to his work.
By one in the morning, his concentration was slipping. The words on the screen blurred together, and he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, then let his gaze drift back to the bedroom door yet again.
She was still asleep. Of course she was. She'd been running around all day, talking and trying and doing everything at once. Her body had forced her to stop, and for once, she'd listened.
Dhruv saved his work, closed the laptop, and sat there in the silence for a few minutes more. It wasn't just fatigue—it was a strange restlessness in his chest, the kind that came from being too aware of someone else's presence even in their absence.
Finally, he stood. The living room was tidy again, his work done, the apartment still and quiet. He flicked off the main light, leaving only the soft yellow lamp near the couch. Then he padded softly toward the bedroom.
Inside, the air was cool. He walked to his side of the bed, pausing once more to glance at her. Vaani hadn't moved. She slept deeply, her features softened into something that looked almost childlike in its peace.
He exhaled slowly, as though reassured by the sight. Quietly, he changed, folded his clothes neatly over the chair, and slid under the comforter beside her. He was careful not to disturb her, but even with all the caution, her hand shifted slightly in her sleep, brushing against his arm.
He froze for a moment, then let it be. Her touch was feather-light, unintentional, but strangely grounding.
The day's weight settled over him all at once, the exhaustion he hadn't acknowledged until now pressing heavy against his eyelids. He closed them, letting the hum of the AC and the steady rhythm of her breathing lull him.
For once, sleep came easily. No tossing, no turning—just the quiet comfort of knowing she was there, inches away, safe, resting.
The house, for the first time in a long while, felt balanced.
Not too quiet. Not too loud. Just enough.
And in the dim blue of the night, Dhruv—who never relied on anyone, who never needed company—slept more peacefully than he had in years.
??