Epilogue （Kiara）
Three months later
Okay, yes—I know it’s my birthday eve. And yes, Manav is acting weird.
Like, suspiciously silent weird. He’s been on the phone with someone for the past twenty minutes, and I swear, when I walked into the room earlier, he FUMBLED.
You heard that right. The man who can recite molecular gastronomy theory like bedtime stories dropped his phone like it was on fire.
And he dared to look at me and say, “It’s work. ”
But wait. It’s not just him. Roy has been surgically attached to his laptop for the past three hours. He keeps muttering things like “metadata inconsistencies” and “this is going to ruin her”—which, honestly, sounds like something an evil author says before destroying a fan-favorite character.
Myra? Don’t even get me started. I walked into the study and caught her crying. Real, full-blown, tissue-in-every-pocket kind of sobbing. And when I asked her what was wrong, she said—and I quote—
“Ugh. Dust. I have… conjunctivitis. In both eyes. Simultaneously.” Then she tried to moonwalk out of the room while tripping over a chair. Very smooth.
And Meeta? That woman has eaten 47 cheeseballs in the last thirty minutes. I counted. Once, she paused mid-bite, looked at me dead in the eyes, nodded solemnly like she knew something I didn’t and then went back to inhaling the bowl like it was oxygen.
Honestly, the only person who seems vaguely human today is Kartik. Although I’m not sure “human” is the right word when his wife is lying on the kitchen counter with ketchup on her nose.
His exact words to me were: “Don’t be mad, but… there’s no birthday party planned for you tonight. And please don’t tell Manav I told you. But I care about you, and you deserve the truth.”
Then he ran. Like, sprinted. And locked himself in the pantry with a suspiciously party-shaped box.
So now, here I am. Sitting on the porch. Alone. No birthday party. No candles. No surprise. No glitter.
Just my brain spiraling into oblivion, and the last remaining cheeseball Meeta didn’t get to.
Do I feel slightly betrayed? Yes.
Do I feel slightly dramatic about it? Also yes.
Am I pretending I don’t care while secretly caring more than I should? Absolutely.
And honestly? I’m just hoping someone had the decency to include cake in this act of birthday disaster.
I sighed and stared up at the stars, wondering if they, too, were conspiring behind my back. Because let’s be honest—something was definitely up. The silence in the house was suspicious. The behavior? Weird. The people? Weirder.
The sliding door creaked open behind me. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was. That walk had a rhythm—a smug, confident, zero-stealth kind of rhythm. Roy.
He plopped down beside me with a loud sigh, “You know,” he began, “when you were about to be born, I asked Mom if we could return you.”
I blinked. “Wow. That’s how you’re starting this?”
“Yeah. She said no. Called you the ‘gift we didn’t know we needed.’ I called you a glitch in the system.”
“Please stop before I throw this cheeseball at your face.”
“Do it. It’s probably stale. Like your sense of humor.”
I rolled my eyes, but a small smile slipped through. A traitor.
“You’re really upset no one planned a party?” he asked, a little softer now.
“No. I’m upset because everyone’s acting like they’re ghosts and forgot I exist.” A pause. “…Also, yes. I was kind of hoping for cake.”
Roy exhaled. “You always wanted a big birthday, huh? Even as a kid. Remember the year you cried because your cake said ‘Happy Birtday’ without the ‘h’?”
I chuckled. And hated that I did. Roy turned to face me fully, his expression disarmingly serious.
“Kia… I know I act like a sarcastic idiot 80% of the time—”
“Eighty. Let’s not flatter yourself.”
“Fine. Ninety-five. But listen to me.”
He paused, exhaled. “I’ve watched you survive things most people would’ve broken under. I’ve watched you carry yourself through grief, guilt, heartbreak… and somehow, you still managed to write stories about hope.”
My voice came out quieter than I meant. “Not always. Sometimes I just wanted to disappear.”
He nodded. “And yet you didn’t. You showed up. For Dadi. For me. For people you didn’t even know were reading your words.”
Tears welled up. Uninvited. Annoying. “…Are you dying?”
“No,” he said with a dramatic huff. “Today’s your birthday, and I just needed you to know… you’re not just my sister. You’re my hero.”
I let out a watery laugh. “Did you just say I’m your hero?”
“No.” He bumped my shoulder with his and wrapped an arm around me. “You never complain. You just… keep going. But I see you, Kia. I see when you’re tired. When you’re hurting. And I need you to know—I’m proud of you.”
“You’re the best brother. The most annoying, but the best.”
“And don’t you forget it,” he said, tugging me into a side hug.
“Are we crying without me?” Meeta’s voice cut through the moment as she sauntered over with a mug of coffee in one hand.
I wiped my face quickly, smirking. “Are you finally done eating all my cheeseballs?”
“Nope.” She took a proud sip. “Just taking a little break.”
Roy’s phone rang. He stood, ruffled my hair affectionately, and gave me one last hug—the kind that squeezes the oxygen out of your lungs and still somehow makes you feel better. Then he walked off dramatically, whispering something about “emotionally unregulated sisters” and “cheeseball scarcity.”
Meeta came to stand beside me, her coffee now half gone and her face unusually… serious.
I raised a brow. “Are you about to tell me you are having an affair?”
“No.” She rolled her eyes, then stared down at her mug like it held divine secrets. “I think Kartik is going to be mad at me.”
I froze. “Wait. What? Why? Did you crash the car again?”
“No, dummy.” She looked at me, face blank, voice flat. “I’m pregnant.”
My jaw dropped. “WHAT?!”
My voice definitely cracked the sound barrier. Meeta flinched, then reached out and slapped her hand over my mouth.
“Shhh! He doesn’t know yet!”
I yanked her hand away. “He doesn’t—MEETA!”
“I just found out!” she whisper-yelled. “And I still don’t know how to tell him. What if he passes out? What if he cries? What if he names the baby Minutes?”
I burst into full-body laughter. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant. This is real. You’re going to be someone’s mother.”
She looked like she was equal parts excited and nauseous. “Right now, I’m torn between puking and overeating. Like, what’s the protocol here? Do I cry?”
I flung my arms around her, still giggling. “Congratulations! Oh my God, this is huge!”
She hugged me back tightly. “Thanks. I needed to tell someone who wouldn’t faint immediately.”
“Okay, but like…” I pulled back and grinned wickedly. “You better tell Kartik before I do.”
“Kiara!” she gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I?”
She pointed a warning finger at me. “If you so much as whisper the word ‘baby’ in that man’s presence—”
“BABY?!” Kartik sprinted into view, eyes wide, hair tousled, holding an empty cake plate like a sword. “Who’s having a baby?! Are we adopting another dog?”
Meeta clutched her face. “No, you idiot. I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Kartik blinked. Slowly.
Then, like someone hit fast-forward, he screamed, dropped the plate (RIP ceramic), and ran in a circle before grabbing Meeta and twirling her around.
“I’M GONNA BE A DAD?! I NEED TO GOOGLE STUFF. I NEED A BOOK. I NEED—OH GOD—I NEED A DIAPER BAG.”
“Slow down!” Meeta shouted between laughs. “You’re scaring the baby already.”
“Technically, the baby is the size of a peanut right now.” I teased.
“Then I’ll name her Peanut! Until further notice!” Kartik kissed Meeta’s forehead.
Manav walked over, slid an arm around my waist, and whispered, “Your next batch of cheeseballs is ready.”
I leaned against him, smiling at the chaos unfolding around us—Kartik crying, Meeta trying not to puke, Myra recording all of it on her phone.
____________
“You seriously didn’t get me any gift?” I threw a cucumber slice at Manav.
We were finally gathered around the dining table after Kartik’s dangerously weird dance of joy over Meeta’s pregnancy announcement. It was chaos. Happy, hilarious chaos. But chaos nonetheless.
Everyone was buzzing about this mysterious three-tiered cake that Manav baked after some hush-hush phone call. Which—side note—was wild considering he didn’t even laugh at my tomato jokes earlier while I was dramatically monologuing to the potatoes.
He’d been quiet all evening. Too quiet.
At one point, he held my hand while I was stirring the pan, looked at me like I was made of something fragile, and said softly,
“Let me…”
No context. Just that. Like he needed to carry some weight, I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
Now, around the table, everyone’s talking gibberish. Meeta and Kartik are arguing over baby names (I’m voting against “Peanut”), while Roy and Myra—God help us—were deep in what looked like a genuine, serious argument. That never happens. Roy was red-faced, Myra was defensive.
Meanwhile, Manav kept holding my hand. Like it was sacred. Like it was keeping him grounded.
Dinner ended. I smiled, made a half-hearted joke, and excused myself to get some fresh air. Not because I was upset. No.
Okay, maybe slightly because I was upset.
I mean, I’m a grown-up. A responsible adult. A published author. I write about stoic heartbreak, healing and slow-burn desire. I shouldn’t care this much about a stupid party, right?
Right?
The elevator pinged on the eighth floor.
Yes, eighth floor.
Why do rich people have homes so massive they need a lift just to get to a damn terrace? A normal terrace is a staircase away. But here I was, taking an elevator for some fresh air like I lived in a mall.
And then… I opened the terrace door.
Holy. Shit.
Breathe, Kiara.