FRIENDS
ANAMIKA
Sara starts school tomorrow. It should've been one of those happy milestones every mother dreams about.
Instead, I've spent the last hour sitting at the edge of the bed with a notebook balanced on my lap, adding and subtracting the same numbers over and over again, as though stubbornness alone might somehow change arithmetic.
It doesn't.
The total refuses to move. The admission advance had already been paid last week with the salary advance I received from the palace kitchen. At the time, I'd carefully worked everything out. The remaining school fees would come from the month's wages. It wasn't much, but it would've been enough.
That plan no longer exists. Neither do those wages. The day after the wedding, the head maid had taken me aside with genuine kindness and quietly explained that the Maharani of Devgarh wasn't expected to continue working kitchen shifts.
She'd meant well. I knew that. But all I'd heard was the sound of my carefully balanced plans collapsing. I close my notebook and let it rest beside me. I already know the solution.
It's painfully simple. Walk downstairs. Find Yuvaan. Tell him the truth. He wouldn't even let me finish the sentence before solving it. I know that. He's told me more than once that neither Sara nor I would ever be a burden to him.
And I believe him.
Completely.
That's never been the problem.
The problem sits somewhere much deeper. Some stubborn, exhausted part of me that learnt how to survive alone in Mumbai.
The woman who counted every rupee before spending it. Who learnt to stretch one meal into two. Who discovered that asking for help usually came attached to conditions she couldn't afford. That part of me still flinches at the thought of saying the words aloud.
I need money for my daughter's school fees.
Even to him.
Especially to him.
Because somewhere inside me, I still haven't figured out where the line ends between what a husband willingly gives . . . and what feels dangerously close to charity, no matter how lovingly it's offered. The bedroom door opens before I can think myself into another impossible circle.
I look up. Yuvaan walks in first, still dressed in the clothes he'd worn for work, his sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His eyes find mine almost immediately. He pauses. Just for a second. Then I watch his expression change.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He noticed. Whatever is written across my face . . . He read it before I even realised I was showing it. "Is something wrong?" The question is gentle.
Careful. Before I can answer—"Mumma!" Sara comes charging into the room behind him with enough enthusiasm to shake the entire bed as she launches herself onto it.
I barely have time to react before she's kneeling in front of me, hugging something tightly against her chest. "Mumma!
" Her grin is impossibly wide. "Look!" She proudly lifts a brand-new school bag into the air.
The excitement radiating from her is so complete that I can't help smiling despite everything weighing on my mind. "I have a school bag now!"
She spins it around several times so I can admire every pocket, every zip, every tiny detail. Then she hugs it dramatically. "I'm going to grow up really fast." I blink. "So I can make you happy."
The words catch me completely off guard.
Something inside my chest gives way so suddenly that I have to blink hard before my eyes betray me.
I reach for her immediately. Pulling her into my arms. "My baby .
. . " I kiss the top of her head. "I am already happy.
" I gently cup her cheeks between both my hands until she looks at me.
"Anyone lucky enough to have you in their life .
. . " I smile through the ache in my throat. " . . . will always be happy."
She nods with complete confidence. "I know." Then, after a dramatic hair flip—"Obviously."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Some things about my daughter are wonderfully impossible to take seriously. Entirely satisfied with herself, she wiggles free from my embrace and immediately begins unpacking her school bag for what must be the fourth inspection of the morning.
Every pencil deserves admiration.
Every notebook requires careful examination.
Every eraser has an important purpose.
Yuvaan quietly sits beside her on the bed. Neither of them notices that I've stopped thinking about school fees altogether.
Instead . . . I'm watching him. Watching the way he watches her.
She holds up a broken crayon with complete devastation.
He studies it as though she's just presented evidence in an international crisis.
She can't decide which notebook cover she likes better.
He patiently helps her compare both. The whole state sees him as distant.
Reserved.
Almost impossible to approach.
Yet here he is . . . sitting cross-legged beside a five-year-old, discussing stationery with absolute sincerity.
The sight still amazes me. "If you're worrying about the school fees .
. . " His voice interrupts my thoughts. He doesn't even look at me.
He's busy helping Sara arrange sharpened pencils. "They've already been paid."
I stare. "What?"
He finally lifts his eyes toward me. "They're taken care of."
My mouth opens before I can stop it. "Yuvaan, you didn't have to—"
"Didn't I?" His question is quiet.
Simple.
"Isn't she my daughter now too?" He pauses briefly before adding with characteristic care—"Legally, she is.
" A small smile touches his lips. "I don't expect her to call me anything she isn't ready for.
" His eyes drift toward Sara. "And I never will.
" The tenderness in his voice almost undoes me.
"I don't know what place I'll eventually have in her heart.
" He smiles faintly. "But I know where she already has one in mine. "
My throat tightens. "I already told you." He looks back at me. "I intend to spend my life making sure both of you are happy."
He nods toward Sara, who's now arranging coloured pencils in perfect rainbow order. "Look at her."
I do.
She's smiling to herself. Completely absorbed.
"You can't let your pride steal moments like this from her." His voice softens even more. "So . . . " He gives me one of those patient looks that somehow always makes arguing feel impossible. "For once . . . stop being stubborn.” A pause. ”Just let yourself enjoy it."
Something inside me finally gives way. Not dramatically. Quietly. Like a wall that's been standing for years suddenly realising it doesn't have to anymore. I blink quickly.
Too late.
My eyes burn. I lower my head before the tears have a chance to escape. "Thank you . . . "
The words barely leave my lips. He reaches toward me before I can finish.
His thumb brushes lightly across my cheek.
Such a small touch. Gentle enough that it almost isn't there. Yet somehow it still stills every thought inside my head. He pulls back almost immediately as if realizing what he’s doing, "Daisy.
" Just one word. Just that old nickname.
And somehow . . . After all these years .
. . it still finds every fragile place inside me with terrifying accuracy.
I lift my eyes to his. What I want to say has nothing to do with school fees.
Nothing to do with gratitude. I want to tell him I'm tired.
Tired of measuring every sentence before I speak.
Tired of protecting myself from a man who's only ever tried to protect me.
Tired of pretending this marriage exists only on paper when every quiet kindness he shows me keeps making it feel more real.
I want to tell him I don't want distance anymore. I don't want polite gratitude. I don't want careful boundaries. I don't want to stand beside him wondering whether I'm allowed to lean. I don't want to be his responsibility. I want to be his wife.
Properly.
Completely.
The words remain trapped exactly where they've always lived. Inside me.
Instead I smile weakly. "Have you made it your life's mission to make me cry?"
“If it were in my control,” He sucks in a breath, “I would never let you cry.”
My breath hitches as my heart hammers against my ribs. I try to laugh it off. It comes out softer than intended.
"And please . . . " He shakes his head gently. "Stop making everything so formal."
He grows quiet. For a long moment he simply watches me. There's something in his eyes I can't quite understand. It almost looks like sadness. Yet his smile never leaves. Finally he speaks. "Aren't we still friends?"
The question lands somewhere deep inside me.
Friends.
Once . . . That word had been enough. It had carried everything we couldn't say aloud. Everything we weren't brave enough to name. Back then . . . It had felt safe.
Now . . . It feels painfully small. Because somewhere along the way . . . Without even noticing . . . I'd stopped wanting to be only that.
I don't know whether he has.
And suddenly . . . I'm afraid to ask. So I smile. Reach slowly and wrap my fingers around the hand resting on his lap, allowing myself one touch, "Yes." My voice comes quietly. "We're friends."
He exhales almost imperceptibly. A private sort of relief flickers across his expression before disappearing again. "Good." He squeezes my hand once. "So . . . " His eyes don't leave mine. "We'll do everything together."
A tiny smile. "Deal?"
I nod. Unable to trust my voice anymore.
He keeps looking at me for another heartbeat.
Then—"Mister!" Sara's delighted shout fills the room. "Come quickly!" She points proudly toward the bed. "I organised all my pencils!"
We both turn. Twelve coloured pencils lie arranged in perfect rainbow order. She waits expectantly. Hands on hips. Waiting for approval. Yuvaan walks over with complete seriousness. He crouches beside the display like he's inspecting priceless artwork.
"Hmm." He studies it carefully. "I think . . . " A thoughtful pause. "This deserves full marks." Sara gasps in delight before throwing herself at him in celebration. I watch them from where I'm sitting.
A smile finds me without permission.
Friends.
It feels impossibly small. Too small for shared breakfasts. Too small for remembered tea. Too small for school bags, daisies, whispered nicknames, and the quiet certainty that neither of us has ever truly belonged anywhere except beside the other.
I only wish I knew whether he felt that same smallness . . . Or whether, for him . . . Friends was still enough.