WHAT THE BUZZ CUT LEFT BEHIND
YUVAAN
I've attended five meetings today. Signed eight files. Approved two contracts. Rejected one proposal. Spent nearly an hour discussing textile margins with people who seemed deeply convinced that percentages are the most fascinating things in the world.
I couldn't tell you a single thing anyone said.
My mind has been somewhere else since morning.
Every time the conversation drifted into numbers, my thoughts wandered right back to our bedroom.
To waking up with Anamika asleep against me.
To the quiet weight of my arm wrapped around them without me ever consciously choosing to put it there.
I don't remember moving closer during the night.
Some unconscious part of me simply . . .
did. As though my body had decided long before my mind ever caught up that this was where it belonged.
And then . . . that kiss. God. It lasted barely a second.
A quick brush of her lips against my cheek.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would think twice about.
Yet somehow it's remained lodged stubbornly beneath my ribs ever since. I can still see her face afterwards.
The way colour rushed into her cheeks so quickly it almost made me laugh.
The way she refused to look at me. The way she suddenly found the bedsheet impossibly fascinating.
I've thought about that blush more times today than any respectable thirty-year-old man probably should.
Which is precisely why I've found myself outside the bookshop instead of going straight home.
I tell myself I'm here to check on business.
To see how things are progressing. To ask whether she needs more shelves or stock.
The lie barely survives five seconds inside my own head.
I'm here because I wanted to see her. It's really that simple.
I leave the driver in the car and walk quietly toward the front window.
She hasn't noticed me yet. She's standing on a small wooden stool, stretching onto her toes to rearrange a shelf of children's books.
Every few seconds she steps back, tilts her head thoughtfully, then moves one book slightly to the left before smiling in satisfaction.
I find myself smiling too. There it is. That expression.
The one I've missed for years without fully realising it.
She's completely absorbed. Tongue caught lightly between her teeth.
Brows drawn together in concentration. Exactly the way she looked when we were children.
Back then she'd spend entire afternoons arranging borrowed books into imaginary libraries.
Nothing else existed while she worked. Not the palace. Not homework. Certainly not me. Unless she suddenly decided I was needed to hold something. Or climb somewhere. Or listen while she read three chapters aloud.
I never minded. Not once. If she wanted company .
. . I was there. If she wanted to read .
. . I listened. Even when the story bored me senseless.
I honestly don't remember caring what the book was about.
I only cared that she wanted me sitting beside her while she read it.
If she'd asked me to listen to Hindi grammar textbooks for two hours straight, I probably would've agreed without complaint.
That's the ridiculous thing about loving her.
It never felt like sacrifice. Being wherever she was .
. . Doing whatever she wanted to do . . .
Simply felt like the most natural place in the world to exist. Watching her now through the shop window, carefully building the life she'd once only dared sketch into the back of my economics notebook, I realise that feeling never really disappeared.
It simply waited. She's still adjusting the same shelf when the bell above the entrance rings.
A man walks inside. Ordinary enough. Middle-aged.
Well dressed. He pauses near the front display and begins looking through the books.
Nothing unusual. Anamika turns toward him automatically, already wearing the warm, welcoming smile I've watched her give every customer who's entered this shop since opening day.
Then . . . Everything changes. It happens so quickly I almost think I've imagined it.
The smile disappears before it's fully formed.
Her shoulders stiffen. Her fingers stop moving altogether.
She doesn't blink. She simply stares. Her face drains of colour so fast it sends something cold shooting straight through my chest.
Fear.
Not discomfort.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Raw.
Immediate.
The kind that doesn't belong in a bookshop. I don't think. I'm moving before I've consciously made the decision. The door swings open harder than I intended. Both of them look up. I walk straight past the display shelves until I'm standing between the man and Anamika.
Not aggressively. Just enough. Just close enough. "Can I help you?" My voice stays perfectly calm. The sort of calm that usually makes people immediately realise they should reconsider whatever they were planning. The customer blinks. Looks from me . . . To Anamika . . . Back to me.
"I was just . . . " He gestures vaguely toward the shelves. " . . . looking."
"Of course." I smile politely. "We'll be happy to help if you need anything."
Silence.
Another few awkward seconds pass. Then he nods once. "No . . . that's alright." He pauses, "I'll come another time." He turns around and walks back out.
The bell above the door rings again.
The shop falls quiet.
I wait until the door closes completely before turning around. She's still standing exactly where she was. She hasn't moved an inch. Her breathing is shallow. Too fast. Both hands are pressed hard against the sides of her thighs as though she's trying to stop herself from shaking.
"Daisy." I cross the room quickly. She doesn't seem to notice until I'm directly in front of her. Very gently, I cup her face between my hands.
Her skin feels cold. Far colder than it should. "Look at me." Her eyes lift slowly. They're unfocused. Looking through me rather than at me. "Hey." I keep my voice as steady as I can. "It's okay."
"You're safe." She still isn't really seeing me. "Breathe."
I inhale slowly. Then exhale. Again. Wordlessly encouraging her to match me.
For several long moments nothing changes. Then . . . Almost imperceptibly . . . Her breathing begins slowing. Her shoulders drop slowly. Her eyes finally settle properly onto mine. Recognition returns little by little. The colour doesn't. Not yet. Neither of us speaks. I don't rush her.
Eventually she swallows. "He had . . . " Her voice barely rises above a whisper. " . . . a buzz cut." I wait. "I'm . . . " Another swallow. " . . . afraid of men with buzz cuts."
The confession hangs quietly between us.
She doesn't look away. But I can see it.
She's waiting. Waiting for the questions.
For me to ask why. Who? What happened? Every instinct inside me wants exactly those answers.
Who frightened her badly enough that a haircut still carries this much power over her?
Who taught her body to react like this? Who made fear settle so deeply into her bones that years later she still freezes at the sight of someone who merely resembles them?
The questions crowd painfully behind my teeth.
I don't ask a single one.
Not today.
Not now.
I look at her. Really look at her. She's only just beginning to breathe normally again.
Her hands are still trembling beneath mine.
Asking her to revisit whatever memory this is now .
. . Wouldn't help her. It would only make her live through it all over again.
When she's ready . . . she'll tell me. Or maybe she won't. Either way .
. . that choice belongs entirely to her.
I nod once. Very gently. "Okay." That's all I say.
Nothing more. I keep my hands exactly where they are until the last faint tremor leaves her shoulders.
Only then do I let them fall away. Inside my chest, .
. . something has already shifted. I don't know what happened.
I don't know who did it. I don't know how old this wound is or how deep it runs.
Not knowing feels unbearable. It sits beneath my ribs like a splinter I can't reach.
And underneath that helplessness . . . Something hotter begins to burn.
Anger.
Not the loud kind. Not the explosive kind. The quiet kind. The dangerous kind.
The sort that settles silently into your bones and starts making decisions before you've consciously realised you've made them.
I built this bookshop because I wanted her to feel safe.
I brought her home because I wanted her to breathe easier.
If something as small as a stranger's haircut can steal that feeling from her .
. . Then I'll remove every reminder I possibly can.
Quietly.
Without making a spectacle of it. Without forcing her to explain herself. By the end of this week . . . not one member of my household will have a buzz cut. Not a guard. Not a driver. Not a gardener. Not anyone working on the grounds she calls home. No announcements. No questions. Just change.
Because if there is even one thing within my power that might make this world gentler for her . . . I will do it.
The way I always have. Without asking for thanks. Without telling her why. She doesn't need explanations. She only needs to know one thing. As long as she lives under a roof that belongs to me . . . No fear gets to make itself comfortable here again.