BOOK RECOMMENDATION
ANAMIKA
For the past two days, I have become remarkably good at disappearing.
Not literally. That would be impossible in a palace where everyone seems to know where everyone else is at all times.
But I've learned the art of being just out of reach.
Breakfast a little earlier than usual. Longer hours at the bookshop.
Taking the long corridor instead of the central staircase because I know that's the route he usually takes after council meetings.
It's ridiculous. I know it is. The worst part is that I couldn't properly explain it even if someone asked me to.
It's not that I don't want to see Yuvaan.
That's exactly the problem. I want to see him far too much.
I want to march straight into his study, close the door behind me, and demand answers.
What did you mean by soulmate?
Did you really mean it?
Have you always felt that way?
What exactly am I supposed to do with that now?
And while I'm at it, perhaps ask him what either of us is meant to do about a five-year-old who staged an entire stomach ache just to trick us into spending half an hour alone together.
Every time I imagine that conversation, my courage disappears before I reach the first sentence.
There are too many feelings inside me. None of them seem willing to stand in a neat line.
If I opened my mouth around him now, I'm fairly certain every one of them would tumble out together.
So instead . . . I hide. The bookshop has become my safest excuse.
No one questions extra work. No one questions longer hours.
Books are wonderfully cooperative companions.
They never demand explanations. I spend entire afternoons rearranging shelves that were already perfectly arranged the day before.
Straightening displays. Dusting corners that don't actually need dusting.
Finding jobs simply because my hands need something to do while my mind insists on wandering back to one noisy village fair.
To an old leather wallet. To two faded photographs. To one impossible word.
Soulmate.
He'd said it so simply. As though it were the most obvious truth in the world. As though handing someone your entire heart could be done with the same ease as offering them a paper cone of chilli fritters.
I've been trying to find somewhere sensible to put that word ever since.
There isn't anywhere. If he meant it the way people usually mean it .
. . Then everything I've been telling myself about this marriage changes.
This careful arrangement. This practical agreement.
This life we've been slowly building because circumstances demanded it.
It stops being practical. It becomes something frighteningly real.
And if I allow myself to believe that's what he meant .
. . If I let myself hope . . . And I turn out to be wrong .
. . I don't know whether I could survive misunderstanding him twice in one lifetime.
Once was enough. Seven years ago I boarded a train believing I understood exactly where I stood in his life. I was wrong. Completely wrong. I'm not eager to repeat that lesson. Then there's Sara. My sweet, impossible child. Her little voice keeps finding me in quiet moments.
"I want a papa."
"I really like Mister."
"I want you to be happy."
How am I supposed to hold all of that alongside my own fear? How do I protect my daughter's hopeful heart when mine still isn't certain what it's allowed to believe?
So I continue hiding.
Or at least . . . I try.
Avoiding Yuvaan Jadeja has never been particularly successful. Apparently marriage hasn't improved my odds.
I'm crouched in the children's section of the bookshop, carefully adjusting a row of picture books that have already been alphabetised twice this week, when the bell above the door rings softly.
I don't look up. I don't need to. Somehow I simply know. His footsteps are unmistakable now. Slow. Unhurried. Never noisy.
I keep my attention fixed firmly on the shelves. If I don't look at him, perhaps my heart will behave itself.
"Busy?" His voice drifts across the shop. I pick up another book. One I've already moved three separate times today.
"Very."
He doesn't argue. Doesn't tease. For a while I hear nothing except the quiet sounds of him wandering through the shop.
Books sliding free. Pages turning. A shelf being examined. For one hopeful moment I convince myself he'll browse for a little while and leave me to my entirely unnecessary organisational project.
Then . . . "You remember this one?" I make the mistake of looking up. He's standing near the history section holding a thin paperback with a faded blue cover. Even from across the room I recognise it instantly. The breath leaves me before I can stop it.
"You still have that?" The question slips out before I remember I'm supposed to be avoiding conversations. He glances down at the book, running his thumb lightly over the worn spine.
"You gave it to me." A small smile appears. "You were convinced I desperately needed it."
Heat immediately climbs into my cheeks. "I wasn't . . . "
"You told me it might make me wise." He looks back at me. "Apparently you thought I was hopeless."
Despite everything, I laugh. "You were a seventeen-year-old boy."
"I was."
"So yes."
"You were occasionally hopeless."
"Occasionally?"
"Frequently." His laugh is quiet. Warm. "I remember."
So do I.
God . . . I remember everything. I'd spent weeks saving pocket money for that book.
Not because I thought he lacked intelligence.
I'd never thought that. I'd bought it because the hero reminded me painfully of him.
A boy who believed duty mattered more than feelings.
Who swallowed every emotion before anyone could see it.
Who mistook silence for strength. By the final page he'd finally learned that love spoken aloud wasn't weakness.
It was courage. I hadn't known how to explain any of that to Yuvaan at seventeen. So I'd handed him the book instead.
"I loved that story," I murmur. Mostly to myself. He hears me anyway.
"I know."
I blink. "You actually read it?" The question escapes before I think better of it.
His eyebrows lift. "Of course I did." The answer is so immediate it almost makes me smile. "You gave it to me." He shrugs one shoulder. "I read everything you ever handed me."
A strange warmth spreads quietly through my chest. Every book. Every recommendation. Every scribbled note tucked between pages. He read them. All of them.
I lower my eyes before he notices how much that simple admission affects me. Too late. He notices everything.
"Why are you showing it to me now?"
For a moment he simply studies me. Then he walks over and places the book gently on the little reading table between us. "I think you should read it again."
I blink. "I've read it dozens of times."
"Not recently." He takes one slow step closer. Not enough to crowd me. Just enough that I'm suddenly very aware of how close we are standing.
"I think . . . " He smiles very slightly. " . . . you've forgotten how it ends."
I frown. "I haven't."
"Haven't you?" His voice stays soft. Patient. "The man spends most of the book pretending everything is more important than his feelings." I don't answer. "He keeps convincing himself he's thinking."
"When really . . . " His eyes meet mine. " . . . he's hiding." The words settle quietly between us. He isn't talking about the book anymore. He's talking about me. About these last two days. About alphabetising shelves that never needed alphabetising.
I fold my arms before I realise I'm doing it. "I'm not hiding." Even to my own ears . . . the sentence sounds weak. He smiles. Just a little. That annoyingly gentle smile that somehow makes arguing feel impossible.
"Aren't you?" There's no accusation in his voice. No frustration. Only quiet curiosity. "You've been avoiding me for two days, Daisy."
My heart sinks. So he noticed. Of course he noticed.
"I wasn't going to ask why." He pauses. "I still won't." Something eases inside me.
Just a little. "But . . . " He looks around the perfectly organised children's section before letting his gaze settle back on me.
"I'd rather you didn't disappear behind the shelves.
" His eyes flick toward the books in my hands.
"Especially when they're already organized. "
I glance down. The book I'm holding is indeed exactly where it belongs. I sigh. " . . . You noticed that too?"
"I notice most things about you." The answer comes so naturally that I don't think he realises how devastating it is. My heart performs one slow, hopeless somersault. He slips the old paperback gently into my hands.
"Keep it."
"I gave it to you."
"I know."
"I want you to have it now."
My fingers curl automatically around the worn cover. It still feels familiar. Comfortingly so. He waits until I'm looking at the book before speaking again.
"Take all the time you need." His voice is quiet. Steady. "I'm not asking you for answers."
"Not today."
"Not tomorrow."
"Not until you're ready." He smiles. "But I'd prefer it if you stopped hiding from me while you're deciding."
Silence settles between us. Not awkward. Just . . . full.
I look down at the old paperback resting in my hands.
The corners are bent. The pages have softened with age.
He really did read it. Probably more than once.
Then I look back at him. At the man standing patiently in the middle of my bookshop, giving me space without ever making me feel abandoned by it.
I open my mouth. Close it again.
For once . . . I have absolutely nothing to say.