Chapter The shape of joy
The shape of joy
DHRUV
We have finally done it.
The thought hits me somewhere between relief and disbelief as I stand in the corridor outside the dining room, hands clasped behind my back like I’m waiting for a verdict instead of dinner.
Four months. Four months of failed batches, ruined textures, awkward silences, and Kartik, our head chef, staring at me like I’d finally lost my mind.
PCOD-friendly Kinder Joy, he had repeated the first time, slow and careful, as if saying it wrong might summon bad luck.
“You want… kinder joy?”
“Yes,” I had said. “I want kinder joy.”
Not sugar-bomb joy. Not guilt-laced joy.
Not joy that comes with a lecture or a consequence.
I wanted something she could eat without wincing afterward.
Something she wouldn’t have to negotiate with her body for.
Something that didn’t make her sigh and say maybe later when what she really meant was I miss this.
I had watched her pout that day—soft, disappointed, trying to pretend she didn’t care—and something in me had snapped quietly into place.
So I learned.
I learned words I had never cared about before. Glycemic index. Insulin resistance. Hormonal spikes. Balance. I sat with Kartik like an apprentice instead of a king, sleeves rolled up, tasting, rejecting, trying again. I burned my tongue more than once. Kartik threatened to resign twice.
And today—finally—we have something.
Not identical, obviously. But close enough that when I tasted it this afternoon, standing alone in the kitchen while Kartik watched my face like a hawk, I felt hope instead of compromise.
Hope is dangerous.
That’s why my stomach has been twisted into knots since morning.
I didn’t listen in meetings today. I nodded at the right times, signed what needed signing, dismissed what could wait.
Every thought circled back to one thing: What if she hates it?
What if the idea overwhelms her? What if she feels watched, pressured, like this is yet another thing she has to react to perfectly?
I don’t want gratitude.
I don’t want praise.
I just want her smile.
Dinner barely exists for me.
The plates arrive, silver lids lifted, conversations overlapping—but all of it fades into background noise the moment Sitara starts talking. She’s telling me something Yagini said earlier, and she’s so into it that she doesn’t notice I’ve stopped eating altogether.
Her hands move as she speaks—quick, expressive, like they’re trying to keep up with her thoughts.
One moment she’s mimicking Yagini’s dramatic tone, the next she’s rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck that way.
Her fork is forgotten, abandoned at the edge of her plate, because the story clearly matters more than food right now.
She leans forward without realizing it, elbows almost brushing the table, eyes bright, mouth curved into that half-smile she gets when she’s building up to the punchline.
And when she finally delivers it, she laughs—sharp and sudden—and scrunches her nose like she’s proud of herself for remembering the exact words.
I signal Kartik.
He nods once and disappears.
Sitara notices immediately. Of course she does.
“Why are you smiling like that?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Am I?” I ask innocently.
“Yes,” she says. “That smug one. The I know something you don’t smile.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m just happy.”
She doesn’t believe me for a second.
When Kartik returns, carrying a tray covered with a neat white cloth, her back straightens. Dessert always does this to her. Anticipation shines on her face in a way she tries—and fails—to hide.
“This,” Kartik announces carefully, placing the tray down, “is a special dessert prepared today.”
Sitara’s eyes widen.
“Special?” she echoes.
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
Kartik lifts the cloth and the room goes quiet. He bows slowly and leaves the room.
Sitara stares at the plate. It’s familiar and unfamiliar at once. The shape. The colors. The careful portioning. Her gaze flickers between the tray and my face, confusion blooming first, then something softer, more fragile.
“What…?” she whispers.
I feel my chest tighten.
“I remembered,” I say, keeping my voice steady even though my heart is pounding like I’m about to confess to a crime. “You told me once how much you loved it. Kinder Joy. You said it like it was a joke, but it wasn’t.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“So I asked Kartik to help me,” I continue, words spilling now that I’ve started. “It took time. A lot of trial and error. This isn’t the same. It can’t be. But it’s safe. It’s balanced. It won’t hurt you.”
Her eyes glisten.
Panic sparks in my chest. “You don’t have to eat it,” I rush to add. “I mean—it’s okay if you don’t want to. I just thought—maybe—it could be nice to have the option. I didn’t mean to make it a thing—”
A soft, breathless laugh escapes her lips. “You’re an idiot,” she says, shaking her head.
I blink. “That’s… not reassuring.”
She stands abruptly and steps into my space, her hands curling into the front of my kurta. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone did something like this for me?”
My heart stumbles.
“I didn’t do it because I felt sorry for you,” I say immediately, an urgent need to clarify taking over me. “I did it because I wanted you to have it. There’s a difference.”
Her grip tightens.
“You spent four months,” she says quietly, “trying to recreate something just so I wouldn’t feel left out.”
“I spent four months,” I correct softly, “trying to bring back something you love.”
Her eyes overflow then, tears clinging to her lashes. My chest tightens painfully.
“Sitara—”
She steps closer. “Close your eyes.” The command is soft, but it sends a shiver straight down my spine.
“What?”
“Close your eyes,” she repeats, her voice lower now, closer. “Trust me.”
I don’t hesitate. Darkness floods in, and suddenly every sensation sharpens.
I’m aware of her proximity, the warmth of her body, the faint scent of her shampoo.
I hear her inhale, feel the brush of her breath against my lips as I feel hers on mine.
It’s so gentle that I almost feel like it's a dream. It’s brief. Feather-light. Almost hesitant.
But, by the way I can hear my loud heartbeat, I know this is real. My breath catches so hard it feels like my lungs forget what they’re supposed to do. By the time my mind catches up, she’s already pulling away, her fingers slipping from my chest.
When I open my eyes, she’s flushed pink from head to toe, refusing to look at me.
“I—” she clears her throat and turns back to the table. “I just… thank you.”
I can’t move. I can barely think.
Sitara kissed me.
Well, I won’t count it as a kiss, but something’s better than nothing? She pecked me. Just like that. No buildup. No warning. As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She picks up the spoon with trembling fingers and takes a bite. I watch her face like my life depends on it. Her eyes close as her shoulders lift.
A small moan escapes her lips, and something like pure, unfiltered joy dances through her body. I laugh under my breath despite the battle going on inside me.
“You like it,” I say.
She opens her eyes, grinning now, cheeks flushed. “It’s not the same.”
My heart sinks.
“But,” she adds quickly, “it’s perfect.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
She takes another bite, slower this time, savoring it. Watching her enjoy it—really enjoy it—does something dangerous to me. It strips me bare, leaves me exposed in ways I’ve never been before.
I am gone.
Completely.
Hopelessly.
Watching her smile over a dessert I fought the world for feels like the highest victory I’ll ever know.
If this woman ever asks me for anything—anything at all—I will give it to her without question. Power. Wealth. My name. My crown.
My life.
I watch her, cheeks pink, eyes shining, completely unaware of the devotion quietly carving itself deeper into my bones.
And I know, with terrifying certainty—There is nothing I wouldn’t burn for her.