Chapter 42
AMY
The quiet in the apartment hovers like an unspoken question. Darun is nearer than he’s been in weeks, but there's a distance I can taste in the air between us. I try to chalk it up to nerves. After all, tomorrow is the reckoning. But my stomach knots, whispering lies: maybe this is more than that.
I hover by the kitchen counter while he scrambles eggs.
Hot skillet, the sharp scent of butter, an edge of garlic from last night lingering in the pan.
The sizzle notes in my ears are too loud.
My fingers press into the cold granite the way I press my thoughts behind locked doors.
He cracks eggs with a steady wrist, mashing yolks gently, flipping with care.
Libra sits at the table, coloring in quiet, humming. The edges of the day feel fragile.
I’d rehearsed in my head how to tell him.
How to soft-land it. “Darun, there’s something I’ve kept quiet…
you need to know—” And then I erase, the weight too heavy, the timing always wrong.
On the holopad late at night I type, Darun, I have to tell you about our daughter…
but the cursor bleeps at me, doubting shadowing every keystroke.
I scratch it out. Type again. Scratch. Press.
Delete. My lungs fill with words I can’t say.
I tell myself: After the interview. When the world has recognized his voice. When we’ve laid the truth bare. Then I won’t hide. Then he’ll understand. But tomorrow is impossible already.
I take a breath, step closer. He slides a plate in front of me—eggs browned and warm, toast crisp. Steam curls upward. The scent is comforting. I reach, touch his arm. He startles, looks over. I offer a small smile.
“Good morning,” I say. My throat is thick.
“Morning,” he replies, quiet. There’s gentleness in his tone, but under it a shadow I can’t read yet.
Libra rhapsodizes about her drawing last night. She holds up a pencil sketch: a skyline and a dragon’s tail curling. Her eyes shimmering. Darun leans forward, speaks to her in soft tones. I hear him praise her creativity, her courage in color. She beams.
My heart twists. That moment, so ordinary, so perfect.
After breakfast, we clear dishes together. The click of plates, water in the sink, sponge rubbing. He dries. I stack. Our hands meet, rinse, slide apart. Neither of us says the secret.
He walks to the couch, sits. Libra flops beside him. He ruffles her hair. I study them. The silhouette of family emerging, the shape of home made real. But the secret — the child I never named until months ago — trembles in me like a lineage waiting to be spoken.
He looks at me across the room. “You okay?” he asks finally, voice gentle.
I nod, faking calm. “Yes, I’m… just thinking.”
He doesn’t press. He nods himself, goes back to playing blocks with Libra. The click of wood on wood, laughter, the rhythm of small voices fills the space. I retreat to the small desk. Holopad glows. The cursor blinks like a heartbeat. I type Darun, empty. I delete. Our daughter… erase.
I fold my hands in my lap, closed in the dim lamp light. The night before’s words are ashes in the air. I want him to hear. I want the secret to stop being mine alone. But fear holds me silent.
He calls for lunch. The world stirs in the streets below. The day smells of warm pavement, distant exhaust, leafy glimpses outside windows. I rise. I carry plates. We eat. The conversation light — cartoons, neighborhood rumors, what we’ll do tonight. He asks about outlines for the show. I nod.
In the afternoon, he steps out to run errands. I remain, windows open, air sliding in. I walk back to the desk. The pad is blank. The secret pulses in my veins like code waiting to download. But I push it back. After the interview. I whisper that phrase to the empty room.
Evening falls. Rooms darken. Lamps glow soft. Darun returns with groceries and a tired smile. The scent of bread, citrus, new possibilities leans in. I hug him. His arms hold me, brief anchor. We cook dinner together — chopping, stirring, arguing over salt — and the routine feels like a prayer.
Afterwards, we sit on the balcony. Night is deep and alive. City lights flicker like constellations made by street grids. He places hand on mine. The breeze carries faint aromas — traffic, blossoming night flowers, distant rain. He breathes slowly.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, “we open the doors.” His voice trembles just so. “I’m ready.”
My throat cracks. The secret catches. I say, “Me too.” My lips tremble. I haven't told him yet—but at sunrise, I will.
We sit side by side. The stars hang outside. The city hums beneath. The secret lingers between arms, breath, heartbeats. Tomorrow, everything changes. And I believe I’ll have the courage to say what I’ve held silent for so long.