The afternoon sun streamed into Rooh's small room, painting a warm, golden square on the worn rug. It was a rare day off from college, the campus closed to give students time to focus on their end-of-semester projects.

The usual morning chaos had subsided after lunch, leaving the house in a state of drowsy quiet. Rooh was spread out on her bed, her design sketchbook open, tracing paper overlaying a detailed drawing of an embroidered lehenga blouse. The only sounds were the soft scratch of her pencil and the distant hum of the city.

A soft knock, too gentle to be her mother's, sounded at the door. "Didi?" a small voice whispered.

A genuine smile touched Rooh's lips. "Come in, Aarav."

The door creaked open and her brother peeked in, his school textbook clutched to his chest. "I have to learn this," he said, his face scrunched in a frown. "It's questions and answers. It's boring."

"Come here," Rooh said softly, patting the space on the bed next to her. She closed her sketchbook, giving him her full attention. This was her refuge-these small, stolen moments of uncomplicated love.

Aarav scrambled onto the bed, dropping the book between them. "See? 'What are the main sources of water?' 'What is precipitation?' It's so long."

Rooh pulled him closer, her voice taking on a gentle, storytelling tone. "It's not boring, it's a story. Imagine the sun is a big, warm king. He heats up the water in the oceans and rivers, and the water gets so light and happy it flies up into the sky as tiny, invisible droplets. That's called evaporation." She used her hands, painting pictures in the air. Aarav's frown began to ease, his eyes widening.

"Then, up in the sky, all these droplets meet their friends and become clouds. And when the cloud gets too heavy and full of friends, they all fall back down to earth! Sometimes as rain, sometimes as snow. That's precipitation. And then the water goes back to the rivers and oceans, waiting for the sun king to call them up again."

Aarav giggled. "The sun king!"

"See? It's a cycle. A beautiful, never-ending dance." She helped him read the answers, turning the rote memorization into a narrative. For those fifteen minutes, the world outside her room ceased to exist. There was only her brother's focused face, the sound of their shared reading, and the warm sunlight. She felt a surge of protective love so fierce it made her chest ache. This was pure. This was real.

The spell was broken by the distinct sound of the front gate creaking open, followed by the murmur of unfamiliar voices downstairs. Guests.

Rooh's gentle expression tightened slightly. "Okay, aaru," she said, her voice soft but firm. "You stay here and practice the water cycle story. I'll go see who it is. Learn it well, and I'll test you later, okay?"

Aarav nodded, already looking at his textbook with new interest. "Okay, Didi."

Rooh smoothed down her simple cotton kurti and padded softly out of her room and down the stairs. The familiar, slightly shabby interior of her home felt different with the presence of visitors. She turned the corner into the small living area and stopped.

The atmosphere in the room was instantly different. Two figures seemed to occupy all the available space, not just physically but with their sheer presence. Seated on the best sofa, the one usually reserved for her father, was Anita Rathore. She was elegance personified, dressed in a silk chiffon sari the colour of mint, her jewellery understated but undoubtedly real gold and pearls.

Beside her, looking both bored and effortlessly cool, was Reyansh Rathore. He was lounging back, one arm slung over the back of the sofa, dressed in clothes that probably cost more than her father's monthly salary.

Her mother, Shivani, was perched on the edge of a chair opposite them, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a nervous but eager smile on her face. Her grandmother was in her usual commanding chair, her eyes sharp with interest.

All eyes turned to Rooh as she entered. She felt acutely conscious of her simple clothes, her bare feet, the pencil smudge on her finger.

She offered a small, tentative smile. "Hello," she said, her voice quiet but clear.

Anita Rathore's face broke into a warm, practiced smile. "Rooh! Kaise ho beta?" (Rooh! How are you, daughter?)

Rooh dipped her head slightly. "Mein bilkul theek hoon, aunty. Aap kaise hain?" (I am completely fine, aunty. How are you?)

"Main toh bilkul theek hoon," Anita replied, her gaze sweeping over Rooh in a quick, appraising way that felt like being measured for a garment. (I am completely fine.)

Shivani, eager to participate, turned to Reyansh. "Kaise ho, Reyansh?" (How are you, Reyansh?)

Reyansh offered a charming, slightly lazy smile. "Main bilkul theek hoon, aunty. Thank you." (I am completely fine, aunty.)

There was a moment of awkward silence. Anita leaned forward slightly, her perfume - a subtle, expensive floral scent - wafting towards her Grandmother. "Main yahan aap sabko invitation dene aayi hoon." (I have come here to give you all an invitation.)

Shivani's eyes lit up. "Invitation? Kis baat ka?" (Invitation? For what?)

"Hamara beta, Neel," Anita said, her voice swelling with maternal pride, "Canada se waapas aaya hai. Toronto se. Toh humne ek chota sa get-together rakha hai. Ghar par hi. Persoon ko. Tum sab please aana." (Our son, Neel, has returned from Canada. From Toronto. So we have arranged a small get-together. Just at home. The day after tomorrow. You all must please come.)

The name 'Neel' hung in the air. Rooh had a vague memory of him-a silent, intense, much older boy who was always studying, a legend held up by parents to shame their own children. Why can't you be more like Neel?

"Neel aaya hai?" Rooh's grandmother asked, her interest visibly piqued. (Neel has come?)

"Haan, kal hi aaya hai," Anita confirmed, her smile widening. Then, as if it were the most natural segue in the world, she added, "Uski shaadi ke liye ab ladki dekh rahi hoon." (Yes, he just arrived. Now I am looking for a girl for his marriage.)

The bluntness of it was startling. Rooh felt a strange pang-a mix of sympathy for this unknown Neel and a fresh wave of anxiety for herself.

Seizing the opportunity, perhaps feeling a sense of competitive matchmaking, Shivani jumped in. "Accha! Hum bhi toh humari Rooh ke liye ladka dekh rahe hain!" (Oh! We are also looking for a boy for our Rooh!)

Rooh's blood ran cold. She stood frozen, her polite smile stiffening on her face. She could feel her cheeks grow warm. They were discussing her future, her life, as if she were not standing right there. As if she were a piece of furniture to be sold off.

But her mother wasn't finished. Blinded by the proximity to the wealthy Rathores and carried away by the moment, she added with a nervous laugh, "Reyansh aur Rooh ki jodi kaisi rahegi?" (How would a pairing of Reyansh and Rooh be?)

The air was sucked out of the room. Reyansh, who had been examining a loose thread on his jeans, looked up, a flicker of surprised amusement in his eyes. He glanced at Rooh, taking in her horrified expression, and gave a barely perceptible, dismissive shake of his head before looking away, a faint smirk playing on his lips. The dismissal was more brutal than any words.

Rooh felt a hot flush of utter humiliation wash over her. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. How could her mother? The desperation, the sheer audacity to suggest such a thing in front of them... It was so cringe-worthy, so painfully embarrassing. She wasn't angry yet; she was just mortified.

Anita Rathore's smile became tight, a clear shield against the social awkwardness Shivani had just created. She gave a light, airy laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Pehle humare Neel ki shaadi toh hone do!" she said, her tone gently chiding but firm, drawing a clear, uncrossable boundary. (Let our Neel get married first!)

She then delivered the final, subtle put-down, a reminder of the social hierarchy that separated their families. "Haan, yeh toh hai. Waise bhi," she said, her eyes flicking back to Rooh with a patronizing kindness, "humari Rooh abhi sirf 21 ki hai. Bahut chhoti hai abhi." (Yes, that is true. Anyway, our Rooh is only twenty-one. She is very young right now.)

Our Rooh. The words were possessive but also diminishing. She was a child. An unimportant one, whose timeline could be put on hold.

Shivani, finally sensing she had overstepped, nodded hurriedly, her own face flushed. "Haan, haan, bilkul." (Yes, yes, absolutely.)

Anita gracefully rose, bringing the uncomfortable visit to an end. "Toh persoon ko zaroor aana. Shaam saat baje." (So please do come the day after tomorrow. At 7 in the evening.)
Shivani and Rooh's grandmother also stood up, showering Anita with thanks for the invitation.

Rooh stood rooted to the spot, her mind reeling. The visitors said their goodbyes, and Reyansh offered a final, casual wave that didn't include her.

As soon as the gate clicked shut, the atmosphere in the room collapsed. Shivani turned to Rooh, her expression a mix of excitement and defensiveness. "Did you see, Rooh? The Rathores! We have been invited to their home! This is a big thing! Maybe we will meet some other good families there also..."

The heat of Rooh's humiliation finally crystallized into a sharp, clean anger. She turned to her mother, her eyes blazing, her voice low and trembling with a fury she rarely showed.

"How could you, Mummy?" she whispered, the words sharp as glass. "How could you say that? 'Reyansh aur Rooh ki jodi'? In front of them? Did you not see how she looked at us? Did you not see his face? He was laughing at us! At our desperation!"

Shivani's face fell, the excitement replaced by shock at Rooh's outburst. "I... I was just making conversation... It was just a joke..."

"It wasn't a joke!" Rooh's voice broke. "It was pathetic! And you... you just agreed with her that I'm too 'chhoti'? You are so eager to send me away, but only when it's convenient for them?"

Without waiting for a reply, Rooh turned and fled back upstairs, leaving her mother stunned and silent in the wake of her quiet rage. She slammed her bedroom door shut and leaned against it, her heart pounding. Downstairs, the world of invitations and social climbing continued.

But up here, in her small room, Rooh felt the walls of her world closing in, not with warmth, but with the bitter pressure of expectations and a profound, aching loneliness. The Rathores' party loomed not as a fun outing, but as a stark reminder of everything she was, and everything she was expected to be.

The silence in the Mehra household after the Rathores' departure was thick and heavy, a stark contrast to the nervous energy that had filled it just moments before. Shivani stood frozen in the center of the room, the echo of Rooh's uncharacteristic fury ringing in her ears. The grand invitation card on the table now seemed to mock her, a symbol of her own social misstep.

Upstairs, Rooh leaned against her closed bedroom door, her chest heaving. The heat of her anger was already cooling, replaced by a cold, sickening wave of embarrassment. Her mother's words played on a loop in her mind: "Reyansh aur Rooh ki jodi kaisi rahegi?" Each syllable was a fresh cringe. She had seen the look on Reyansh's face-not malice, but a flicker of amused pity, the kind you'd give to a slightly embarrassing distant relative. It was worse than anger.

Her eyes fell on Aarav, who was still on her bed, looking at her with wide, confused eyes. "Didi, why are you angry?"

The simple question deflated her. She walked over and sat beside him, pulling him into a hug. "I'm not angry at you. I'm just... tired." She kissed the top of his head. "Did you learn the water cycle story?"

He nodded, eager to please. "The sun king makes the water fly!"

A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "Good. Very good."

Her gaze drifted around the room, landing on a old, faded black-and-white photograph on her dresser. It showed a large family, all seated stiffly on a charpai outside a small, simple house. In the center were a young man and woman-her grandmother and a man who looked strikingly like her, but with a fiercer glint in his eyes. That was Vikrant Rathore's father, Neel's grandfather. Her grandmother's brother.

The story was family legend, a tale of two diverging paths from the same poor roots. They had grown up in that small house, playing in the same dusty lanes. Shaymal son's Vikrant, even in his youth, had a restless ambition. He had started a small business, failed, lost what little money they had. The family had despaired. But Vikrant, stubborn and proud, had left for Jaipur with nothing but a cloth bundle of samples and a head full of dreams.

He had started from the bottom, sleeping on the floor of a textile merchant's shop, learning the language of fabric and trade. Gradually, stitch by stitch, he built his empire. R-House began not with global runways, but with a single, successful order of block-printed cotton.

The money trickled, then flowed, then flooded in. The brother' son who had left in near-disgrace became the patriarch of a business dynasty, while the sister who stayed behind lived a life of modest, lower-middle-class comfort.

The families remained connected by blood and occasional, increasingly awkward visits, but they lived in different universes. The Rathores were royalty; the Mehras were the forgotten relatives.

And today, that divide had never felt wider. Rooh felt the weight of that history-the unspoken comparison, the quiet pity, the desperate hope from her own family to bridge that gap through her.

The need for a lifeline, for a sliver of dignity, was overwhelming. She waited until Aarav was engrossed in drawing a picture of the sun king. Then, she reached under her mattress and pulled out her phone.

It was an old model, and she had to carefully disable the parental control app her father had installed-a secret act of rebellion she performed only when absolutely necessary.

She opened Instagram, an app she had hidden in a folder named "Calculator." Her feed was a burst of color and creativity-fashion illustrators, design pages, college friends. And there, among the followers she meticulously curated, was reyansh.r. They had followed each other years ago at a family wedding, a meaningless digital connection that had lain dormant ever since.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened his profile. It was a curated gallery of a glamorous life: sleek cars, designer clothes, parties in exotic locations, photos with models and influencers. It was a world as alien to her as the moon.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the direct messages and typed quickly, before she could lose her nerve.

rooh.mehra: sorry, my mother didnt had intention about what she said

She hit send, her heart hammering against her ribs. She expected no reply. Or worse, a seen receipt followed by silence.

But within seconds, three dots appeared. Then a reply.

reyansh.r: its okay

Two words. Casual. Dismissive. But not cruel. The three dots appeared again.

reyansh.r: moms get weird about this stuff. mine's got a stack of biodatas on her desk taller than me. don't worry about it.

A strange, weak laugh escaped Rooh's lips. It wasn't solidarity, but it was a recognition of the shared absurdity of their situations. He wasn't mocking her; he was just... unfazed. Her mother's desperate comment was so insignificant to his world that it wasn't even worth a proper reaction. It was just "okay."

There was nothing else to say. She couldn't joke about it like he could. Her reality was too raw, too imbued with the weight of economic disparity and familial expectation.

rooh.mehra: okay.

She typed the reply and put the phone down, sliding it back under the mattress. The brief digital interaction was over. The momentary connection, such as it was, vanished.

She looked out her window. The afternoon sun was beginning to soften. In a mansion across the city, Reyansh had probably already forgotten the entire interaction, scrolling past her message without a second thought.

But here, in her small room, the encounter had left a permanent mark. It had reinforced the invisible walls around her, reminding her of her place. She was Rooh Mehra, the poor relation, the girl with the desperate mother, a secret Instagram account, and a future that was being discussed over tea in living rooms without her consent.

She pulled her sketchbook closer and opened it to a blank page. She picked up her pencil, her grip tight. And she began to draw, not a beautiful lehenga, but sharp, angry lines, trying to sketch out the frustration and the longing that had no other outlet.

***

The dinner table was a landscape of quiet tension, as it often was. The air hung heavy with the scent of dal and roti, but also with unspoken rules and simmering disapproval. Rooh moved around the table with the quiet efficiency of a ghost, serving food first to her grandmother, then to her father. Her movements were practiced, designed to attract minimal attention.

Aarav sat across from them, and Shivani was next to him, coaxing a spoonful of vegetable into his mouth. At eleven, he was far too old to be fed, but in the Mehra household, he would forever be the baby, his helplessness nurtured like a precious plant.

Rooh was dressed for comfort, for the privacy of her own home after a long day. She wore soft, well-worn cotton pajamas and an old, faded t-shirt. As she leaned over to place a bowl of dahi near her father, the fabric of her t-shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of her lower back.

Sahil's eyes, which had been fixed on his plate, flicked upwards. His chewing slowed. The silence at the table deepened.

"Hmm," he grunted, the sound low and disapproving. "Aise kapde ghar se bahar pehen kar mat nikalna." (Don't wear clothes like this outside the house.)

Rooh froze for a fraction of a second. A hot flush of embarrassment crept up her neck. She quickly straightened up, pulling the hem of her t-shirt down with a swift, almost frantic motion. She didn't meet his eyes, simply nodding her understanding and retreating to her designated spot to stand and eat her meal. Her appetite vanished.

But the reprimand wasn't over. It was merely the opening volley.

Her grandmother, seated like a judge holding court, took a slow sip of water. Her sharp eyes scanned Rooh from head to toe. "Yeh abhi tak hai," she declared to the room, as if Rooh weren't standing right there. "Phir kuch saal baad shaadi ke baad, yeh kapde nahi chalenge. Saas acchi mili toh accha hai, warna roz-roz ka jhagda hoga." (This is still here. Then a few years after marriage, these clothes won't do. If she gets a good mother-in-law, it's fine, otherwise there will be daily fights.)

The casual sentencing of her future, the reduction of her life to a potential daily fight over her clothing, was a familiar ache. But tonight, it felt sharper.

Aarav, his mouth full, looked up, his brow furrowed in childish confusion. "Dadi, aisa nahi hai," he protested innocently. "Yeh kapde normal hai ab. Meri class ki ladkiyan shorts pehenti hai!" (Grandma, it's not like that. These clothes are normal now. The girls in my class wear shorts!)

Sahil's head snapped towards his son, his glare silencing him instantly. "Jo dusron ki ladkiyan karengi, wahi ye kare, yeh zaroori nahi hai!" he thundered, his voice cracking through the small dining room like a whip. (Just because other girls do it, doesn't mean she has to! It's not necessary!)

The injustice of it, the sheer frustration of being policed in her own home, over a simple t-shirt, finally broke through Rooh's wall of silence. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but trembled with pent-up emotion.

"Pappa," she said, her eyes fixed on her plate. "Par maine kuch galat nahi pehna hai." (But I haven't worn anything wrong.)

She dared to lift her eyes, meeting her father's furious gaze for a split second before looking away. "Bahar, meri umar ki ladkiyan cigarette, alcohol sab consume karti hain... maine aisa kuch nahi kiya. Maine sirf... ghar mein comfort mein rehne ke liye kapde pehne hain." (Outside, girls my age consume cigarettes, alcohol and everything... I haven't done any of that. I've only worn clothes for comfort in the house.)

Her logical, quiet defense was like gasoline on the fire of her father's anger. His face darkened. For a horrifying moment, his hand twitched, then lifted from the table, fingers curling as if to strike. Rooh flinched instinctively, her body bracing for the blow she had known years ago.

But he stopped mid-motion, his arm suspended in the air. The threat hung there, more potent than any actual slap.

Her grandmother's voice cut through the tense silence, cold and final. "Saas ko bhi aise jawab degi," she said, her tone dripping with grim prophecy, "toh doosre din hi tumhe ghar wapas bhej denge." (If you give such an answer to your mother-in-law too, they will send you back home the very next day.)

The words were a death knell. They weren't just a scolding; they were a warning about her fundamental inadequacy, her unworthiness as a future daughter-in-law. The tears she had been fighting now welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. She looked down, letting them fall silently onto the uneaten food on her plate.

She said nothing more. Arguing was pointless. Defending herself was pointless. Her truth-that her clothes were normal, that her behavior was exemplary compared to her peers-meant nothing against the weight of their expectations and their fear of log kya kahenge (what will people say).

The rest of the dinner passed in a heavy, suffocating silence. When she was finally dismissed, she washed her plate quickly and fled upstairs to her room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, taking shaky breaths.

She walked to her small wardrobe and opened it. Hanging neatly were the kurtas and salwars she wore outside. Folded on a shelf were the few pairs of jeans and t-shirts she owned. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric of the offending t-shirt.

With a quiet sigh, she took it off and folded it away. Then she changed into an old, loose kurta.
The late-night silence in the Mehra house was a living thing, thick and heavy. The only sound was the soft whirring of Rooh's laptop fan and the frantic, rhythmic clicking of her mouse. She wasn't studying.

She was furiously working on a digital design, losing herself in a world of colors and lines where the rules were hers to make. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from the tears shed earlier at dinner, were fixed on the screen, trying to burn away the humiliation with creative focus.

Her grandmother was unusually sleeping in the other room tonight, giving Rooh a rare, precious solitude that was now poisoned by the evening's events. The memory of her father's raised hand, her grandmother's cutting prophecy-they played on a loop, each repetition a fresh sting.

A soft knock, hesitant and uncharacteristically gentle, broke her concentration. The door creaked open before she could answer, and Shivani stepped in. In her hands was a steaming cup of coffee, its rich, bitter aroma cutting through the stale air of the room.

"Rooh, ye lelo," her mother said softly, her voice tentative. (Rooh, take this.)

Rooh didn't turn around. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, her posture rigid. "Yaha rakh do aap," she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual softness. She gestured vaguely towards the side table. "Jaate waqt darwaza band kar dena." (Just keep it there. Close the door on your way out.)

But Shivani didn't leave. She stood there for a moment, watching the tense line of her daughter's back. She saw the defeated slope of her shoulders, the way she was trying to make herself small inside the glow of the laptop. The mother in her, the part that was often buried under a mountain of chores and unspoken regrets, ached.

Ignoring the dismissal, Shivani walked over and placed the cup carefully on the table. Then, instead of leaving, she sat on the edge of the bed, right next to Rooh's chair. She reached out and wrapped an arm around her daughter's stiff shoulders, pulling her into a sideways hug. Rooh's head was level with her stomach.

The simple, unexpected touch broke the dam.

Rooh's rigid posture collapsed. A shuddering sob escaped her lips, then another. She turned her face and buried it in the soft cotton of her mother's night sari, her body trembling as the tears she had been holding back all evening finally poured out. They were hot, angry, helpless tears.

"Shh... shh... rooti nahi hai," Shivani whispered, her own voice thick with emotion. She stroked Rooh's hair, a gesture so rare it felt foreign. (Don't cry.)

"Mujhe bhi ye log kitna bolte hain," Shivani confessed, her words a soft murmur against Rooh's ear. "Ki tu kaam nahi karti, kuch nahi karti... lekin main bura maan jaati hoon? Main nahi maanti. Main jaanti hoon kitna kaam karti hai meri beti." (They tell me too, how you don't work, don't do anything... but do I feel bad? I don't. I know how much work my daughter does.)

The validation, coming from the one person whose opinion often hurt the most, was both a balm and a irritant.

"L-lekin aab bhi waisi hi h-hai," Rooh choked out between sobs, her voice muffled by the fabric. "Aap sabko lagta hai main badi ho gayi hoon toh... toh mujhe maa baap ka pyaar nahi chahiye? Sirf Aarav ko hi chahiye?" (But it's still the same. You all think I've grown up so I... I don't need parents' love? Only Aarav needs it?)

The core of her pain was laid bare. It wasn't just about the clothes, or the scolding. It was about the love that felt conditional, the affection that had slowly been transferred to her brother, leaving her with only responsibility and criticism.

"Aisa nahi hai, Rooh," Shivani said, holding her tighter. "Main bahut pyaar karti hoon tumse. Main bas... bolti nahi." (It's not like that, Rooh. I love you very much. I just... don't say it.)

"Haan, woh toh pata hai mujhe," Rooh muttered, pulling back slightly to wipe her tears with the back of her hand, a hint of bitter mockery in her voice. "Aapko toh mujhe bhejne ki kitni jaldi hai. Kisi ke bhi saamne aap mere rishte ki baat karne lag jaati ho." (Yes, I know that. You're in such a hurry to send me away. You start talking about my marriage in front of anyone.)

Shivani sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of her own unfulfilled dreams and societal pressures. "Arrey, woh toh main aise hi bola tha!" she said, her tone becoming pleading, trying to justify herself. (Oh, I just said that casually!)

"Us samay socha, agar Reyansh ki maa ko accha laga toh accha hoga, na? Tum hi socho," she continued, her voice taking on a desperate, hopeful edge. (At that time I thought, if Reyansh's mother liked it, it would be good, right? You just think.)
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if sharing a great secret of life. "Ek baar tum uss ghar ki bahu ban gayi, Rooh, toh kisi cheez ki kami nahi hogi! Koi tumhe nahi kahega. Car, bangla, kapde, jewellery... sab milega. Meri zindagi toh nikal gayi, beti. Tumhari life tho savar jayegi!"

(Once you become the daughter-in-law of that house, Rooh, then you will lack for nothing! No one will scold you. Car, bungalow, clothes, jewellery... you'll get everything. My life is over, daughter. Your life will be set!)

In her mother's mind, it was the ultimate act of love. Securing a life of luxury for her daughter, freeing her from the struggles she herself endured. She couldn't see that to Rooh, it sounded like being sold off to the highest bidder to solve everyone else's problems.

The promise of cars and bungalows felt like a gilded cage, a future where her worth was measured in designer labels instead of love, and her freedom was traded for financial security.

Rooh looked at her mother's face, so earnest, so convinced that this was the best path. The anger drained out of her, replaced by a profound, weary sadness. Her mother loved her, in her own deeply flawed way. But it was a love that sought to erase Rooh's dreams and replace them with its own narrow definition of happiness.

She pulled away completely, wiping her face dry. "Coffee thandi ho jayegi," she said quietly, turning back to her laptop screen, effectively ending the conversation. (The coffee will get cold.)

The moment of connection was over. The wall, slightly softened by tears, was firmly back in place. Shivani patted her shoulder once more, a little lost, before standing up and leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.