The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clatter of utensils. Chandni’s hands moved slowly over the dough, lost in her thoughts. Outside, the monsoon rains had finally given way to a shy drizzle, droplets still clinging to the leaves beyond the window. The oppressive humidity lingered in the air, thick and heavy, much like the weight in her chest.

Vikram stood near the doorway, watching her. He was a silhouette against the dim hallway, his presence a stark contrast to the quiet desperation that had become Chandni’s daily companion. His fingers brushed briefly against her waist as he reached past her for a glass, and in that fleeting touch, something stirred inside both of them. A spark, innocent yet undeniable, flickered to life. Neither moved. Neither spoke. The world seemed to shrink, focusing solely on the point of contact, the warmth that lingered even after he’d moved away.