Chapter 1
The kitchen smelled of burnt toast.
Again.
Suhani exhaled slowly through her nose, waving away the stubborn smoke curling from the toaster as she set two plates on the counter.
Mahira was humming a completely invented melody from the living room, her voice carrying over the low buzz of the television.
The news anchor's voice mumbled about some hotel industry stock crash. Suhani didn't need to listen closely, she already knew it would somehow loop back to her family.
Their family.
Well. Sort of.
She slid scrambled eggs onto the plate, cut the crust off Mahira's toast, and set her cup of chocolate milk beside it, exactly the way she liked it: warm, not hot. Three spoons of sugar.
A pink straw.
Then she poured black coffee into a tall mug and turned toward the table where Abhay sat, reading the paper. As always, he looked too sharp for a Wednesday morning. Crisp navy suit collar open just enough to show the sliver of his throat that made her heart stutter in a way she hated. Still. After all these years.
She placed the coffee in front of him gently.
"Careful, it's hot."
"Thanks," he murmured, eyes not leaving the article.
No smile. No glance.
The toaster clicked behind her, offering up a second slice of barely warm toast. She stared at it like it was responsible for everything wrong in the room.
Mahira padded in with a blanket trailing behind her, hair sticking up in every direction.
"Mama, can you braid my hair like Elsa today?"
Suhani smiled, crouching to smooth the blanket over her daughter's shoulders. "Of course. Eat first, then we'll do the braid, your majesty."
Mahira grinned and plopped into her seat, feet swinging.
Across the table, Abhay finally looked up. He glanced at Mahira, then at Suhani, and something flickered in his expression. Not warmth. Not annoyance. Just a long,
unreadable look, as if she were part of the wallpaper he hadn't properly noticed before.
"What time's her parent-teacher meeting?" he asked, sipping the coffee.
"Four-thirty. I'll pick her up early."
"I'll join if I can get out of the board meeting in time." He paused. "You could've reminded me."
She had. Twice.
But Suhani only nodded. "No problem."
She was used to this. The way their marriage functioned in fragments. Conversations like emails, short, necessary, professional. He was never cruel. Never absent. But sometimes she missed the boy he used to be. The one who once gave her a band-aid in third grade and told her scraped knees healed faster with a smile.
She smiled then. He had, too.
And then Rhea had arrived.
But that was 13 years ago. Another lifetime.
Mahira bit into her toast and scrunched her nose. "Mama, it's burnt again."
Abhay folded the newspaper and stood. "I'll drop her to school."
Suhani blinked. "You don't have to. I thought you had—"
"I want to." His voice softened slightly as he glanced at Mahira. "Come on, princess. I'll play that weird English song you like on the way."
Mahira squealed and bolted to grab her bag.
When they left, the house fell into silence again.
No boiling kettle. No news anchor. No burnt toast.
Only the ticking of the kitchen clock. And the echo of a look she didn't know how to name.
Later that Day
Suhani stepped out of Mahira's school building, her daughter's hand snug in hers, her head buzzing.
The teacher had said Mahira was bright.
Creative. A little stubborn. Brilliant at storytelling. "But she gets distracted sometimes. Like she's waiting for someone to notice what she's not saying."
Suhani had forced a smile and nodded. Mahira was just like her.
Abhay hadn't shown up.
Not surprising.
Still.
Mahira tugged her sleeve as they walked to the car. "Mama, why doesn't Daddy smile like he used to?"
Suhani knelt slowly, brushing a curl away from Mahira's cheek.
"He smiles," she said gently.
"Not at you."
The wind shifted. She swallowed. "He's just tired sometimes."
Mahira tilted her head like she was older than seven. "Do you love him, Mama?"
Suhani smiled. Soft. Small. "More than anything."
Mahira frowned. "Then why do you always look like you're waiting?"
She didn't answer.
Few hours later
The phone rang just as she was cleaning up the kitchen.
Abhay's voice was low. "I'll be late. Some board members are flying in early."
"Okay," she said. "Do you want me to save dinner?"
Pause. "No, I'll eat at the hotel."
The hotel. The place her father built. The place Abhay ran. The place Rhea used to…
She cut the thought off.
"Alright," she said.
And then the line went dead.
10:00 PM
The door creaked open just as Suhani was drying the last of the plates.
Abhay walked in, loosening the top button of his shirt, his eyes skimming the room like he hadn't left it in the morning. His footsteps were soft, deliberate. The tie around his neck was gone. His sleeves rolled higher now, showing the veins along his wrist she used to trace when he was asleep.
Mahira was already in bed. Story read. Hair braided. Nightlight on.
"You ate?" Suhani asked softly, not turning around.
He placed his keys on the side table. "Yeah."
No small talk. No questions. No explanations.
Just that.
She nodded and reached to switch off the kitchen light. In the dimness, the only glow came from the living room lamp. Abhay stood still near the door, staring at something unseen.
Suhani crossed her arms, watching the silhouette of him against the frame, broad shoulders tense, jaw clenched.
There was something in the air. A shift. But not loud. Just an undercurrent of tension threaded through the quiet.
"You're late," she murmured.
"I know."
His voice was flat. But not cold. Just... contained. Like something coiled tight beneath his ribs.
She waited. For anything. A word. A breath. A crack.
Nothing came.
Abhay moved past her toward their room, brushing close. She didn't flinch, but her eyes followed him.
He hadn't said her name all day. Not once.
Not Rhea's.
But somehow, her presence was louder than words.
As the bedroom door clicked shut behind him, Suhani stood alone in the kitchen. The silence stretched, long and sharp. She pressed her palms against the counter, knuckles white.
From their daughter's room came a tiny voice.
"Mama?"
She turned. "I'm here, love."
Mahira yawned. "Don't forget my braid tomorrow."
"I won't," she whispered.
But inside, something was already unraveling.
