29-10-2025, 12:54 AM
Scene: Wednesday Morning, Flat 205
Ravi woke up to the soft hum of the ceiling fan, sunlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains. The flat felt unusually quiet, heavy with the weight of yesterday’s silence.
He lay in bed for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, replaying fragments of the past week in his mind, the loss of friends, the tense days with Priya Didi, the awkward distance that now existed between them.
Every sound, every pause seemed amplified in the quiet of the apartment.
It had been only a day since Amit and Priya had returned. Yesterday had passed in an emotional blur, shock, disbelief, sorrow. He hadn’t slept properly. His mind replayed images of the ambulance, of the relatives carrying the three covered bodies, of Sirisha’s laughter echoing faintly in his ears.
The apartment felt hollow now.
By the time he rose, Priya Didi had already begun moving in the kitchen. The scent of freshly washed vegetables and a faint trace of ghee filled the air.
She was in a simple saree, soft beige with a subtle golden border, she wore it with effortless elegance, the kind that didn’t need adornment to command attention. Even in her domestic simplicity, there was an undeniable poise to her.
Ravi’s eyes took her in, quietly, with a mix of admiration and guilt. The saree clung gently to her form, the pleats falling perfectly, her slender waist just hinted at beneath the fabric, the pallor of the morning sun catching her hair, bringing out rich, dark highlights.
And yet, despite this quiet beauty, there was tension in her posture, a restrained rigidity that betrayed her emotions. Her brows were faintly furrowed as she arranged the vegetables on the counter.
Her lips, usually soft and inviting in their natural curve, were pressed together in a line, closed off, a small but visible barrier between them. Her cheeks carried the slightest tint of pink, almost imperceptible, as though her frustration with him had warmed her face. Even in her anger, there was a softness; a trace of care that told him she wasn’t entirely devoid of compassion.
Her presence in that morning light seemed almost sacred, a quiet strength wrapped in silk and sunlight, every breath a reflection of control and unspoken emotion.
Ravi woke up to the soft hum of the ceiling fan, sunlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains. The flat felt unusually quiet, heavy with the weight of yesterday’s silence.
He lay in bed for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, replaying fragments of the past week in his mind, the loss of friends, the tense days with Priya Didi, the awkward distance that now existed between them.
Every sound, every pause seemed amplified in the quiet of the apartment.
It had been only a day since Amit and Priya had returned. Yesterday had passed in an emotional blur, shock, disbelief, sorrow. He hadn’t slept properly. His mind replayed images of the ambulance, of the relatives carrying the three covered bodies, of Sirisha’s laughter echoing faintly in his ears.
The apartment felt hollow now.
By the time he rose, Priya Didi had already begun moving in the kitchen. The scent of freshly washed vegetables and a faint trace of ghee filled the air.
She was in a simple saree, soft beige with a subtle golden border, she wore it with effortless elegance, the kind that didn’t need adornment to command attention. Even in her domestic simplicity, there was an undeniable poise to her.
Ravi’s eyes took her in, quietly, with a mix of admiration and guilt. The saree clung gently to her form, the pleats falling perfectly, her slender waist just hinted at beneath the fabric, the pallor of the morning sun catching her hair, bringing out rich, dark highlights.
And yet, despite this quiet beauty, there was tension in her posture, a restrained rigidity that betrayed her emotions. Her brows were faintly furrowed as she arranged the vegetables on the counter.
Her lips, usually soft and inviting in their natural curve, were pressed together in a line, closed off, a small but visible barrier between them. Her cheeks carried the slightest tint of pink, almost imperceptible, as though her frustration with him had warmed her face. Even in her anger, there was a softness; a trace of care that told him she wasn’t entirely devoid of compassion.
Her presence in that morning light seemed almost sacred, a quiet strength wrapped in silk and sunlight, every breath a reflection of control and unspoken emotion.
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