Adultery Priya Didi

[shailu4ever]

Scene – Wednesday Afternoon (Distance, Guilt, and the Weight of the Unspoken)
 
The afternoon had settled heavy over the flat.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains in narrow beams, catching in the quiet swirl of dust above the dining table. The faint hum of the ceiling fan filled the air, unbroken except for the soft rustle of papers coming from Priya Didi’s room.
 
Ravi sat on the sofa, elbows on his knees, head bowed low. The air around him felt still, almost stagnant, like time itself refused to move forward. His coffee had gone cold, untouched for nearly an hour. The faint scent of ghee and soap from the morning lingered in the air — reminders of her presence, reminders of everything he had lost.
 
He had said sorry.
He had said it in every way he knew — in words, in gestures, in silence.
But there were things apologies could not touch.
 
The betrayal had burned something between them, something invisible but real — and though she did not speak of it, he could feel it in every pause, in every measured breath she took near him.
 
When she emerged from her room, her face was calm, unreadable. She moved with that same unhurried grace, a quiet dignity that made the simplest action — setting a file on the table, adjusting the pleats of her saree — seem deliberate, almost ceremonial. The faint gleam of the gold border shimmered as she crossed the room.
 
Ravi stood when she entered, out of instinct more than courage. “Do you need anything?” he asked, his voice low.
 
She didn’t look at him right away. “No,” she said softly. “I’m fine.”
 
The words were light, but they carried finality — the kind of calm that came after too much emotion had already been spent.
 
He nodded, his throat tightening. “If you ever want me to—”
 
She cut him off gently, her tone firm but not sharp. “Ravi, please. Don’t try to fill the silence. It doesn’t help.”
 
He stopped. The words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. He sank back into his seat, hands clasped, watching her gather her things.
 
Every small movement seemed to echo — the rustle of her papers, the faint sound of her bangles, the soft click of a drawer closing. Everything she did now was deliberate, cautious, distant.
 
Ravi’s eyes lingered on her profile. She looked serene, almost peaceful, but he could see the exhaustion beneath it — the fine tension around her eyes, the set of her jaw that betrayed the effort it took to stay composed. She was holding herself together with quiet strength, and that only deepened his guilt.


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