Adultery Priya Didi

[shailu4ever]

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A moment later, Priya stepped out of the kitchen.
She wore a light beige cotton saree with a green border, her hair tied neatly back, though a few loose strands brushed her cheek. The simple grace of her presence could still undo him.
 
She didn’t look at him immediately.
 
“Amit said you’ll come with me?” she asked, her tone calm, neutral, a voice without colour.
 
Ravi nodded. “Yes.”
 
She gave a small nod in return. “Fine. We’ll leave after breakfast.”
 
She turned and walked back toward the kitchen, her saree whispering softly against the floor. The faint scent of soap, steam, and morning warmth lingered in her wake, familiar, intimate, unbearable.
 
Ravi stared at the half-empty cup of tea beside his laptop.
That brief conversation, that single nod, carried all the distance in the world.
 
In the kitchen, Priya rinsed a cup under running water, her fingers moving automatically. Her thoughts refused to stay quiet.
 
Why does it still affect me?
The question came uninvited, harsh, unwanted.
She should have moved past it, past him. But some memories refuse to fade simply because you tell them to.
 
She still remembered his voice, the warmth in it, the small jokes they once shared over burnt toast and misplaced keys.
Now, even silence between them was careful, deliberate, like two people tiptoeing around broken glass.
 
She wiped her hands on a towel, took a deep breath, and said aloud, steady, almost mechanical
“We’ll go after breakfast.”
 
Ravi looked up at the sound of her voice.
Through the thin curtain, he could see her shadow shifting as she moved, calm, composed, untouchable. The morning light traced the curve of her shoulder, the sway of her saree, and for a fleeting moment, it brought everything back, admiration, guilt, longing, tangled together.
 
He wanted to speak, to say something simple, maybe “thank you,” maybe “I’m sorry”, but the words stayed trapped.
The silence between them had become a language of its own, heavy, familiar, and impossible to escape.
 
Priya could feel his eyes on her from across the room.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t want to.
But deep inside, a part of her wished he would say something, anything that might make her believe he still cared enough to try. She knew she hate him, but deep inside she is also waiting for him.

Instead, she only heard the low hum of the fan, and the clink of a plate as she set it down too gently.
 
“Yes,” Ravi said softly, answering a question that had already been settled.
 
Neither spoke after that.
The silence stretched, filling every inch of the small apartment.
 
Ravi leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the window where sunlight touched the empty sofa, the one where they used to sit together, talk without effort, argue without restraint, exist without fear.
 
It was an ordinary Thursday morning, but it carried the weight of everything unsaid.
 
He knew the day would not be easy.
And somehow, Priya knew it too.
Because sitting beside him again, in the same auto, in that same air, would force them both to remember everything they had broken… and everything that still refused to die quietly.

-- oOo --

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