02-11-2025, 09:59 PM
Scene: Thursday Morning – Breakfast Before the Visit
The clock had just crossed nine, the steady tick marking another moment passing by. The morning light filled the living room softly, filling the space with a warm glow, as it filtered through the cream curtains, spreading its quiet, peaceful hue across the dining table.
The faint, comforting smell of roasted dosa batter and fresh chutney drifted through the air, simple, homely, and familiar.
Priya moved around the kitchen counter, her movements measured, graceful, and controlled. Each action, every gesture, was executed with deliberate calm, an elegance that seemed effortless, as if she was practicing a routine that had been rehearsed for years.
Her saree was a soft, pale green cotton, bordered with a delicate golden trim that caught the morning light every time she turned. Her hair was tied in a low bun, the soft strands near her temples framing her face, adding a quiet vulnerability to her composed expression.
Ravi sat at the table, pretending to scroll through his phone but really watching her from the corner of his eye. Even now, after everything that had happened, he couldn’t stop noticing her. Her presence still felt magnetic, like an unshakable force that held his attention.
The faint chime of her bangles as she moved, the way her wrist curved so naturally as she set the bowl of sambar down. The calm efficiency in her movements, neither hurried nor hesitant, made everything around her feel still, like the world slowed down for a moment when she was near.
She placed the plate before him and said quietly, almost absent-mindedly, “Eat before it turns cold.”
Her tone was polite, neutral. Not warm, but not cold either. Just… normal. That was the word that hung between them, like a shield they had both learned to hold up, a kind of emotional armor that kept everything else at bay.
Ravi nodded, his voice soft. “Okay, Didi.”
He began to eat, though the food tasted like nothing. The flavors blurred, drowned out by the heavy silence that seemed to fill the room more than the morning light.
There was a distance between them now, thick and unspoken, but it wasn’t awkward. Not the kind of uncomfortable silence that makes you shift in your seat. It was just there, familiar in its own way, a wall they had both learned to live with, even if neither of them wanted it.
His eyes wandered back to her again. She sat opposite him, her posture straight and composed, her fingers delicately tearing small pieces of idli. The green of her saree seemed to mirror the calmness of her complexion, the quiet grace she carried effortlessly.
When she glanced down at her plate, the faintest shadow of her lashes fell softly across her cheeks.
The clock had just crossed nine, the steady tick marking another moment passing by. The morning light filled the living room softly, filling the space with a warm glow, as it filtered through the cream curtains, spreading its quiet, peaceful hue across the dining table.
The faint, comforting smell of roasted dosa batter and fresh chutney drifted through the air, simple, homely, and familiar.
Priya moved around the kitchen counter, her movements measured, graceful, and controlled. Each action, every gesture, was executed with deliberate calm, an elegance that seemed effortless, as if she was practicing a routine that had been rehearsed for years.
Her saree was a soft, pale green cotton, bordered with a delicate golden trim that caught the morning light every time she turned. Her hair was tied in a low bun, the soft strands near her temples framing her face, adding a quiet vulnerability to her composed expression.
Ravi sat at the table, pretending to scroll through his phone but really watching her from the corner of his eye. Even now, after everything that had happened, he couldn’t stop noticing her. Her presence still felt magnetic, like an unshakable force that held his attention.
The faint chime of her bangles as she moved, the way her wrist curved so naturally as she set the bowl of sambar down. The calm efficiency in her movements, neither hurried nor hesitant, made everything around her feel still, like the world slowed down for a moment when she was near.
She placed the plate before him and said quietly, almost absent-mindedly, “Eat before it turns cold.”
Her tone was polite, neutral. Not warm, but not cold either. Just… normal. That was the word that hung between them, like a shield they had both learned to hold up, a kind of emotional armor that kept everything else at bay.
Ravi nodded, his voice soft. “Okay, Didi.”
He began to eat, though the food tasted like nothing. The flavors blurred, drowned out by the heavy silence that seemed to fill the room more than the morning light.
There was a distance between them now, thick and unspoken, but it wasn’t awkward. Not the kind of uncomfortable silence that makes you shift in your seat. It was just there, familiar in its own way, a wall they had both learned to live with, even if neither of them wanted it.
His eyes wandered back to her again. She sat opposite him, her posture straight and composed, her fingers delicately tearing small pieces of idli. The green of her saree seemed to mirror the calmness of her complexion, the quiet grace she carried effortlessly.
When she glanced down at her plate, the faintest shadow of her lashes fell softly across her cheeks.
.
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