22-08-2026, 02:50 AM
The apartment felt too quiet, the only sounds the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside. I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and studied her profile. She had always been meticulous about her appearance—every pleat perfect, every button fastened, every strand of hair in place. Tonight, she looked like someone who had dressed in a hurry after being thoroughly undone. The contrast was jarring, and it left a small, sour taste in my mouth that I couldn’t quite name.
She set the bottle down and turned to face me, forcing another smile. “You should get some sleep too. College tomorrow.” Her voice was gentle, but there was an edge of dismissal in it, as though she wanted to end the conversation before it could go anywhere uncomfortable.
I didn’t move. “You look… different,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Her smile faltered. She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and the movement pulled the saree even lower, exposing more of the black lace and the faint red mark near her breast. She didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she was too tired to care. “Long day,” she repeated, as though that explained everything.
I nodded slowly, but the gesture felt hollow. The evidence was right there in front of me—the disheveled hair, the missing lipstick, the marks on her skin, the unfamiliar cologne, the way her clothes refused to sit properly after whatever had happened to them. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions; I told myself there could be innocent explanations for all of it. But the grudge was already forming, small and sharp, lodged somewhere beneath my ribs. It wasn’t yet suspicion, not fully, but it was the beginning of something that would only grow if left unchecked.
She set the bottle down and turned to face me, forcing another smile. “You should get some sleep too. College tomorrow.” Her voice was gentle, but there was an edge of dismissal in it, as though she wanted to end the conversation before it could go anywhere uncomfortable.
I didn’t move. “You look… different,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Her smile faltered. She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and the movement pulled the saree even lower, exposing more of the black lace and the faint red mark near her breast. She didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she was too tired to care. “Long day,” she repeated, as though that explained everything.
I nodded slowly, but the gesture felt hollow. The evidence was right there in front of me—the disheveled hair, the missing lipstick, the marks on her skin, the unfamiliar cologne, the way her clothes refused to sit properly after whatever had happened to them. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions; I told myself there could be innocent explanations for all of it. But the grudge was already forming, small and sharp, lodged somewhere beneath my ribs. It wasn’t yet suspicion, not fully, but it was the beginning of something that would only grow if left unchecked.
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