Shoutout to unheard_tales for her constant support in this story... ❤️❤️❤️

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Priya opened her eyes at the ray of sunlight. Her head was rested on his chest and her hand on his abdomen.

The room was dim only a small ray of light that woke her up entered through the curtains. The air smelled damp and muddy.

He was in his deep sleep with his chest moving up and down in rhythm. It's not his face or appearance that impressed her; it's his behaviour and softness.

Not all men.... she thought to herself.

When her own father was against her, Deepak put her aspirations first. She was glad that she could be true and loyal to him. No more secrets or rush between them.

No more hesitations to start their life.

Even though he didn't say anything, he showed his support. She could acknowledge that the weight of the situation was heavy... He could have told her to go away.... He could have been disgusted by a spoiled woman like her.

He didn't...

The thing is, she never tried to impress him or repay his kindness. She used to believe that her parents would support her if she was a good child or an obedient adult. She was the class topper till 10th grade after which her life tore apart.

Her parents were indifferent. They never looked at her for who she was. She became indifferent to Deepak too... Just like her parents....

The thought itself made her tear up.

Deepak stretched his hand and turned to the other side. Still sleeping....

She stood from the bed, not to disturb him and pushed her blanket over him. She walked to the balcony - Their little romantic setup.

The chairs were damp due to rain and dew. She wiped the water and sat under the cloudy sky.

Her mother wanted her to do kitchen chores instead of studying, being a future wife/homemaker. It raged at her a lot. She used to study about Kalpana Chawla, Sunita Verma, Sania Mirza, Aishwarya Rai but she couldn't even dream about getting a job.

Girls like her had only one fate: to be a housewife and hear all the taunts from husband and in-laws. To make babies and hear words like 'she is simply at home...'

She broke out of that bubble by becoming a teacher. Just for financial independence. Her income was Rs.20,000 per month. She saved it to learn formal kathak and open her own academy.

Had she been in the village itself, she would never dream or dare. It was very tough for her to postpone her marriage after 25.

Deepak...

He wasn't handsome.. She didn't feel butterflies or jitters.... But he brought peace. Days with Deepak weren't toxic.

She lived freely. Lived like a human being. He helped her in whatever way possible. He waited for her....

Now, even after knowing the truth, he still supports her.

She never felt happiness in her home. Now, Deepak was there to pour love and care... He wouldn't snatch away her happiness and peace.

He would wait for her to become normal... And she can't wait to start her family with him.

She wanted to have at least 3 kids and grow them to be responsible adults who respected all forms of life - humans or not; irrespective of their gender, race, age.

Her eyes welled up, not from pain but from the overwhelming happiness that awaited her from that day.

He listened to her words. He understood her silence. He even noticed her eyes and the story behind those tears.

He didn't do more or less. He did optimally. He did what she wanted.

Gentle. Caring.

Not every man turns into a monster behind closed doors.

He walked to the balcony, stretching his hand and yawning, "Good morning!!!"

She walked to him and hugged him, "Morning to you too..."

He rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, then pressed the bridge of his nose. His movements were sluggish, weary. His eyes were red, his nose a shade darker than usual. He winced a little, resting his palm flat on his head.

"Deepak... Are you okay?" she asked him meekly.

He didn't respond immediately. He looked at her, then away.

Then, with barely a whisper, he said, "Headache. It's killing me."

She moved closer and had a look at him - he looked tired, unwell, but more than that, there was something muted in him.

A kind of numbness that hadn't been there yesterday.

"Do you have a fever?" she touched his forehead and cheek.

He gave a small nod. Nothing more.

Priya went to the small kitchen. Her hands moved quickly - boiling milk, mixing coffee powder with sugar. She didn't want to disturb the stillness in the room. Not now.

She poured the hot milk into a coffee mug and found crocin from the first-aid box. He was sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the floor.

She didn't speak. She placed the tumbler gently in his hands, then the bowl on the side table.

"Take this," she said quietly.

Deepak looked down at the tumbler, then at her, just briefly. "Hmm," he murmured, and took a slow sip.

His hands were warm but slightly trembling. Priya placed her palm lightly on his forehead again - warm, but not burning.

Just a low-grade fever, perhaps.

"We can stay in today," she said, crouching again near him. "No need to go out. I'll cook something simple here. Porridge maybe."

He didn't answer. Just kept sipping.

After a pause, he said, eyes still downcast, "Hot... bath."

She nodded. "Yeah. Can I join you? Not in a romantic way... maybe to help you-"

"You... stay away," he said softly, almost apologetically. "Cold might spread to you too. We have two more days."

She swallowed. "Okay."

There was no rejection in his voice, but it still pricked. Not because he pushed her away, but because he was no longer quite present. Somewhere else, his mind was suspended - floating in the space between what he'd learned and what he felt about it.

He walked to the bathroom, not meeting her eyes.

The door clicked shut.

Priya sat back on the edge of the bed. The tumbler was still warm where his fingers had touched it. She touched it absently, staring at the closed door.

He was silent, not chirping as he usually does. Maybe he was ill and tired.
She didn't know how he coped with fevers and headaches. Something in him had folded inward. Quietly.

She took a deep breath and turned back to the kitchen, pulling up a video on her phone.

"Porridge for fever recovery using rice, pepper corn and cumin."

*****

The porridge was warm, mildly spiced with crushed pepper, cumin, and a pinch of turmeric - a simple, healing bowl meant for sore throats and tired bodies. Priya held the tray carefully as she walked back into the room, steam curling gently into the air.

The bed was slightly messy, the pillows pushed up into uneven mounds, the blanket crumpled near Deepak's waist. He was sitting up, back against the headboard, his eyes half-lidded and forehead still faintly red. The quilt was pulled up to his hips, covering him like a shield, and his palms rested limply on either side.

She placed the tray on the side table and sat beside him, the steel bowl of porridge cupped gently in one hand, the spoon in the other.

"Eat a little," she said softly, without expectation.

He didn't reach for the bowl.

Priya dipped the spoon in, blew lightly on the hot porridge, and brought it to his lips.

He opened his mouth slightly, took a small spoonful, and swallowed slowly.

His throat moved with effort.

She waited. Then another spoon.

And another.

Each time, he ate without complaint, but also without energy - his eyes not quite meeting hers, his face expressionless except for the occasional wince.

She kept her hand steady, patient, focused on his comfort. It was something instinctive - this act of feeding. Somewhere between duty and love.

After a few more spoonfuls, she asked gently, "How is it? Okay?"

She looked at him, hoping - just a little - that he would give her something. A nod. A word. Maybe even a soft smile.

He didn't.

Instead, he murmured, "Can't taste anything. Throat is so bad."

Priya's smile faltered for a second, then returned faintly. "It's okay. Fever can do that," she said, her voice light, understanding.

He didn't reply.

She wiped the edge of his mouth with the end of a soft towel. A drop of porridge had spilled onto the blanket, and she cleaned that too. Her movements were slow, careful - like tending to a child, or maybe a stranger. Not quite how it used to be.

She gathered the tray, stood up, and walked to the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen, she began rinsing the bowl and spoon in the small sink. The tap water ran quietly. Her fingers worked automatically, but her mind lingered in the room.

He hadn't smiled.

He hadn't looked at her.

He hadn't even tried to touch the spoon.

A quiet voice inside her whispered: Maybe... it's because you told him the truth.

Maybe the weight of it... changed something.

Maybe now he sees her differently.

Her chest tightened, but she shook her head quickly.

"No, no," she whispered to herself. He's sick. It's just the fever. The exhaustion. Any person would behave like that.

She closed the tap, placed the vessels on the rack to dry, and took a deep breath.

When she returned to the room, he was lying down again, eyes closed, arms pulled under the blanket. His face was turned slightly toward the window.

She handed him the second tablet quietly. He opened his eyes just enough to take it with a sip of water from the tumbler on the side table.

He didn't say anything.

She didn't expect him to.

She pulled the curtains halfway to let the light dim.

As she stepped back, her eyes fell on the bed - the twisted sheets, the half-folded blanket, the stillness between them.

It reminded her of their relationship right now - not broken, not whole, just... untucked.

She turned and left the room, letting him rest.

Outside, the mist still clung to the windows, softening the morning into silence. Priya sat on the couch, folded her legs beneath her and leaned her head back.

She had told him her truth. Now she would wait.

For his final stand.

*****
The sun hid behind the clouds, yet nightfall was nowhere near. The room was tranquil, nothing shifted.

Deepak stirred from his sleep.

His eyes fluttered open to the pale light that slanted in through the gauzy curtains. The weight in his head had eased a little with a dull pressure behind his eyes and along his temples.

The blanket was bunched around his waist, the sheets slightly twisted. He'd been sweating, maybe. Or tossing in his sleep.

He sat up slowly, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. A trace of soreness lingered behind his sinuses but it was better now.

Then he looked toward the living room.

Priya was on the sofa, leaned sideways against a cushion, her legs tucked up under her. Her head rested against the side of the couch, her braid slipping forward across her shoulder. She was asleep - not deeply, but enough to have lost track of time. Her arms were loosely folded, and her breathing was soft.

He watched her for a long second, unmoving.

Something in his chest tightened, like guilt and confusion tangled together.

She had spent all morning taking care of him, with gentle hands and warm porridge, without expecting a single word in return.

And he had barely said a thing. His body had been feverish, yes. But his silence had not been just about the illness.

It was still sinking in - the story she had told him the day before.

And he didn't know how to carry it yet. Not fully.

He took a breath, then called softly, "Priya..."

She didn't stir.

"Priya," he repeated, a little louder.

Her eyes fluttered open immediately. She looked around in mild panic, then saw him awake and sitting up. In a flash, she was on her feet and at his side.

"Deepak? Are you okay?" she asked, her voice breathless. "Anything happened? Did your fever come back?"

He shook his head, slowly. "No. I'm okay now."

She bent forward, placing the back of her hand on his forehead to feel his temperature. It was warm, but not alarming.

She studied his face for signs - red eyes, flushed cheeks; there was more color now than in the morning.

"Throat pain?" she asked gently.

"A little," he murmured. "But better."

She gave a relieved exhale. "That's good... That's really good."

He looked out towards the window, where the sky was greyish but not cloudy.

"We could go out... maybe," he said slowly, as if testing the words. "Just a walk. Like we planned yesterday."

Priya blinked.

Then a slow smile spread across her face, blooming so naturally that it caught him off guard. Her shoulders relaxed, her eyes lit up. The tension that had been sitting there - quiet, coiled, waiting for the day to pass - suddenly eased.

"Really?" she asked. "You're sure?"

He gave a slight nod. "I am a little weak but outside air might help."

She looked so happy in that moment. Not the overjoyed kind of happiness, but the quiet kind - the one that says thank you for not pulling away today.

"Then I'll get ready. Just fifteen minutes! Or... maybe twenty, if I take time with my hair," she added with a soft laugh, already walking toward the room.

He didn't say anything, but he watched her disappear through the bedroom door.

Then he leaned back on the pillow and let out a small breath.

The bed was still messy - pillows scattered, the blanket half-folded at the edge. His tea cup from earlier sat cold on the side table. The room looked lived-in, a little unkempt, a little unsettled. Like his thoughts.

But she hadn't stopped being kind. Even when he didn't speak. Even when he didn't know how to respond to her past.

She hadn't asked anything in return. Maybe that's why he wanted to walk today.

Not to fix anything. Not to understand everything.

Just... to begin again. Quietly.

And maybe that was enough for her.