Deepak sat still on the terrace platform, his elbows on his knees, palms pressed together under his chin. His eyes were fixed on the floor, but his mind was nowhere near.

The events from the morning kept replaying in his head like a broken reel-the scream, the locked bathroom, the scalding steam, the way her skin turned red when he touched her, and her limp, burnt hand in his. He couldn't breathe then, and even now, hours later, the tightness around his chest hadn't eased.

He hadn't gone to work, he couldn't leave her alone in the state. He gave her two sleeping pills and came upstairs to breathe freely.

He couldn't turn to any other person than Harini. Without a second thought he dropped all of his agony in a call, "She fainted yesterday. In the kitchen. I didn't even touch her, Harini. I just said something, playfully... and she just... panicked. She cried, told me not to hurt her. Then this morning, she... she locked herself in the bathroom. She turned on the hot shower and just stood under it. I could hear her crying, shouting in pain. When she didn't respond, I broke the door. Her skin, Harini... it was burning."

Harini's voice was not coming out in shock, "Deepak, something's really wrong."

"I didn't even touch her," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "She was trembling like I was some monster."

Priya didn't want him to touch her.

He repeated the same words, "I think she was trying to... scrub herself, like she wanted to erase something. She was crying, shaking, completely out of herself."

There was a long pause on Harini's end.

"She's going through something very traumatic, Deepak," she said carefully. "This isn't just about being shy or introverted. It's PTSD."

Deepak blinked. The word felt foreign in his ears. "PTSD? Like... soldiers get?"

Harini sighed, "Not just soldiers. Anyone who's been through a traumatic event. Abuse, assault, violence-anything. Priya is reacting to triggers. Your voice, your presence in certain moments... it's not you she's reacting to. It's something-or someone-else from her past."

Deepak stared down at his hands. "But... if I take her to a psychiatrist, won't it... won't people think she's mentally unstable?"

"Deepak," Harini said gently but firmly. "Mental health is not a character flaw. You're not sending her to an asylum. You're getting her help. If she had a broken leg, would you hesitate to take her to a doctor because people might judge?"

He didn't respond, just bit his lower lip, thinking.

"She deserves healing, Deepak. And you, as her husband, are in the right place to help her start. Take her to a therapist-someone experienced in trauma care. Let her speak to someone neutral. You can't fix everything alone, and that's okay."

He nodded slowly, even though she couldn't see. "Yeah. I guess I was scared. That it would make things worse. That she'd think I'm treating her like she's... broken."

"She already feels broken," Harini said gently. "You taking her to therapy doesn't break her more-it gives her a chance to be whole again."

Deepak looked up at the scorching sky. Somewhere far away, an ambulance blarred the siren, some cars horned. A plane flew slowly across the clouds.

"She had cooked me some paneer sabji and chapathi last night," he said, his voice suddenly tender. "She must've been excited. She was tapping her feet while cooking. And it all came crashing down."

Harini explained in a calm tone, "That's trauma, Deepak. Healing isn't a straight road. There will be days when she opens the door, and days she slams it shut. But if you're steady enough... she'll start trusting that the door won't hurt when she opens it."

He smiled faintly, tiredly. "You should be a therapist."

"I read enough books to pretend," she joked lightly, then added, "Will you talk to her? About therapy?"

"Yes," Deepak said. "Not today. But maybe... this weekend. I'll ask her gently. I just want her to feel safe."

Harini's voice softened, "That's all you need to do."

He sat there for a long time after the call ended, phone resting on his lap, hot air brushing against his cheeks. It would be a bad idea to talk to their parents about it.

She was his wife and he had to do something about her pain.

*****

The house was wrapped in a kind of silence that clung to the walls like damp cloth. It wasn't peaceful-it was the quiet that follows after a doom.

The living room lights were dimmed to a soft golden hue, casting long, tired shadows across the floor. The fan spun slowly above, its rhythmic whir not enough to dispel the heaviness that had settled over the space.

Deepak stood at the entrance of Priya's room, hand still on the doorknob. It was around 7 p.m., and the day had faded into an overcast dusk.

There were no birds chirping outside, no faint noises of pressure cookers whistling from nearby flats, not even the distant clang of vessels being washed-just the soft groan of the ceiling fan and the occasional creak of wood as the house shifted.

His house usually had the life after she started cooking but again everything looked erased.

The door was already half-open when he gently pushed it further, the hinge creaking with a tired sigh. Her room, usually bathed in a warm amber glow from her bedside lamp, was nearly dark-just the faintest trace of light spilling in from the hall behind him.

Priya was lying on the bed, her back to him, bundled under her shawl like a child hiding from the world. Her hair was loose, splayed over the pillow, and her frame barely moved, save for the slow rise and fall of her breath.

She hadn't stirred when he walked in. Not when the door clicked. Not even when the wooden floor creaked under his careful steps.

Deepak swallowed.

There was something in that stillness that hurt more than shouting or tears. It was the absence of all responses.

She was there-but not present. A soft shape in a quiet room. Her silence had become a wall again. After days of delicate breakthroughs, warm food, terrace walks, half-smiles, and whispered hopes-here they were.

Back to this silence.

"I'm thinking of ordering something," he said, his voice low and hesitant. "Maybe noodles... or that pasta you liked that day?"

No reply.

Only the fan answered him, its shadow spinning slowly on the walls.

"I didn't eat last night," he continued, trying to keep his voice steady. "You didn't either. I know you didn't. You just..." He didn't finish.

The memory of her curled under hot water, screaming as if being peeled out of her own skin, still clung to his mind like fog.

He looked at her-still no movement. No twitch. No sign that she was even listening.

But she was breathing.

That, at least, was something.

He took a slow step into the room, then another. Stopped a few feet from the bed, careful not to startle her.

"Priya..." he said gently. "Can I just sit here for a bit?"

No response.

He lowered himself slowly to the floor beside the bed, resting his back against the wall. The mattress was close enough that if he reached, he could brush her blanket with his fingers.

But he didn't. Not this time. She had flinched the last time he tried to touch her.

The hunger in his stomach twisted, not from appetite but from fatigue. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since either of them had eaten anything. Even the aroma of food felt like a stranger now. The kitchen had been untouched since yesterday morning, and now its silence added another layer to the house's hush.

He looked around the room-her shelf had a row of books, mostly unread since she came. A framed picture of a dance pose, probably taken at some college fest, stood turned slightly inward on the desk. The curtains swayed faintly, touched by the breeze from the slightly open window.

The whole room felt like it was paused, suspended in a moment that refused to pass.

Deepak let his head rest against the wall. His eyes burned-not from tears, but from exhaustion and worry and a helplessness he didn't know how to express.

He wanted to do something-anything. Bring her water. Heat up milk. Say the right words. But how do you talk to someone who has locked herself in her own skin?

For a moment, he wondered-had she eaten something secretly? Drunk water? Slept properly? Did she cry under the blanket again?

He remembered her smile from just two nights ago, when she proposed the idea of kathak to him, anxiously watching his face for reply. That radiant flicker of pride and joy. And then... now this.

The light in her had suddenly died out.

He turned his gaze back to her, watching her form rise and fall gently. At least she was alive. He hated himself for even thinking that-but a small, terrified part of him had feared worse. After what happened in the bathroom, anything seemed possible.

"I'll be in the hall," he said softly, standing up. "I'll order food. If you feel like... just text me, okay?"

He waited one more moment, half-hoping she'd say something. Anything.

But she didn't.

He turned, walked out, and gently shut the door behind him.

The living room felt colder now. Emptier. The overhead light casted tired reflections on the floor tiles. He stood still for a moment before walking to the kitchen, taking his phone out.

He selected Kulcha, Alfredo pasta and Malai broccoli and hit order. Delivery in 32 minutes.

He sat on the couch and looked toward her closed door.

It was strange, he thought-how a house can be full of things and yet feel completely hollow.

And how silence can echo louder than any sound.

*****
The clock ticked past 8 p.m. Deepak switched the light on in Priya's room. She lay on her side, back facing him, curled up like a comma under the blanket. She didn't stir, didn't flinch.

He placed the large brown paper bag on the floor, unzipping the containers one by one - kulchas wrapped in foil, a steaming box of Alfredo pasta, and a delicate container of broccoli malai curry, its creamy richness letting out an aromatic trail. He set the water bottle beside the bed and pulled out two disposable plates.

Hunger wasn't a sensation he could feel anymore, when he was constantly tangled in worry. Still, the smell of food made his stomach churn gently, reminding him of how long it had been since anything normal had happened in this house.

Sitting on the floor, he placed one plate in front of him and began serving portions from each dish. The sound of foil crinkling and the mild clink of the spoon against the containers broke the silence.

Priya slowly became aware of the smells wafting into the air. Her body was exhausted - from crying, from screaming internally, from shutting down everything inside her. But even through her numbness, the aroma stirred something: warmth, familiarity... kindness. She didn't want to eat. She didn't feel worthy of care.

And yet, she also couldn't bear to make him feel abandoned again - not after the rooftop talk, not after he held her hand through the storm.

She slowly sat up on the bed, the blanket slipping from her shoulder. Her hair was tousled and her eyes hollow, but there was a flicker of light in her gaze.

Deepak looked up just then - and the way his eyes softened, the brief, flickering smile that tugged at his lips - it was like a tired sunflower turning toward the sun.

"You can eat on the bed," he said, his voice low and calm, as he extended the plate toward her. "No need to come down. I'll sit here."

Priya hesitated, her fingers curling and uncurling on the bedsheet. She looked at him - really looked - and saw the quiet gentleness in his eyes, the patient way he was waiting, offering, not demanding. The lines of fatigue on his face made him look older than he was. But his gaze was that of a man still holding on to hope, still choosing kindness even when it wasn't returned.

She reached forward and took the plate wordlessly, resting it on her lap. The first bite sat untouched as she looked at him again.

"I want a divorce," she whispered.

The word floated in the air between them like a feather with a hidden blade. He didn't move, just stared at her with the same gentleness - but now layered with something more - hurt, maybe. Or quiet devastation. He slowly put his plate down.

Her throat was dry. She hadn't meant to say it like that - so flat, so unceremonious. But the words had been festering in her chest like steam under a lid.

It needed to come out, and it did - unpolished, raw.

"I can't keep pretending that this is okay. I don't even know who I am anymore," she said quietly but this time, there was weight in her voice. Not sharp. Not distant.

Just truth.

Deepak didn't move. The word landed softly, yet felt like a thunderclap. His fingers paused at the edge of the foil wrap. For a second, the room seemed to still again, the fan slowing, the night air thickening.

Priya looked down at the plate on her lap, then back up at him, her eyes beginning to glisten. "I mean it, Deepak. Not because you've done anything wrong. You've been... everything I never expected. Kind. Patient. Gentle. That's what makes this even harder."

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came.

She continued, her voice shaking. "I can't give you what you deserve. I'm scared all the time. I don't know why I react the way I do. I'm just... not okay. And I don't want to ruin your life with my brokenness."

Deepak finally found his voice, low and careful. "You're not ruining anything. You're just hurting. There's a difference."

"But I don't want to keep hurting you in the process. You deserve someone who can take care of you.. one who can love you... I can never be the one." She nodded her head with tears.

He looked at her hunched shoulders. "You're not hurting me, Priya. You're just surviving. And I... I just want to be there while you figure that out. I want to be with you till you start to live."

"I'm broken, Deepak. It's beyond repair," she says with a bent head.

"No, you're hurt. That's not the same." he said calmly.

The silence returned, not heavy this time - more like a pause before a page turns. He chose not to fight it.