Sana
Standing in my kitchen, my hands move on autopilot, chopping vegetables with far more force than necessary. The knife hits the board with sharp, angry smacks. A week. A whole damn week has passed since Aditya walked into my café with that ridiculous date of his. And in those seven days?Not a single text. No calls. Nothing.
I had assumed—no, forced myself to believe—that he had finally moved on. That he had finally given up.
It should have brought me relief, right? Some kind of closure. But it didn’t. Instead, I couldn’t stop glancing at my phone like a lovesick fool, hoping to see his name flash on the screen, waiting for a call, a message, anything I had no right to expect. It was pathetic, I knew that, but despite knowing how ridiculous I was being, it didn’t make the ache any easier.
As if that torture wasn’t enough, this morning, my mom casually informed me that Aditya had called, saying he was coming home for lunch today.
God. How did I even assume that stubborn man would quit? And damn me—how the hell am I supposed to face him with all these emotions clawing inside me?
My chest tightens as I toss the chopped onions into the pan. The oil sizzles, hissing just like how I want to at the moment, frustration boiling beneath my skin.
I’m still struggling to get over him when the jerk decides to storm right back in, uninvited as always. He refuses to give me a chance to even try to get a hold of my emotions, just refuses to let me breathe.
Heat coils up my spine, irritation tangling with something dangerously close to relief at seeing him. I hate this. Hate that he still has this power over me. Hate how, despite everything, my stupid heart still stutters at the thought of seeing him.
Just as I stir the curry, my mom’s voice cuts through the kitchen.
“What’s with the anger?” she asks, stepping into the kitchen with that ever-calm presence of hers. “Food needs to be cooked with love, not with…” she pauses, glancing at the death grip I’ve got on the wooden spoon, “…whatever vengeance that is.”
I let out a sharp breath, pressing my fingers against the edge of the counter. “I’m not angry.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Oh? So you always try to murder onions in my kitchen?”
I groan, looking away. “I’m just… helping as you asked me to.”
And I know she doesn’t buy it. Of course, she doesn’t. My mom has always been too damn perceptive for her own good. She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with a patience that only makes my frustration burn hotter.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Aditya coming for lunch, would it?” she says casually, like she hadn’t thrown a bomb at me.
I still, my hands tightening around the spoon. My heartbeat falters at the mention of his name.
“Why is he even coming?” I ask, turning to her and trying to sound indifferent but failing miserably. “Doesn’t he have better places to be?”
“He called this morning,” she says simply, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. This was Aditya. Stubborn, insistent, never willing to let go even when it was the most reasonable thing to do.
I scoff, stirring the pan a little too aggressively. “Ya, right.”
Mom just smiles, shaking her head. “You act like you hate that he’s coming, but despite all your huffing and puffing, you care more than you’re willing to admit. See? Even your hands are shaking, beta.” She reaches forward, gently prying the spoon from my grip. “Whatever this is between you and Aditya… you need to figure it out.”
“There is nothing between us. Stop reading between the lines that don’t even exist.”
She laughs softly, patting my cheeks. “Well, why do I find that hard to believe.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she shakes her head. “But that conversation is for another day. For now, let’s focus on not burning lunch. It would be a shame if he came all this way only for you to serve him charcoal curry.”
She simply smiles knowingly before turning her focus back to the gravy. And that only ramps up my agitation. Because in less than an hour, Aditya will be here. And the worst part? I have no damn idea what I’m going to do when I see him.
I narrow my eyes at her. “It’s better if we just cancel this whole ridiculous idea of calling him for lunch.”
She shakes her head and gives me a pointed look. “Speaking of which, go and check the flowers on the dining table. Make sure they’re fresh.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “I’m not doing any such thing!” I snap. “He doesn’t deserve such a welcome.”
She raises her brows. “Excuse me?”
“What? You’re acting like he’s some royal guest. Why go through all this effort?” I gesture wildly at the kitchen, where a variety of dishes are bubbling away on the stove. “And now you want me to decorate the table like it’s Diwali or something. For what? For him?”
