He scoffs. “Bro, how do you eat banana in yourraita? Banana, man. It’s supposed to have onions. Tomatoes. You’re a menace.”
I huff a laugh. Whatever. I like it.
Sheused to make it. Sweet banana raita. Weird, yeah. Buthers. Greesha had this habit of turning the oddest things into comfort food. She lived in the kitchen. For me.
Fuck.
And now Vikram is trying to perfect it for my sake.
“It’s not even fully sweet,” I mutter. “It’ssaltyand sweet. It’s a masterpiece, okay?”
“Eat what we made, you asshole!” he snaps, but it’s playful.
Which means he’s been watching me. Reading my moods.
And yeah... I’ve been different lately.
Lighter. Looser.
Almost like I’m breathing again.
Because knowing the love of your life isn’t dead will do that to you.
My therapist says I shouldn’t hinge my emotional well-being ononefact.
Well, fuck that.
I will.
She didn’t die thinking I was a bastard.
She’s alive. I have time. Not to win her back—I’m notthatdelusional.
But I can make sure she knows.
That I love her.
That she’s not second to me. Then she can rest well finding someone who puts her first. Besides me.
Dinner ends. Ishika shuffles off to bed—pregnancy’s been knocking her flat these days—and Vikram keeps throwing me side-eyes like he’s waiting for a moment.
He gets it. Something’s shifted.
We’re camped on the couch, PlayStation controllers in hand. After the FIFA game ends and I toss mine aside, he doesn’t even pretend to wait.
He stares.
“What is it?” he asks, voice raw. “I’m scared, Viko. You seem... exactly like how you were before...”
My stomach plummets. My eyes widen at his insinuation. Fuck. Was this how I’d been before I swallowed those stupid pills?Fucking hell.
“No, no, no,” I rush out. “Vicky, I swear—I’m not going there again.”
His shoulders drop—barely. He doesn’t believe me yet.
“You sure?” he whispers. “Because I can help. I’ll always help. Just... please...”
His voice breaks. And it guts me.
