Good.
I let my hand linger for a moment longer than necessary, not because I’m afraid she’ll wake up, but because I want to memorize this.
I remember her when I first met her—years ago, loud and unapologetic, making jokes about her own body before anyone else could. It had unsettled me back then, not because of the humor, but because of the armor beneath it.
She had laughed first so no one else could laugh louder.
Devraj once mentioned, almost in passing, that she goes to therapy. He’d said it with pride, not pity. As if it were proof of her strength rather than something she needed to be “fixed.”
I see it now.
The difference.
The way she doesn’t tear herself down the way she used to. The way her humor has softened, turned kinder, aimed outward instead of inward.
I’m glad therapy is helping.
I’m glad she’s choosing herself.
And I’m proud of her—quietly, fiercely, in a way that doesn’t need applause.
I shift closer, careful to keep my movements slow. She murmurs something under her breath, a sound so soft it barely exists, and instinctively my hand stills.
She settles again.
I lie there beside her, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe, and think about all the things I haven’t said yet.
About how this marriage started in chaos and urgency and how, somehow, it’s already teaching me patience.
About how loving her doesn’t feel like losing control—it feels like choosing it differently.
About how tomorrow I’ll sit across from a chef and discuss chocolate like it’s a matter of state, and I won’t even feel ridiculous about it.
Because this—she—is important to me.
I turn my head back toward her, my fingers hovering just above her waist, resisting the urge to pull her closer.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to do it right.
I whisper nothing. I promise nothing out loud.
But inside, the vow is already there, steady and unshakeable.
I will learn everything I need to learn.
I will adjust, adapt, create, protect.
I will not let her feel alone in this.
And as sleep finally pulls at me too, I let myself rest beside her, knowing that some of the most important decisions of my life are being made in moments just like this—quiet, unseen, and full of love she hasn’t yet realized I’m ready to give.
Two Weeks, and a Thousand Small Things
SITARA
Two weeks.
