You should try dieting.
I laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. I’ve been trying my whole life. The wind brushes past me again, cooler this time, and I shiver.
Why does it still work? Why, after therapy and progress and self-talk and knowing better, does one sentence from the wrong person still manage to dig its claws in? I hate that part of myself. The part that immediately wonders if I should skip dessert tomorrow. If I should cancel breakfast. If I should “just be careful” for a while.
I hate how quickly shame masquerades as responsibility. Maybe she’s right, whispers the traitorous voice. Maybe he deserves better. Someone… lighter. Easier. Someone who doesn’t need painkillers and heating pads and reassurance.
Someone who doesn’t take up this much space. My chest tightens.
No. This is what she wants. I know this. She wants me smaller. Quieter. Unsure. And the worst part? For a few terrifying seconds— I almost let her have it.
I straighten slowly, drawing in a deep breath that burns my lungs a little. The night hasn’t changed. The stars are still there. The city is still glowing. I am still here.
I don’t know yet how to shut her voice out completely.
But I know this much: I won’t let it be the only one I hear.
Still… when I finally turn away from the railing, my steps back inside feel heavier than when I came out.
And I hate her for that.
The hurt in her eyes
DHRUV
Something is off.
I’ve been circling that thought for days now, like a tongue worrying at a sore tooth. I keep telling myself I’m imagining it, that I’m overthinking—because I do that when it comes to her, I know I do—but the feeling refuses to leave. It sits heavy in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Sitara has changed.
Not in some dramatic, obvious way. Not in a way that would make it easy to confront or fix. It’s quieter than that. Subtler. Like a room that looks the same but feels colder the moment you step inside.
I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on a file I haven’t actually read in the last ten minutes. The words blur together, meaningless. My pen rests idle between my fingers.
Did I push too hard?
The question sneaks in, unwelcome but persistent.
Movie night flashes through my mind—how she clung to my arm, how warm she felt pressed against me, how natural it all seemed in that moment. I’d enjoyed it more than I should have, I know that. Maybe I let myself forget that this is still new for her. That comfort for me doesn’t automatically mean comfort for her.
I hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable.
God, the idea alone makes my jaw tighten.
These days, she’s asleep by the time I return to our room. Curled up on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, face turned away from the door. I stand there longer than necessary sometimes, just watching her breathe, wondering if I should wake her, wondering if I should leave her alone.
I always choose the latter.
In the mornings, I wake up alone, the bed cool on her side, sheets neatly arranged as if she was never there. By the time I reach the dining room for breakfast, she’s already seated—quiet, polite, offering smiles that don’t quite reach her eyes.
She doesn’t talk much anymore.
Not the way she used to. Not with that animated sparkle, those rambling explanations that jumped from thought to thought. Now she listens more than she speaks, nods at the right moments, eats carefully. Too carefully.
It’s like her spark has dimmed.
I grip the edge of my desk, the wood biting into my palm.
