She leans forward without realizing it, elbows almost brushing the table, eyes bright, mouth curved into that half-smile she gets when she’s building up to the punchline. And when she finally delivers it, she laughs—sharp and sudden—and scrunches her nose like she’s proud of herself for remembering the exact words.
I signal Kartik.
He nods once and disappears.
Sitara notices immediately. Of course she does.
“Why are you smiling like that?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Am I?” I ask innocently.
“Yes,” she says. “That smug one. TheI know something you don’tsmile.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m just happy.”
She doesn’t believe me for a second.
When Kartik returns, carrying a tray covered with a neat white cloth, her back straightens. Dessert always does this to her. Anticipation shines on her face in a way she tries—and fails—to hide.
“This,” Kartik announces carefully, placing the tray down, “is a special dessert prepared today.”
Sitara’s eyes widen.
“Special?” she echoes.
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
Kartik lifts the cloth and the room goes quiet. He bows slowly and leaves the room.
Sitara stares at the plate. It’s familiar and unfamiliar at once. The shape. The colors. The careful portioning. Her gaze flickers between the tray and my face, confusion blooming first, then something softer, more fragile.
“What…?” she whispers.
I feel my chest tighten.
“I remembered,” I say, keeping my voice steady even though my heart is pounding like I’m about to confess to a crime. “You told me once how much you loved it. Kinder Joy. You said it like it was a joke, but it wasn’t.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“So I asked Kartik to help me,” I continue, words spilling now that I’ve started. “It took time. A lot of trial and error. This isn’t the same. It can’t be. But it’s safe. It’s balanced. It won’t hurt you.”
Her eyes glisten.
Panic sparks in my chest. “You don’t have to eat it,” I rush to add. “I mean—it’s okay if you don’t want to. I just thought—maybe—it could be nice to have the option. I didn’t mean to make it a thing—”
A soft, breathless laugh escapes her lips. “You’re an idiot,” she says, shaking her head.
I blink. “That’s… not reassuring.”
She stands abruptly and steps into my space, her hands curling into the front of my kurta. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone did something like this for me?”
My heart stumbles.
“I didn’t do it because I felt sorry for you,” I say immediately, an urgent need to clarify taking over me. “I did it because I wanted you to have it. There’s a difference.”
Her grip tightens.
“You spent four months,” she says quietly, “trying to recreate something just so I wouldn’t feel left out.”
