Beside me, Aditya shifts slightly. The mattress dips just enough for me to notice.
I clear my throat softly.
For a moment there’s only silence. Then his voice comes from somewhere behind me.
“For what?”
I stare at the wall.
“For making you leave your house,” I say quietly. “Your place must have been… nicer.”
There’s a small pause. Then I hear him chuckle.
The sound is soft, low enough that it almost disappears in the quiet room. “You know,” he says after a moment, “women do that every day and no one apologizes to them.”
I blink. “What?”
“Move into someone else’s house,” he explains. “Leave behind everything familiar. Learn new routines. Adjust to a new life.” His voice is thoughtful now. “And somehow it’s always treated like the most normal thing in the world.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I stay quiet.
After a moment he adds gently, “And Divya… your house is comfortable.”
I turn my head slightly on the pillow.
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.”
There’s a faint rustle of fabric as he shifts onto his side.
“I mean it.”
“How?” I ask. “It’s tiny.”
“That’s not what makes a place comfortable.”
I frown slightly. “Then what does?”
“History.” The word sits between us. “It feels lived in,” he continues. “There are photographs on the walls. Books stacked in corners. The kitchen smells like someone actually cooks there.”
I let out a small laugh.
“Khichdi doesn’t count as impressive cooking.”
“I disagree,” he says immediately. “It was good.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“I’m not.”
I glance back at him over my shoulder.
In the dim light I can barely see his face, but I can tell he’s smiling slightly.
“My mother used to say something similar,” he says after a moment.
