The door closes softly behind him. The silence that follows feels heavier than anything he said. For a moment I simply stand there, staring at the closed door. Seven days. Seven days before this house disappears. Seven days before Neel loses the only home he remembers. Seven days before I loose Papa's shop, the only place where I can still smell him. My legs suddenly feel weak. I sit down slowly on the edge of the sofa. The room blurs slightly as I press my palms against my eyes.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
“Didi?” Neel’s voice is soft. I lower my hands immediately. He’s standing beside the table now, his notebook forgotten.
“Was that the bank uncle again?” he asks.
I force a smile. “Yes.”
“What did he say?” I open my mouth. Then close it again. How do you explain financial collapse to a seven-year-old?
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.” He studies my face carefully. He's only seven but he always know when I lie. His small brows draw together.
“Are we going to lose the house?” The question hits me like a punch.
“No,” I say quickly. “No, of course not.”
“But you’re crying.” I touch my cheek instinctively. I don’t even realize the tears have escaped. Neel walks closer. His small hand reaches for mine.
“Don’t worry, Didi,” he says seriously. I blink at him.
“What?”
He nods with determination. “I’ll find some work.” For a moment my brain refuses to process the words.
“You’ll… what?”
“I’ll work,” he repeats confidently. “Like Papa used to.”
My chest feels like it’s cracking open. “You’re seven,” I whisper.
“I can still help.” His small fingers tighten around mine. “I’ll take care of you.”
And suddenly—I can’t breathe. Because he says it with such complete sincerity. Such absolute belief. Like he truly thinks that’s his responsibility. Like he truly believes he should be protecting me. My little brother. My seven-year-old brother. The boy who still sleeps with a nightlight because he’s scared of the dark.
My vision blurs again. I pull him into my arms before he can see the tears properly. “Oh, Neel,” I whisper against his hair. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
But inside my mind something solidifies. A decision. A line I’m crossing. Because the truth is simple. I would do anything for this boy. Anything. My hand slips slowly into my purse resting on the sofa beside me.
My fingers search through the small pocket until they find the card.
A simple white business card. The name printed neatly in black ink. Aditya Gupta. My heart beats faster. The memory of the bookstore flashes through my mind. His calm voice. His ridiculous proposal.
Marry me for a year.
Solve your financial problem.
I stare at the card. Then at Neel. Then back at the card. My fingers pick up my phone slowly. Maybe this is insane. Maybe this is the worst decision I will ever make.
But right now—It feels like the only option left. I open the message screen. My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before typing the words.
Let’s get married.
Then I hit send.
