I laugh so hard I nearly choke. Radhika throws another cushion. This one hits me directly. Unlike Vedant I don’t have fast reflexes. “Violence,” I announce. “Witnessed in broad daylight.”
“You deserve worse,” she says.
Ishika is laughing again. Every few seconds today, she laughs. Like maybe she forgot not to. Like maybe my house feels safe enough for it. And that thought hits me harder than it should. Because I know what laughter costs some people. I know hers isn’t cheap.
Breakfast turns into tea. Tea turns into snacks. Nobody seems in a rush to end this. Even Ishika, who usually keeps one foot emotionally near the exit, looks…settled.
Not fully relaxed. But softer. She listens when Ma tells old stories about us as kids. Laughs when Radhika reenacts how I cried because a neighbor’s pet bird chased me when I was seven. “It was aggressive,” I defend.
“It was a bird,” Vedant says.
“It had intent.” Ishika wipes tears from laughing too much. Worth it. Entirely worth it. I mentally thank my seven year old self.
At one point, she gets up to help Ma clear cups despite Ma refusing. I watch them in the kitchen doorway. Ma talking. Ishika listening carefully. Then saying something that makes Ma laugh. Something catches in my chest. A sharp, strange ache. Not painful. Just intense.
A dangerous thought looms over—She looks like she belongs here. I shut that down immediately. Too soon. Too much. Too stupid. Still. When she comes back into the room my mother and her fighting who will carry the plate of biscuits like she has every right to, my family makes space for her automatically.
And maybe that’s why she looks slightly stunned for half a second before covering it.
I notice. Of course I notice. Later, when she’s putting on her shoes near the door, I walk over casually. “You survived,” I murmur.
She glances up. “Barely.”
“My family loved you.”
She snorts softly. “Your family is suspiciously nice.”
“That’s because they haven’t shown you their true forms.”
She straightens, adjusting her bag. “I saw enough.”
I grin. Then quieter, I ask, “You okay?”
Something shifts in her expression. That softness again. “Yeah,” she says after a second. “I think…”
She pauses. Then shrugs lightly. “Yeah.” It isn’t a grand confession. It isn’t poetry. But I understand anyway. She had a good time. And for her, that matters. I walk her to the door.
Radhika yells from inside, “Don’t forget Stranger Things night!”
“I won’t,” Ishika calls back.
Then she steps into the hallway. Turns once. Looks at me. “Your bird trauma explains a lot,” she says seriously.
The door closes in my face before I can respond. I stand there for a second. Then laugh. From inside, Ma calls out, “Why are you smiling alone like a fool?”
I walk back in still grinning. Because today my home felt fuller. Louder. Warmer. And the girl who once barely tolerated me laughed in my living room like she’d always been meant to.
CHAPTER 30
ARYAN
There are many things I enjoy in life.
Good coffee. My mother’s aloo paratha. Watching Australia lose. Making profit where everyone said loss was guaranteed. Irritating my siblings. And recently, with increasing consistency—Weekly update meetings with Ishika.
If anyone asks, it is because I am a responsible CEO who likes staying informed about a major expansion project.
If anyone asks honestly, it is because once a week she is required to sit across from me for at least an hour, explain things passionately, glare at me repeatedly, and pretend my existence is an inconvenience while blushing every time I push the right button.
