The fourth week of Raj's return had settled into a suffocating rhythm. Each morning, I woke to the weight of my husband's arm draped across my waist, and each morning, I fought the urge to fling it off. I had stopped wearing the bold blouses and shorter sarees that Aryan had encouraged me to embrace. Instead, I retreated into the same modest cotton sarees I'd worn before—pale greens, muted blues, nothing that would draw attention. The bindi on my forehead felt like a brand, the sindoor in my hair parting a scarlet accusation.

My phone sat in my purse like a ticking bomb. Every vibration sent my heart into my throat, but I couldn't check it while Raj hovered around the house, while Rohan chattered about his summer plans with friends—including Aryan's name, which made my stomach clench. I had managed only a handful of replies to Aryan's texts over the month: short, clipped responses that said nothing. "Can't talk now." "He's home." "I'll try later." But later never came, and I knew each unanswered message was a wound.