Rekha woke up before the sun, the way she always did.
The ceiling fan spun above her, clicking softly, as if reminding her she hadn't imagined it—what her body still ached from, what her lips still tasted.
She turned her head slowly.
The bed beside her was empty.
No warmth. No scent. Just the imprint of a body that had left quietly, as if trying not to disturb the shape he had made in her life.
She pulled the sheet up over her bare skin, not out of modesty but out of instinct. The room still felt full, as though the air hadn't cleared him yet.
The silence was different this morning.
It wasn't the kind that pressed against her chest like a weight.
It was... softer.
Not peace. But release.
Her body was sore in places that had forgotten sensation.A dull ache between her thighs. The slight sting of where his stubble had scraped her skin.But most of all, it was the echo of being wanted that lingered the loudest.
She sat up slowly, legs swinging over the side of the bed.
The clock said 5:42 a.m.
The city outside hadn't stirred yet.
Even the pigeons on the balcony railing were still curled into themselves, feathers puffed up against the dawn.
She stood, wrapped herself in her nightgown, and walked to the kitchen.
The rose was still in the glass. Slightly wilted now. But more beautiful somehow.
She touched the petals with one finger, then turned on the stove and lit the kettle.
Ashok would wake at 7.
The day would begin as usual—tea, toast, newspaper, the ritual of two people who once knew how to love each other.
Only now, she was no longer part of the performance.
She was off-script.
When she stepped into the balcony with her cup, the sky was a deep grey-blue. That in-between colour that never stayed.
She looked down.
Ishan's balcony door was closed.
No movement.
No sound.
But her heart beat faster anyway.
Because something had shifted.
She didn't feel shame.
She expected it, had rehearsed it even—how guilt would creep in, how she'd pull away from her own skin like it no longer belonged to her.
But there was none of it.
There was only this strange, frightening clarity:She had said yes.And nothing broke.Not her world. Not her body. Not even her reflection.
She cleaned the sheets before Ashok woke up.
Not because of guilt.But because some things are not meant to be shared, even with the furniture.
Ashok didn't notice anything different.
He sipped his tea, asked her to press his kurta, reminded her to pay the electricity bill.He read headlines out loud that didn't matter.He scratched his chest and yawned.
And Rekha stood there, nodding when needed, smiling faintly when appropriate, while her body still carried the weight of another man's hands.
It was like watching someone else live her life.
A ghost version of herself still pouring tea, still folding clothes, still feeding pigeons.
But the real Rekha? She was somewhere else entirely.
Ishan didn't text.
Didn't call.
Didn't knock.
By evening, she felt a strange hollowness, like the pause after a long exhale.
Had he regretted it?
Had he already filed her away—just another story for his collection?
Her fingers hovered over her phone more than once, but she never typed anything.
Because she didn't know what they were.
She didn't even know what she wanted them to be.
At 11:42 that night, the phone lit up.
Ishan: Awake?
Her heart stopped. Then tripped over itself.
She stared at the message for a full minute before replying.
Rekha: Yes.
No emoji. No punctuation.
Just that one word again.And this time, it didn't feel like surrender.
It felt like defiance.
Ishan: Did I hurt you?
She frowned. Her fingers moved.
Rekha: No.
A pause.
Ishan: Are you okay?
She looked at the rose.
Then back at the screen.
Rekha: I don't know what I am. But I'm not sorry.
Another pause.
Then:
Ishan: Good.
They didn't meet again that week.
But the messages came, slow and quiet and late at night.
A joke.A song link.A question: What did you dream about?
She hadn't dreamed in years.
Now, she wasn't sure if she was even awake anymore.
The next Saturday, Seema visited.
Rekha made chai. Light sugar. Ginger-heavy.
They sat in the living room, the fan humming overhead, their dupattas folded neatly in their laps.
Seema talked about her son's upcoming engagement, her neighbour's daughter's elopement, the politics in her building.
Rekha listened.
Smiled. Nodded.
She was good at that.
Then Seema said, out of nowhere, "You look… different."
Rekha blinked. "Different how?"
"I don't know. Just... like you're lit from inside. Like something changed."
Rekha stirred her tea. "Is that a good thing?"
Seema leaned in, grinning. "Are you going to tell me who he is?"
Rekha froze.
The spoon stopped moving.
She laughed. Too quickly. "There's no one."
Seema watched her a second longer, then sat back. "There should be. You've been half-dead since 2019."
Rekha sipped her tea. Burned her tongue a little.
Didn't reply.
That night, the rain returned.
Heavier this time. Loud enough to drown thoughts.
Rekha sat by the window, hugging her knees.
Her phone buzzed.
Ishan: Are you coming back to me?
She read it three times.
Her thumbs hovered.But this time, no reply came.
Not yet.
Because something inside her was waking up.
And it didn't want to rush.
It wanted to bloom slowly.
Like the rose.Even if it wilted later.