Romil: Why do you still live in that house?

The message delivers, and the twin blue ticks follow shortly after. She's seen it. But no reply comes.

I try to soothe my impatient mind, which is itching to unravel and fire off more questions than I can count, into accepting that she doesn't owe me an answer. She doesn't have to quell my curiosity. She doesn't have to do anything for me, for that matter.

I haven't earned that right—not yet.

Still, the questions won't quiet, relentless in their demand to be asked. I try to temper them, reshape them into something less jagged, less forceful. Something softer.

Romil: Is it because you have nowhere else to go?

Blue ticks again. The silence thickens. My thoughts press against my ribs like a dam about to break.

My fingers hover over the screen, but this time, I don't ask. Questions feel too fragile, too easy to ignore. Instead, I let the part of me that refuses to sit still take over.

Romil: I am going to the Gurudwara
Romil: I will be there until you come
Romil: Or until they make me leave
Romil: No pressure

The moment I hit send, guilt washes over me. Manipulative prick, I scold myself, pocketing my phone and heading out. A walk to the Gurudwara might drown out the noise in my head.

Half an hour later, I'm at the Gurudwara, scanning the quiet corners for any sign of her. She isn't here.

Not yet, whispers a sly voice in my head.

I tie a white handkerchief over my head and join the Sevadars. They place me at the prasad counter, where I stand behind a wide window, scooping prasad into open, waiting palms.

The afternoon dissolves into the soft gold of dusk, and before long, I've forgotten why I came here. The peaceful hum of the Waheguru song settles into my mind like a lullaby, wrapping itself around my thoughts.

I find a rhythm in the work—scooping, offering, greeting each person at the counter with a smile and a warm Sat Sri Akal. There's something soothing in the repetition, something quieting. A different kind of peace, one I haven't felt in ages. It's as though I've stopped struggling against the current. Stopped swimming altogether. I'm simply floating, weightless.

And then it happens. A pale hand stretches out, soft and steady, catching the light as it moves. First, I see the amber thread circling her wrist, then hear the faint jingle of oxidized bangles. My gaze trails upward—past the hand, past the bangles—and I feel my pulse quicken, an uneven drumbeat against my ribs.

I freeze mid-motion, the ladle hovering above the container, before my hand drops uselessly to my side.

She stands there in a light pink salwar-kameez, her dupatta a softer, paler pink, draped over her forehead like a crown. Her hands are still outstretched, waiting. And for a moment, so am I.

I am still, silently watching her bowed head, until her eyes lift to meet mine. In that instant, every sense of mine sharpens, attuning to the sounds I'd unconsciously tuned out before. It's like surfacing from underwater into a world alive with the quiet shuffle of feet against marble, the low murmur of prayers said under breath, and the soft clink of coins falling into the donation box.

I glance around, searching for someone to take over, but it's still too early for that. With a silent plea in my eyes, I look at her, then scoop prasad into her waiting hands. She takes it without a word and steps away—not toward the exit, but further inside.

She pauses to speak with the Sevadar who had allowed me to volunteer, her hands folded in a respectful namaste, her head tilted in quiet deference. A brief nod from him, and she steps into the chamber.

Before I can find the words to ask what she's doing, she takes the ladle from my hands, her fingers brushing mine briefly, and turns toward the window. Without missing a beat, she scoops a portion of prasad and offers it to a small boy, his dark eyes wide with wonder as he stretches his hands upward. The man behind him—his father, I think—lifts the boy higher, his tiny hands finally meeting hers as she leans forward with a gentle smile.

She serves another scoop, this time to the father, who balances the boy easily on his hip. They linger for a moment, then turn and walk away, and it's only after their figures blur away that I find my voice again.

'Thanks,' I breathe the words out with some difficulty.

She doesn't return the sentiment. Instead, she straightens, her hands folding in front of her like she's bracing herself. 'This has to end. Whatever you're trying to do—or achieve—in that messed-up head of yours, it has to stop.'

'I know.' My voice is quieter now. 'I know it's difficult to trust. I wouldn't trust me either.' I pause, exhaling slowly. 'But I agree. This has to end.'

Her gaze snaps to mine, wide and unflinching, and for a second, I see something that feels like disappointment flash across her face. It's brief, but it's there, like she expected me to argue. To fight.

And I will. Just not like this.

'I mean,' I add, stepping closer, 'I don't want to dance around the fire anymore. I want answers.' I hold her gaze, refusing to let her look away, my eyes saying everything I don't know how to.

Feel this, I want to tell her. See this.

Even if I never saw hers.

Her lips press into a thin line, and she looks away. I feel the loss of her focus like a sudden chill.

'Ask,' she says, turning her gaze away from mine. Away from everything I'm trying to make her see. 'And be done with it.'