Raju cleared his throat awkwardly near the door.
“I… I should go,” he said softly. “Call me if you need help later.”
I nodded, grateful—more than I could express.
He had acted without hesitation.
While I had stood there… doubting.
After he left, the apartment fell into a deep, uncomfortable silence.
From outside, the distant hum of Bangalore traffic drifted in faintly, grounding us in reality again.
I went to the kitchen.
The poha I had planned earlier… suddenly felt more important than ever.
Not because it was food.
But because it was something I could do.
Something simple. Something caring.
Something real.
As I cooked, my movements were slower. More deliberate.
Every few seconds, my eyes drifted toward the bedroom.
To her.
When I returned with the plate, she managed a small smile.
“You really came home… just to cook for me?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I couldn’t focus on anything at work. I kept thinking about your fever.”
She looked at me differently then.
Softer.
Warmer.
The tension between us didn’t disappear—but it eased.
Just a little.
“Next time,” she said quietly, “trust me… before you trust your fears.”
Her words settled deep inside me.
Not loud.
But powerful.
Later that evening, I took her to the doctor.
Fever. Weakness. Dizziness.
Exactly as she had said.
Nothing more.
Nothing else.
On the way home, she leaned her head against my shoulder.
The city lights passed by quietly outside the window, reflecting in the glass like distant thoughts.
And all I could think about was this:
How quickly the mind can create stories.
How easily doubt can grow.
And how dangerously fast trust can be shaken—if we let fear lead instead of love.
When we reached home, I glanced at the bathroom door.
It looked the same.
Ordinary.
Unimportant.
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