Chapter 3: Pastries, Possession, and Pink Eyes

4

After my message, my stepfather approved my leave without a word.

He didn’t ask if I was sure—just nodded. It warmed me in a way I couldn’t explain.

After lunch, as everyone rushed back to work, I drove my Hyundai home slow. The sun beat down, the air thick with frying onions from a neighbour’s window. For once, every signal was green. I rolled down the window, breathing in gulmohar and exhaust.

Passing a mithai shop, I stopped and packed a strawberry pastry.

The mithaiwala grinned, box in hand. "Pati ke liye?" he teased. I smiled, picturing how Arjun’s eyes lit up for sweets—the rare times his guard slipped.

At home, Maa waited outside. I waved her away:

"Arjun bhaiya must have been scared today. Maa, thoda shaant dal bana do."

She nodded, worry in her eyes. "Beta, aaj zyada daantna mat usko, theek hai?" She paused, wanting to say more, then hurried off.

Once Maa left, glancing back every few steps, I locked the door. The bolt’s click echoed, the silence sacred—broken only by the ceiling fan’s whir and vessels clattering below.

Arjun knew my routine by now—the sound of my sandals, the rustle of my dupatta, the jingle of my anklet. He perked up like a startled deer, eyes wary.

He scooted back till his back hit the wall, fists bunching up the bedsheet like a scared schoolboy. The old teddy bear beside him looked just as fragile, its fur matted with age.

His eyes—misty, double-lidded, with upturned corners—were what drew me most. Three years older, but so innocent and pitiful.

A softness to his face tugged at me—a fragility I wanted to both protect and break. Sometimes my hand hovered over his hair, wanting to smooth it, sometimes I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to yank it.

But sensing my cold stare, his look changed—a wolf cub baring its teeth.

Jaw set, eyes narrowed, shoulders squared. His silent way of fighting back.

I strode over and pushed him onto the spring mattress. The bed creaked. I leaned in, catching sandalwood and the faint scent of talcum.

"Ab kya naya drama hai, Bhaiya?"

"Soch rahe ho kya ki kaam mein busy ho gayi hoon, tumhe bhool gayi hoon?"

I twisted his meaning, my voice teasing and sharp.

He almost shook his head, but I grabbed his chin, forcing open his mouth. I dangled the silver thread I’d pulled out—my small, silly power play—in the sunlight.

"Bhaiya, dekho, tumhare liye pastry layi hoon. Khana hai?"

I waved the pastry just out of reach, watching his lips part. For a second, his look flickered between stubbornness and longing.

He glared at me, eyes red and watery. His hands shook. I grinned, a sick satisfaction curling in my stomach. For a second, I wanted to hug him; instead, I wiped my hands on my kurti, disgusted with myself.

In the end, I fed him the whole strawberry pastry with my fingertips—no crumbs left.

His lips brushed my fingers, and for a heartbeat, the world shrank to just us, tangled in this raw, messy love.