Morning arrived quietly, like it didn’t want to disturb what the night had unearthed.
Sunlight slipped through the curtains in pale, cautious streaks. The house stirred slowly — the clink of steel tumblers, the soft shuffle of footsteps, Amma’s voice somewhere calling for coffee.
Laksh woke before his alarm.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, last night’s thoughts clinging stubbornly to him. Sleep had come late and lightly — the kind that left behind more awareness than rest.
Be normal, he told himself.
Just be normal.
He swung his feet to the floor, splashed cold water on his face, and dressed carefully — nothing too formal, nothing too casual. The kind of choices people made when they didn’t want to be noticed.
Too late.
The smell of filter coffee pulled him toward the kitchen.
Amma stood near the counter, already bustling, while Attha argued lightly with someone about sugar. Laksh greeted them politely, accepting a cup with a nod.
And then—
He saw her.
Shresta stood near the window, hair loosely tied, morning light curling softly around her. No makeup. No effort. Just… real.
Something inside him tightened.
She turned slightly, and their eyes met.
For a second, neither of them smiled.
Not because they didn’t want to — but because smiling would mean acknowledging everything the night had stirred.
Then she gave him a small nod.
“Good morning, Laksh.”
His voice came out steadier than he felt. “Morning.”
Just one word.
But it landed heavily.
They didn’t speak after that.
Not because they were avoiding each other — but because the room was full. Voices overlapped. Conversations tangled.
Still, Laksh felt acutely aware of her presence.
When she reached for a cup, he moved instinctively to make space. When someone cracked a joke, he caught her smile from the corner of his eye.
Tarav entered halfway through breakfast — energetic, loud, unchanged.
“Morning, sleepyheads!” he announced, ruffling Aarav’s hair.
His eyes found Shresta immediately.
“Did you sleep or just stare at the ceiling all night?” he teased.
Laksh’s grip tightened slightly around his cup.
Shresta rolled her eyes. “Mind your business.”
Tarav laughed, leaning casually against the counter — too close.
Laksh looked away.
Later, when the kitchen cleared and the elders moved into the living room, Laksh found himself alone at the sink, rinsing his cup.
Footsteps approached.
He didn’t need to turn.
“I didn’t expect mornings to feel this… awkward,” Shresta said quietly.
He smiled faintly. “They always do when something’s been said.”
She leaned beside him, keeping a respectful distance.
“But it’s not bad,” she added. “Just… different.”
He nodded. “Different is honest.”
She looked at him then — really looked — searching for something in his face.
He held her gaze.
Not bravely.
But sincerely.
A beat passed.
Then footsteps echoed again.
They stepped apart instinctively.
Too practiced.
Too careful.
As the family gathered plans for the day — shopping, visits, lunch outside — Laksh stood near the doorway, watching Shresta laugh at something Tarav said.
And instead of jealousy…
He felt something else.
Patience.
For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of losing her.
He was afraid of not giving her the freedom to choose.
When Shresta glanced his way — just once — her expression softened.
Not confusion.
Not avoidance.
Recognition.
The morning hadn’t resolved anything.
But it had changed something fundamental.
Silence between them no longer felt like distance.
It felt like space being made.
And Laksh realized — quietly, steadily —
Whatever came next would be built on truth.
Even if it took time.
Even if it hurt.
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