"I'm not in love with you," Ira said.
She always said that on Sundays—quietly, almost like a ritual. They lay tangled in his sheets, the room still heavy with sweat and guilt.
"You say that every Sunday," Ashray replied.
"That's when it's most true."
Sundays were different. Her husband stayed home. No lies, no excuses. Just silence and domestic charades. Ira's body came to Ashray's bed, but her mind stayed locked behind a door somewhere else.
He learned not to expect warmth on Sundays.
That morning, she stayed later than usual—6:07 a.m. Her head on his chest, fingers tracing the faint scar near his collarbone.
"You're falling for me," she said softly.
"Maybe."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"I'll ruin you."
He turned to look at her. "What if I want that?"
She smiled, cold and sad. The kind of smile people wear when they've already ruined someone else and didn't enjoy it like they thought they would.
"You're too soft," she whispered.
"You're not," he said.
She got up, dressed silently. Left behind a trace of her perfume, a maroon bindi stuck to his bathroom mirror. Not carelessness. A mark.
After she left, Ashray didn't eat. Didn't scroll. Didn't speak.
Just stared at the mirror.
That Sunday, Ira played perfect wife. Cooked breakfast. Folded bedsheets. Pretended not to think of him.
Her husband, meanwhile, checked her phone. Again. Found nothing. Again.
But he knew.
He always knew.