Ashray noticed it while brushing his teeth—a third toothbrush.
Red, soft bristles. Not his. Not Ira's either. She used charcoal black, bought in bulk. He checked the shelf. It wasn't a hotel freebie. It had toothpaste dried at the tip. Used. Recently.
He stood in the bathroom, shirtless, staring at it like it would explain itself.
Maybe Ira brought it? No. She never stayed long enough to need one. She used her finger, laughed it off, called toothpaste "a capitalist scam" once.
He picked it up. The label was scratched off. The kind sold at local pharmacies. Not expensive. Not cheap.
A message? A mistake?
He texted her:
"Did you leave a toothbrush here?"
Read.
No reply.
That evening, Ira showed up as usual. No saree tonight—just jeans and a shawl, eyes hidden behind her usual deflective charm.
"I asked you something," Ashray said, blocking the bathroom door.
"I got the text."
"And?"
"Not mine."
He studied her face. Nothing flickered. No guilt. No confusion.
Then she smiled. "Paranoia looks good on you."
"I don't like games, Ira."
She walked past him, unbothered. "We're the game, Ashray. Everything else is just rules we pretend to follow."
He didn't press. But that night, he didn't kiss her the same. Didn't pull her as close. And she noticed.
When she left, he checked again.
The toothbrush was gone.